Romanov,Natalia

The council tent is hot with too many bodies and too much ego.

You stand behind your father, hands folded, posture perfect because there’s no room for imperfection here. The men around you argue the same old strategies, siege angles, supply routes, the walls of Troy, as if saying the words louder might make them new.

Then someone steps into the tent, and the noise shifts like a current hitting stone.

Achilles enters without ceremony, without bow or greeting. Just the sound of his boots, the muted clink of armour, the weight of someone who knows his presence changes the room whether he wants it to or not.

He looks thinner than in the stories, more dangerous too. Sun-browned, marked by battle, expression carved into something unreadable. He doesn’t scan the tent; he doesn’t need to. The tent adjusts to him, not the other way around.

Your father straightens. “Good. Now we can begin.”

Agamemnon lifts his chin. “We have… an asset… for when negotiations resume.”

Your father gestures sharply.

“My daughter.”

The men look at you like you’re a tool laid out on a table. Not interesting, just potentially useful. So your father continues, “If the Trojans resist further terms, she may be offered in union to one of their line. A sign of peace.”

You keep your breathing steady. You knew this was coming, but knowing does nothing to soften the blow.

Agamemnon folds his hands, pretending this is diplomacy. “She cannot be touched. Cannot be spoken for by anyone else. Her value must remain intact.”

Diomedes snorts. “Half the camp would try their luck while she sleeps.”

A few men laugh. Your father doesn’t. He turns toward Achilles.

“You’ll guard her.”

Achilles finally moves, just enough to raise his eyes to your father. Nothing more. “Guard her from whom?”

“From our own,” Agamemnon answers without shame. “And from the Trojans, if they attempt to take her before we’re ready to bargain.”

Achilles’ jaw shifts once, a single tick of muscle.

He looks at you then. A glance. Assessing threat, liability, trouble, and whatever he sees, he doesn’t show it.

Your father adds, “She’s obedient. She won’t get in the way.”

You don’t react. Achilles doesn’t either.

Agamemnon says, “You’re the only man we can trust not to make use of what isn’t yours.”

The words land heavy and ugly, but Achilles stands there untouched by them, gaze steady as if insult and compliment weigh the same to him.

After a beat, he nods once. “Fine.”

It’s the only word he offers.

The conversation swerves back to logistics. Escort routes. Timing. Which commanders will ride ahead. You become invisible again, swallowed by the shifting tide of male voices debating your future and that of your people.

When the tent finally empties, you step aside to let men pass. Achilles doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge you. He turns to leave and then stops.

He gestures toward the camp road with one brief flick of his chin.

“Let’s go, princess.”

Not mocking. Not warm. Just matter-of-fact, a soldier collecting an assignment.

He moves first, expecting you to follow.

You trail him out of the council tent, the air outside cooler but no less heavy. Achilles doesn’t check if you’re behind him, he just assumes you’ll keep up.

His stride is brutal. Efficient. No wasted movement, no space for hesitation. The camp falls quiet as he passes through it; even the men who usually pretend not to stare.

You pull your cloak tighter, trying to look unbothered. He cuts through rows of tents toward your father’s section, the dust kicking up around his boots.

When you finally reach your tent, he stops so abruptly you nearly run into him. He gives the structure one slow sweep of his eyes, unimpressed.

“This won’t work.”

Your brows lift. “My father placed me here-”

“I’m not interested in your father’s reasoning. Too many men pass through this area at night. Too many gaps between tents. There’s no proper line of sight.”

You open your mouth again, because technically you could object, but he’s already crouching, checking the stakes, the angle of the entry flap, the shadows cast from the nearest torches. He rises and jerks his chin to the left.

“You’ll move.”

“Move… where?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s already walking.

You swear under your breath but follow, because apparently that’s your life now. He leads you deeper into the Myrmidon camp, the only part of the entire beachhead known for actual discipline. Their tents are neat, evenly spaced, guarded. Men look up at you with curiosity but no hunger.

Achilles stops in the last row, next to a broader tent you assume is his.

“This one.” He gestures at a smaller canvas just beside it, currently unclaimed. “Closer to my guard line. No one will come here without being seen.”

You fold your arms. “You can’t just uproot me without-”

“I can,” he says, tone flat as stone. “And I have.”

You blink, not sure if you want to scream or sit down.

He steps inside the empty tent, checking for weak points, then steps out again. “Your things will be moved within the hour. Stay close to my camp until then.”

“Achilles,” you start, trying for something resembling dignity. “I am not helpless.”

“Didn’t say you were.” His gaze flicks to you, cool and unreadable. “But a tent won’t stop a man with bad intentions. I will.”

You meet his eyes, cool and sharp. They are the same eyes you remember from when you were seven. Small, breathless, staring up at him from the courtyard as he arrived with your father’s men. He was younger then, not softer, just less carved by war.

Your nurse had hissed at you not to stare.

You did anyway.

He’d caught you looking. Tilted his head and let out a brief smile. Real, surprised, almost boyish.

“Want to see the horse?” he’d asked, and lifted you onto the saddle because you were too tiny to climb.

You held the reins like they were the reins of the whole world. But you never spoke to him. He never asked your name. You were just a child orbiting a legend.

And now the legend stands five paces away, arms crossed, evaluating you like a battlefield he intends to keep under control.

You clear your throat. “Will I ever be allowed to make my own decisions, or is that off the table now?”

His expression doesn’t shift. “Make the ones that don’t get you killed.”

“Are all your answers like this?”

“Yes.”

You inhale sharply, half annoyed, half impressed.

He nods toward the tent again. “Stay here. I’ll find the quartermasters.”

He turns to leave, then pauses just long enough to make it clear the pause is intentional.

“You’ll be safe here,” he says, quieter.

Then he walks off, not waiting for your reply.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and sink onto a nearby crate, surrounded by soldiers who pretend not to stare, wondering how you’re supposed to survive being guarded by a man who could probably take down the sun if it looked at him wrong.

Night settles over the Greek camp like a slow bruise; purples fading into black, then darker still. The torches burn low and voices drift, then dull, then disappear.

Your new tent is smaller than the last, but sturdier. Quiet. A little too quiet.

The canvas walls breathe with the wind, and every time they shift, you hear the Myrmidons. Steady footsteps. Low conversation. Metal being set down, cleaned, and sharpened.

They're disciplined, not rowdy like the rest of the army. But the sound that keeps catching you isn’t theirs.

It’s his.

Achilles’ tent sits close enough that when you lie on your thin pallet, you can hear him move; leather dropping, armour settling, water sloshing. He doesn’t try to be silent. Why would he? You get the impression he doesn’t hide from anything.

You turn onto your back, staring up at the dark canvas above you. It feels surreal. Hours ago, you were a bargaining chip. Now you have the most lethal man in Greece stationed a few steps away, whether he likes it or not.

And he does not like it. That much is clear.

You exhale, trying to push the day off your shoulders. Trying to ignore the fact that the tent fabric between you and him feels too thin.

A shadow passes by your entrance - broad shoulders, tall silhouette, unmistakable. He’s doing another perimeter sweep, even though he already did one earlier. You hear him murmur something to one of his men, then footsteps approach your tent.

The flap shifts.

He steps inside.

No announcement. No throat-clearing. No knocking, because knocking is not a thing here and also because he wouldn’t do it even if it were.

He’s shirtless, just like every story ever told by every bragging soldier in every tavern. But stories don’t quite cover the reality. He’s sun-browned and scarred, muscles cut like they were carved by a sculptor of highest talent.

He doesn’t seem remotely aware of how he looks. Or maybe he’s just used to being stared at.

“You’re awake,” he says, like that’s mildly inconvenient for him.

“I’m… adjusting,” you reply, trying very hard not to let your gaze linger on literally anything.

He nods once. “Try to sleep.”

“That’s your advice? Just- sleep?” You lift a brow. “Very helpful.”

“I need you rested,” he says, wiping his forearms with a cloth like this is any other conversation in any other life. “Tired people make mistakes.”

“And you think I’m prone to making mistakes?”

“I think you’re human,” he answers simply. “And humans underestimate danger when they’re exhausted.”

You blink. Not an insult. Not praise. Just logic.

He glances around the interior of your tent, assessing again the angles, the sight lines, the flaws. You get the sense he’d rebuild the whole structure himself if he found one thing he didn’t like.

He turns to leave, pushing the flap aside.

But before he steps out, he adds, “I’m right there.” A nod toward his tent. “If anything happens or if anyone tries- call out.”

You nod, throat suddenly tight.

He watches you for one heartbeat more, expression unreadable, then lets the flap fall closed behind him.

Outside, you hear him exhales slowly, as if resetting his focus, and then the subtle scrape of a whetstone against metal, steady, controlled, lethal.

You wake to the sound of someone untying your tent flap.

Not gently.

You bolt upright just in time for Achilles to duck inside, sunlight behind him like he personally dragged the dawn with him.

“You’re slow,” he says. No good morning.

You blink at him, hair a mess, blanket tangled. “I was asleep.”

“And now you’re not.” He gestures, almost impatient. “Get up.”

You stare at him. He stares back, completely unfazed by the concept of privacy. He’s already dressed for the march, leather straps crossing his chest, bracers snug against his forearms, hair half-tied, half-falling forward in a way that should not be allowed this early.

You groan and start pulling on your clothes. He doesn’t leave.

You glare. “Can you at least turn around?”

He actually does. Immediately. No sigh, no comment. Just pivots like a soldier following a command.

Once you’re ready, he steps aside for you to pass, then falls into stride beside you. One, two steps, and he’s already surveying the camp, calculating every movement around you like he’s doing math in his head.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“Horses,” he says. “We’re riding with the front unit today.”

You don’t argue, because arguing with him is like arguing with a cliff.

The horses are already being saddled when you arrive. His is enormous, dark coat, intelligent eyes, and built like someone crossed a war-beast with a storm cloud. You’re not sure it counts as a horse. It might be a monster that simply agreed to be domesticated.

Achilles pats its neck once, then turns to you. “Up.”

You blink. “Up where? You expect me to ride that alone?”

“I expect you to listen,” he replies, already lifting you before you can protest.

Your breath catches because you’re in the air suddenly, hands gripping his shoulders for balance, and his hands are at your waist, strong and large.

He sets you onto the saddle with zero strain, like you weigh nothing.

Before you can adjust, he swings up behind you. The saddle dips with his weight, and then his arm comes around your middle.

Not tentatively. Not gently- solid.

He takes the reins with his other hand, posture relaxed, like holding you in place is instinct, not effort.

You are completely engulfed by him. Back to chest, shoulder to sternum, his thighs bracketing yours like he’s built to take up space and you’re built to fit there.

You swallow. Hard.

“Comfortable?” he asks, tone utterly neutral, eyes forward.

“Fine,” you manage. It comes out a little strangled. Hopefully he chalks that up to a morning cold or nerves or something of that sort.

The horse shifts, and Achilles adjusts the arm around you automatically, pulling you closer so you don’t slip. You feel every inch of the motion, every muscle that flexes against your back.

Your brain screams several inappropriate things.

He clicks his tongue once, and the horse starts forward with a smooth, powerful step. The wind lifts your hair into his chest and he doesn’t react, just tightens his hold slightly to keep you steady.

You try to breathe normally, you really do.

But gods. Gods.

He finally glances down at you, brow raised. “You’re stiff.”

“I- It’s early,” you lie.

He doesn’t buy it. “Relax. I won’t let you fall.”

The horse settles into a steady rhythm beneath you, the Myrmidon camp thinning behind as Achilles guides you toward the outer ranks. His arm stays firm across your waist.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The wind pulls at your cloak. Dust rises. Men stare. A few pretend not to. The rest don’t bother pretending at all.

You feel his breath at your temple every time he exhales, and you swear your spine is trying to leave your body out of sheer panic.

Then, somewhere between the seventh and eighth row of tents, Achilles shifts slightly. Not big enough to move you, just enough that you feel his attention sharpen.

His arm tightens for a beat.

“You’ve ridden like this before,” he says.

You blink. “What makes you think that?”

“You weren’t terrified when I lifted you.” A pause. “You leaned forward, not back. Most people pull away.”

You don’t answer immediately. Because this is the first actual conversation he’s offered you, and you don’t wanna sound like an idiot.

“I rode once,” you admit. “When I was a child. With… someone from my father’s guard.”

A beat passes. He hums under his breath- barely a sound.

“Not your father’s guard.”

You tense. “Excuse me?”

His voice stays steady, matter-of-fact. “You weren’t talking about a guard.”

Your heart slams. “And how would you know that?”

“You hold the reins the same way.” His hand shifts slightly, adjusting your grip without even thinking. “Small hands. Too excited. No fear.”

Your breath stutters.

He’s remembering.

He lowers his voice, not soft, just thoughtful. “You were tiny. Could barely reach the saddle. Someone boosted you up.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Someone?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Me.”

You freeze.

He continues like he’s reconstructing a battle tactic. “It was a long ride. Your father was hosting delegates. You wouldn’t stop staring at my horse.”

You want the earth to swallow you whole.

“I didn’t think you’d remember,” you murmur, cheeks warm.

“I didn’t,” he says honestly. “Not until now.”

Before you can attempt a response, a trio of commanders ahead turn when they hear the horse approaching. One of them - Menon, known gossip, known creep - eyes you with a smirk.

“Morning, princess,” he drawls. “Did the great Achilles keep you warm last night?”

Achilles doesn’t slow the horse. Doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t glare.

He just straightens in the saddle behind you, presence shifting into something colder than steel.

“Careful, Menon,” he says, voice calm, almost bored. “You’ll want to still have a tongue by nightfall.”

Menon blanches. The other commanders suddenly develop an urgent fascination with the dirt at their feet.

Achilles rides past without looking at them again.

You try not to sound breathless when you mutter, “Subtle.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

“You threatened to cut out his tongue.”

“He deserved worse.”

A beat of silence.

You stare down at your hands, at the reins, at the way his forearm brackets your ribs. “You really don’t care what the rest of camp thinks, do you?”

“No.” Then, after a moment, “I care what keeps you safe.”

The closer you get to the central Greek encampment, the louder everything becomes. Hammers, shouts, the smell of fire-twisted metal and sweat. Men turn as Achilles’ horse approaches, eyes darting between you on the saddle and the man behind you like they’re trying to do the political math.

He slows the horse at the supply ridge, scanning the area with that predator-stillness he carries. When he finally reins in, he shifts his weight.

“Hold on.”

You grip the saddle out of instinct.

He slides off first and then reaches up, hands at your waist, like this is the most routine thing in the world.

It is not routine for you.

He lifts you down easily, your feet barely brushing the air before the ground meets you. For one heartbeat he keeps you close, steadying you but not touching you longer than necessary, yet the warmth of his hands lingers anyway.

He steps back just as two soldiers jog past. The second slows, looks at you, then at Achilles. Something ugly flickers in his eyes.

His name you don’t know and his face you instantly distrust.

He’s young, broad-shouldered but not disciplined, mouth twisted in a smug half-smile that says he’s impressed with himself for reasons you cannot see.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “Didn’t know the Myrmidons had taken up escort duty.”

Achilles doesn’t look at him. Not even a glance. He’s adjusting the horse’s reins, calm as still water.

The soldier’s eyes flick over you again, too slow. His curiosity is not the innocent kind; it’s the kind of interest men get when they think they can take what they want if they play their cards right.

“What’s your name?” he asks you directly.

Before you can answer, not that you want to, Achilles’ voice cuts clean through the air.

“She doesn’t speak to anyone unless I say so.”

The soldier blinks, taken aback. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“You are now,” Achilles says, tone flat, so utterly devoid of effort it’s scarier than yelling.

Something shifts in the soldier’s posture, he's annoyed, but not bold enough to push it. He sneers once, low, like he’s letting you see what he thinks of being dismissed.

“Right. Apologies,” he says, but his eyes linger on you one beat too long before he finally peels off.

Achilles watches him go. You swallow. “Who was that?”

“Trouble,” Achilles says.

“Actual trouble or you’re being dramatic?”

“He’ll test boundaries.” Achilles wipes dust from the horse’s bridle with his thumb. “Men like him always do.”

You glance at him. “And you’ll… handle it?”

“When he crosses a line.”

“Not before?”

He meets your eyes for the first time since the horse stopped, expression unreadable. “If I stepped in every time someone looked at you wrong, I’d never sleep.”

He gestures toward the row of tents farther up the ridge. “Stay close.”

They leave at dawn the next morning.

The entire Myrmidon sector stirs like a single creature waking. Achilles is the last to step out, adjusting the strap across his chest, expression unreadable.

“You stay here,” he says. No room for protest. “Don’t open the flap for anyone who isn’t mine.”

You nod, even though your pulse kicks.

He gives you one final look and then he’s gone. The Myrmidons pour out toward the coast, toward Troy, toward war.

And then the camp goes quiet.

Hours pass. Maybe more. The sun drags itself higher and higher until the air is thick and slow. You braid and unbraid your hair. Pace the length of the tent.

Eventually, voices show up outside. Men’s voices.

Not Myrmidons.

You freeze.

The flap shifts and two figures slip in, the same soldiers from camp. Their smiles are wrong. Too friendly. Too familiar.

“Princess,” one says, dipping his head in a mock bow. “Didn’t expect you all alone.”

You straighten, forcing calm. “Achilles told me to stay here.”

“Oh, we know.” He steps closer. “But he’s gone. And you’re… well.” His eyes drift in a way that makes your skin crawl. “It feels like a waste to let the Trojans enjoy you before we do.”

Your stomach drops.

“No,” you say, stepping back.

They follow. One reaches out and fingers your arm, too tight, too possessive. You jerk away.

“Stop please-”

And then the world tilts.

Not metaphorically, actually. The ground shakes under your feet like something massive has landed right outside the tent.

A shadow floods the canvas. Then the flap rips upward and Achilles is there.

Covered head-to-toe in dirt, blood, sweat- a monster carved out of rage and daylight. His hair’s sticking to his skin, eyes bright like coins fresh from the forge. He looks like war incarnate. And he’s breathing hard, like he sprinted the last mile.

The two soldiers whip around.

Achilles sees the grip on your arm.

Everything inside him switches.

He moves so fast you don’t even process it, you just hear it. The crack of bone, the wet choke of someone losing air, the thud of a body hitting the dirt. The second man doesn’t even get a full sentence out before Achilles has him by the throat, slamming him into the tent pole hard enough that the whole structure shudders.

And you’re just standing there, heart stuttering, watching the most terrifying man alive become even more terrifying.

He doesn’t stop until both men are on the ground, groaning or unconscious, maybe both. Then he turns.

Straight to you.

He crosses the space in three strides, still wild-eyed, still vibrating with leftover battle fury.

“Did they touch you?” he demands.

His voice is raw, not loud, not gentle, just ripped open.

You swallow, nodding once. “He- he grabbed my arm.”

His jaw flexes so hard it looks painful. He takes your wrist carefully, gently, the absolute opposite of how he just handled those men. He lifts your arm to inspect where their fingers dug into your skin.

His thumb grazes the mark. You feel the tremor in his hand.

He inhales sharply.

“That’s enough,” he mutters, mostly to himself but also like a promise. “No one comes near you again. Not ever.”

You’re still trying to steady your breathing, but he’s already moving, reaching for the tent flap, yelling for his second-in-command, snapping orders like a storm breaking.

Then he comes back to you. Closer this time. Controlled again, but barely.

“You’re with me,” he says. “From now on.”

He doesn’t bother asking if you can walk, just scoops you up. One arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, and then storms through the Myrmidon section like a thundercloud with legs. People part for him fast, because he still looks half-feral from battle.

You catch the stares. The muttering. You catch Agamemnon’s voice too, sharp as a hook. “Achilles! Explain yourself-”

Achilles stops dead, turns. He looks like he might rip the man’s head off.

“Two of your soldiers tried to drag the princess out of her tent,” he growls. “You want to raise eyebrows at me? Fix your men first.”

Agamemnon shuts up.

Your father appears too, furious and worried and trying to hide both because it’s Achilles standing there. He gives you this quick, frantic look, checking if you’re hurt.

“Is this necessary?” he asks Achilles, low.

Achilles’ grip on you tightens. “Yes.”

Your father starts to protest, but Achilles cuts him off immediately.

“If she stays anywhere else, it’ll happen again.” His voice is like stone breaking. “With me, no one gets within ten paces without losing a hand. Choose.”

Your father hesitates a breath but nods, stiff and unhappy.

Achilles takes you straight into his tent.

You knew he was important. You didn’t know he lived like a literal deity. The space is massive, tall enough that Achilles doesn’t even come close to brushing the ceiling. Weapons line the walls like silver teeth. A brazier burns low in one corner. Furs and blankets are piled on a bed big enough for at least three people.

He sets you on it gently, which is somehow more shocking than the violence you saw earlier.

“You’re shaking,” he mutters, crouching in front of you.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

He gives you a look.

He grabs a bowl, fills it with water from a jug, wrings out a cloth and starts cleaning the dirt and blood smudged on your arms where those men grabbed you. His touch stays careful, almost absurdly gentle, considering he was breaking bones ten minutes ago.

“You’re alright,” he says, almost like he’s reminding himself too.

He moves up to your face, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone to wipe away the dust. You feel heat rise under your skin, embarrassment, adrenaline, something else, and you try not to think about how close he is.

How much he is.

When he’s finished with you, he stands and strips his armour off like it weighs nothing. Drops his weapons. Pulls off what’s left of his battle shirt, which is honestly not very much.

You look away instantly, mortified.

But Achilles? Completely unbothered.

He pours more water and starts scrubbing blood and dirt off his chest and arms with the same cloth. Muscles shifting like they belong in a temple frieze. You look for one second, one second, and immediately regret it because your brain short-circuits.

He glances over, notices the way you snap your gaze away, and you swear you hear the hint of a low, almost amused breath.

Not quite a laugh. But close.

When he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and walks over to the absurdly large bed.

“You need sleep,” he says softly.

You nod, but your voice is small when you ask, “Are you… staying here?”

He gestures around the tent, which clearly has one bed. “One of us sleeps on the floor,” he decides. “Doesn’t matter who.”

You hesitate. You don’t know why you say it. You just don’t want to be alone right now.

“Stay,” you whisper.

Achilles freezes like you hit him with a spear.

“…In the bed?”

You nod.

He doesn’t move for a long moment, like he’s trying to process the fact that you asked him for something. Then he closes the distance, drops onto the far side of the bed, leaving a whole gulf of fur-covered mattress between you, and lays on his back.

You’re both silent.

The brazier flickers.

You’re still trembling a little, but the warmth of the furs and the quiet weight of him nearby steadies something deep in your chest.

Finally, he mutters, voice low, almost reluctant, “Sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time since you arrived on this cursed beach, you actually believe it.

You wake slowly, warm, very comfortable, weirdly safe.

And then you realise you are not where you were when you fell asleep.

At all.

You went to bed on your side of the massive pelt-covered mattress. You wake up practically glued to Achilles’ arm, forehead tucked near his shoulder, one of your legs half over his.

You jolt awake so hard it almost counts as an attack.

Achilles is already awake. And he is definitely laughing.

Not loud, he’s holding it in, but his chest is shaking under your cheek, and there’s this ridiculous little smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Good morning,” he says, voice all warm gravel, sounding way too entertained for someone who saw men die yesterday.

You shoot off him like you touched fire. “I wasn’t- I didn’t- I must’ve-”

“Oh, I know.” He stretches one arm behind his head, casual as anything, completely shirtless, absolutely knowing how unhinged this is making you.

“You sleep like someone raised in a palace,” he adds, half-teasing, half-genuine. “No sense of danger. You just… wander.”

You bury your face in your hands.

“It’s fine.” He says it so easily you want to melt into the mattress.

Then, with the sort of grin that should be illegal, he adds, “I was wondering how long it would take you to notice.”

Your stomach drops straight to Tartarus.

“You- you knew?”

“You started drifting in the middle of the night.” He’s definitely teasing now, the corners of his eyes warm and smug. “Didn’t want to wake you. You looked like you’d pass out if anyone so much as breathed near you.”

You’re mortified. He’s having the time of his life.

He finally sits up, the furs sliding off his shoulders. “Relax,” he says, tone softening. “You’re safe. And I don’t mind.”

He stands, stretching, muscles moving like he’s carved out of sunlight and arrogance. Then he glances back at you, grin returning, “But maybe we work on that wandering. Can’t have you climbing on top of your bodyguard in your sleep every night.”

It's unfair how pretty he looks in the morning light.

“Come on,” he says, tossing you a fresh cloak. “We’ve got to head to camp. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you cling like a kitten.”

You swear the ground should open and swallow you whole.

But you get up and follow him anyway.

The gossip hits camp like a spark in dry grass.

You barely make it ten steps out of the Myrmidon section before people start whispering. Not even subtle whispers, loud whispers. The kind where they absolutely want you to hear but want to pretend they didn’t.

“That’s her- Achilles’ little charge-”

“She slept in his tent?”

You feel your face heating, but Achilles? He walks like he doesn’t hear a single word. Like he’d sooner stab the air itself than acknowledge rumours.

And maybe it’s because of how insanely calm he is that you relax a little. For the first time since landing on this beach your stomach isn’t permanently twisted. You’re walking beside him, not behind him, not shoved somewhere out of the way. At one point he hands you your cloak because the wind picks up, and you swear the camp collectively gasps.

But it’s the smile that does it. You laugh at something he says under his breath, something dry and borderline rude about Agamemnon’s hair, and you see men stare.

“She’s smiling.”

“Achilles made her smile?”

Achilles shoots them one sideways look, and all the staring suddenly stops. For a few minutes, everything feels light. Safe. Almost normal.

And then something shifts.

You don’t notice it at first, but Achilles does.

It happens when one commander, older and lecherous, watches you walk past and says under his breath, “If she’s this comfortable with a man like Achilles, the Trojans will enjoy her. Shame the Greeks didn’t keep her for themselves.”

Achilles goes still.

You feel the tension before you understand it, the way he steps closer, the way his hand hovers near your back without touching. His jaw ticks once. Twice. His eyes flatten into something cold and ancient.

“You should eat,” he says. “You’ve barely touched food since you arrived.”

But his eyes aren’t neutral anymore. They’re troubled.

Something is spinning in his head.

He walks you toward the cookfires, a hand brushing your arm to guide you, and for a second you think he’s fine, that he’s just being protective, that it’s all just his instinct.

But then you catch him looking at you out of the corner of your eye, and it’s a very different expression.

Not amusement. Not duty.

Something else.

Like he’s suddenly, inconveniently aware of the fact you’re not meant for a Greek soldier or commander. You’re meant to be traded.

Married off.

Given away.

And his entire body reacts like he just swallowed poison. He walks a little faster, tries to shake it off.

He’s not shaking it off.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Welcome.”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just watched you from across the shop with those sharp blue eyes, as if you were the only thing in the room worth noticing. Then, slowly, he stepped forward. The sound of his boots against the wood floor was too loud, even over the rain.

You forced yourself to smile, tucking your hands against your apron. “Looking for anything in particular?”

His gaze flicked to the flowers around him—the rows of tulips, daisies, carnations—but came back to you almost instantly. “No.” His voice was low, rough-edged. “Just looking.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. You nodded quickly, reaching for the small bouquet you’d put together that morning—bright daisies and sprigs of baby’s breath, wrapped in soft brown paper. You always kept a few by the counter, little gestures for the shy customers. “Here,” you offered, holding it out. “On the house. For the rain.”

He stared at the bouquet like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Then at you. The silence stretched until your hand began to tremble, and you almost pulled it back—when he finally reached out. A black leather glove brushed your fingers as he took the flowers from you, and you had to bite down on a startled gasp. “Thank you,” he said, the words careful, deliberate. He pulled a roll of bills from his coat pocket and slid one across the counter. A hundred-dollar bill for a five-dollar bouquet.

“Oh, no—you don’t have to—”

His gaze cut into yours again, silencing you. Not cruel, not harsh. Just… final. “Take it.”

Your throat tightened, and you nodded, tucking the bill away quickly. “Alright. Thank you.”

He didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, flowers in hand, watching you like he was committing every detail to memory—the tilt of your head, the nervous twitch of your fingers, the way you couldn’t hold his gaze for long. Finally, he gave a small nod, turned, and left. The bell chimed again, the rain swallowing him whole. You stood frozen for a long time, the shop suddenly too quiet, the hundred-dollar bill burning in your apron pocket. You thought it was a one-time thing. Just a stranger passing through on a rainy afternoon.

---

The bell chimed again the next morning, bright against the quiet rustle of petals you were arranging on the counter. You looked up—and nearly dropped the stems in your hands.

It was him.

The man from yesterday. The one who’d filled the shop with his thunderstorm presence, left with daisies and a hundred-dollar bill. He stepped inside like he owned the space, though he said nothing at first. His suit was different today—charcoal instead of black—but the gloves were the same. His eyes swept the shop in that same quick, assessing way before settling on you. You found yourself smiling automatically, though your voice wobbled. “Hello again.”

He nodded once, moving closer. “Morning.”

You fiddled with the ribbon in your hands. “Back for more flowers?”

His mouth twitched, just barely, like the question amused him. “Something like that.”

The air felt charged. You cleared your throat and reached for a bouquet of tulips. “These are fresh today. Spring colors. They’re lovely.”

He didn’t even glance at them. His eyes stayed on you, steady and unreadable. “I’ll take them,” he said.

You wrapped them quickly, fingers fumbling with the paper under the weight of his stare. He laid another bill on the counter—another hundred—for a bouquet worth maybe fifteen.

Your cheeks burned. “Sir, this is too much—”

“Keep it.” His voice left no room for argument.

You tucked the bill away, heartbeat quickening, and slid the bouquet toward him. “Alright. Thank you.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just stood there, flowers in hand, gaze lingering on you. It was different from yesterday—less curious, more deliberate. As if he’d come here with a purpose, and the tulips were only an excuse. Finally, he asked, “what’s your favorite?”

You blinked. “Favorite?”

“Flower.”

“Oh. Um…” You glanced around the shop, suddenly flustered. “Gardenias, I think. They’re… simple, but beautiful.”

He nodded once, filed it away. You could see it in the set of his jaw. Then he turned and left, the bell chiming in his wake. You stared after him, unsettled but oddly warm. The next morning, there was a box of white gardenias sitting on the shop counter when you arrived, no note. But you already knew who had left them.

---

The gardenias weren’t the end. They were the beginning. The next time he came in, he didn’t go straight for the counter. He lingered. Walked slow between the rows of flowers, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting something delicate.

You pretended to be busy, fussing with the stems in a vase, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. He didn’t look like anyone else who came through here—too sharp, too dangerous, too… magnetic. He stopped at the counter at last, resting one gloved hand on the polished wood. “You like gardenias.”

You startled a little. “I do.”

“They suit you.”

Your cheeks warmed. “They’re… simple.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he didn’t agree with the word. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned in just a little, his presence heavy and steady. “What else do you like?”

You blinked. “What else?”

“Food. Music. Where you go when you’re not here.”

Your stomach flipped. The questions weren’t casual, not the way he asked them. His voice was too low, too intent, as though he planned on remembering every answer. You swallowed. “Um… I like reading. I usually just go home after work. I’m… not very exciting.”

Something flickered in his eyes then—something sharp, almost dangerous. “Good.”

You frowned softly. “Good?”

“Means you’re not wasting your time on people who don’t deserve it.” He pushed a bouquet of pale roses toward you. “These. Wrap them.” You obeyed, fingers fumbling with the paper, conscious of his eyes on you the entire time. He paid, again far too much, and lingered a second longer before he finally said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And he did. The days bled into weeks. He became part of your routine, though you never said it out loud. You’d unlock the shop in the morning, set out the displays, and brace yourself for the moment that bell chimed and he walked in.

Sometimes he bought flowers. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just stood there, leaning against the counter, asking you quiet questions about your day. And slowly, the questions became instructions.

“Don’t walk home alone tonight.” “Eat more than just a muffin for lunch.” “Don’t talk to the men who loiter outside.”

You told yourself he was just being kind. Just looking out for you. But when you spotted his black car parked across the street one night, headlights off, and realized he was watching—waiting until you got safely into your apartment—your chest tightened with something you didn’t want to name. The scariest part wasn’t that he was watching. It was how safe you felt knowing he was there.

---

The office smelled like you. Not you exactly—he wasn’t that lucky—but the flowers you touched every day, the ones you told him you loved. Gardenias, roses, tulips, bundles of wild lavender tied up in neat twine. They crowded the corners of his office, spilling over in vases and pitchers, climbing along windowsills that used to be bare.

It was ridiculous. He knew it. The head of the Barnes Syndicate didn’t decorate with flowers. His men were already whispering, smirking behind their hands when they came in for orders and found the place looking more like a garden than a war room.

But he didn’t care. Every stem reminded him of your hands. The way you handled them so gently, trimming, arranging, never rushing. He’d caught himself staring more than once, smiling faintly as if the flowers were your private secret. He wanted to burn the image into his skull.

“Boss?” Bucky glanced up from the papers on his desk. Natasha stood in the doorway, sunglasses hooked on her shirt, one brow raised. Her eyes flicked over the room—the gardenias on the shelf, the tulips by the window, the roses near his chair. “You planning on opening your own shop?” she asked dryly.

“Shut up.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple with his metal hand.

Natasha smirked, stepping inside and dropping a file on his desk. “You’re getting soft. All this for a girl who sells daisies.”

His jaw tightened. “Careful, Romanoff.”

“I’m not saying it’s bad,” she countered, folding her arms. “I’m saying you’re obvious. Half the crew knows you’ve got a flower girl now.”

He stilled. The words hit something sharp in his chest. “She’s not—” He stopped. His voice dropped low, darker. “She’s mine.”

Natasha tilted her head. “Does she know that?”

His eyes narrowed, blue hard as ice. “She will.” The room went quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside.

Bucky reached over, plucked one of the gardenias from the vase, and turned it slowly in his fingers. He remembered the way your face lit up when you told him they were your favorite. That soft smile. The little stammer in your voice when he leaned too close.

The world was chaos, betrayal, blood. He’d spent his whole life building walls of steel and shadow. But you—your shop, your quiet, your kindness—were untouched by it. And he wasn’t about to let anyone, anything, change that.

“Make sure the shop’s covered,” he said finally, voice flat with command. “No one bothers her. Not a single soul.”

Natasha studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Understood.”

When she left, Bucky leaned back in his chair, the flower still turning in his hand. He should’ve felt stupid, surrounded by petals and stems. But all he felt was calmer, steadier, knowing some piece of you was in his world now. He wanted more. He’d take more.

---

The bell chimed, right on time. You were bent over the counter trimming stems when his shadow crossed the shop. You didn’t even need to look up anymore—you knew the weight of his presence, the way the air seemed to shift when he walked in. “Morning,” you said softly, glancing up with a small smile.

His eyes warmed just enough for only you to notice. “Morning, doll.” The nickname slipped out as if it had been waiting on his tongue. You blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t correct him. That alone sent something hot curling in his chest.

He moved toward the display of carnations but didn’t so much as glance at them. He was looking at you—always you. The flowers were a thin excuse by now, and you both knew it. “What’d you eat for breakfast?” he asked suddenly, voice low, casual only on the surface.

You hesitated, trimming another stem. “Just… coffee.”

He frowned, a line cutting between his brows. “That’s not breakfast.”

“It’s fine—”

“No.” His voice had that edge again, quiet steel that brooked no argument. He leaned on the counter, closer than before. “You need more than that.”

You bit your lip, looking down at the stems. “I wasn’t really hungry.”

His jaw flexed. He straightened, pulling out his phone. “What do you like? Pastries? Eggs?”

“Bucky, you don’t have to—”

“I asked what you like.” His tone softened, but it was no less insistent.

You murmured something about croissants before you could stop yourself, and he was already typing. Ten minutes later, a man you’d never seen before slipped inside, dropped off a white bag with a bakery logo, and left without a word. Bucky nudged it toward you. “Eat.”

You blinked. “You… you just had someone bring this—?”

“Of course I did.” His eyes softened again, watching you like you might vanish if he looked away. “You think I’m gonna let you starve?”

Your cheeks burned. You opened the bag and pulled out a still-warm croissant. His gaze followed every movement as you took a shy bite. “Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, but you heard it, and the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Later, in his office, Natasha raised an unimpressed brow when another delivery came in—this time boxes of delicate pastries stacked beside the flowers. “You feeding her now too?” she asked, smirking.

Bucky didn’t look up from his paperwork. “She doesn’t eat right.”

“You checked?”

“I asked.” His pen stilled. He glanced at the gardenias on the windowsill, the new croissant bag on his desk. His voice dropped, quiet, certain. “She’s mine to take care of.”

Natasha leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching. “You sure it’s not the other way around?”

But Bucky didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his phone again, thumb hovering over your number he hadn’t even asked for—but had anyway.

---

The bell had barely gone silent when you heard it: the click of heavy footsteps against the wet sidewalk. You turned the shop’s sign to closed and reached for your keys, glancing out through the window. He was leaning against a lamppost across the street, hands in his coat pockets, suit jacket darkened slightly at the shoulders from the drizzle. Your breath caught. Bucky didn’t wave. He didn’t call out. He just waited. The way a mountain waits—immovable, unbothered by the storm.

You stepped outside hesitantly, locking the door behind you. “Are you… waiting for someone?”

“For you,” he said simply, pushing off the lamppost.

Your fingers tightened around your keys. “Bucky, you don’t have to—”

“Doll,” he interrupted, falling into step beside you before you could finish. “It’s dark. You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of his presence swallowed the words. He wasn’t touching you, but somehow he filled the space around you completely. The streets were quiet, rain slicking the pavement. You tried to ignore the way his stride matched yours, the way his eyes scanned every shadowed alley and passing car like they were threats only he could see. “Do you do this often?” you asked softly.

“Do what?”

“Walk women home.”

His jaw tightened. “No. Just you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. At your building, you fumbled with the keys, aware of his eyes on the back of your neck. When you finally got the door open, you turned to him. “Thank you. But really… you don’t need to go out of your way.”

He leaned one hand against the doorframe, caging you in without touching. His gaze held yours, steady and unyielding. “This is my way,” he said quietly. “You’re not out here without me again. Understand?” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even harsh. But there was no mistaking them for anything but a command. You swallowed hard, nodding before you could think better of it. His eyes softened then, the steel melting to something warmer. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against your temple, a ghost of a kiss. “Good girl.”

And just like that, he stepped back into the rain, leaving you breathless in the doorway, your heart pounding too hard to ignore.

It became a ritual. You didn’t even question it anymore—when the bell above your shop chimed closed for the night, he would be there. Always. A dark figure leaning against the lamppost, waiting to fall into step beside you. He didn’t ask if you wanted the company, and you didn’t ask why he bothered. The silence between you was enough.

That night, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and glowing under the yellow streetlights. You walked side by side, the only sound the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement.

You tried not to look at him too often, but it was impossible not to notice the way his hand would occasionally flex at his side—as if itching to touch you but holding back.

As you passed a small boutique on the corner, something in the window caught your eye. You slowed without meaning to, gaze snagged by the display: a delicate glass lamp, its shade painted with tiny pressed flowers. Soft light glowed inside, warm and golden, spilling petals and stems across the glass like a garden frozen in time.

It was beautiful. For half a second, you let yourself imagine it on your nightstand. The way the light would spill across your room, soft and comforting. The way you could fall asleep beside it, safe. But the thought made your chest ache. You dropped your gaze quickly and kept walking, quickening your pace until you matched him again. He said nothing, just glanced once at the boutique window before his eyes slid back to you.

At your building, he stopped as always, waited until you were safely inside. You whispered a soft “goodnight,” and he lingered a moment longer before vanishing back into the shadows.

You thought nothing more of it. The next morning, when you opened your shop, the lamp was waiting on the counter. The exact same one. You froze in the doorway, keys clutched in your hand. There was no note, no explanation. Just the lamp, plugged in and glowing faintly in the early light, casting warm petals across the shop walls.

Your breath caught, throat tight. The bell chimed, and he walked in. Calm. Steady. Like he hadn’t done anything at all. Your eyes snapped to him. “Bucky… did you—”

He set a paper bag on the counter. You caught the smell before you even peeked inside—croissants, still warm. He leaned one hand on the wood, watching your face. “You liked it,” he said simply. Not a question. A fact.

Your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” His eyes softened, but there was steel in them too—an unwavering certainty that made your heart stutter. “You want something, doll, you get it. That’s how this works.”

You swallowed hard, glancing at the lamp again. Its soft light seemed to fill the whole shop with a kind of warmth you didn’t know how to accept. “I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice lowered, a command wrapped in velvet. He reached across the counter, brushing his fingers against yours just long enough to make your pulse trip. “Don’t hide from me. If you want something, I’ll know.”

He left you standing there, the lamp glowing at your side, the croissants still warm in the bag, your heart pounding too loud for the quiet shop. And you realized something terrifying and undeniable, he was watching. Always watching.

---

The lamp glowed soft and golden on the counter, petals painted across its glass shade, when you finally found the courage to speak. He was there again, leaning his weight into the wood as if the whole shop belonged to him. His gloves were off this time, thick hands resting easily against the surface, blue eyes pinned to you in that steady, unblinking way that always left you a little breathless.

But today, the warmth in your chest twisted into something sharper. “You can’t keep doing this.”

His head tilted just slightly. “Doing what, doll?”

“This.” You gestured to the lamp, to the bag of pastries he’d brought without asking. “Showing up every day. Buying things I didn’t ask for. Acting like…” Your voice wavered, but you forced it out. “Like you own me.” Silence dropped between you, heavy and sudden.

No one ever told him no. No one ever raised their voice to him, not his men, not the people who feared his name. He could see your fingers trembling where they gripped the counter, but you still held his stare. The corner of his mouth twitched—something between amusement and disbelief. “Own you?”

“Yes.” Your throat felt tight, but you pushed on. “You don’t ask me out. You don’t… talk to me like a normal person would. You just decide things. You decide to walk me home. You decide I don’t eat enough. You decide I want a lamp. And I—” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t agree to any of it.”

For the first time since he’d stepped into your life, he looked caught off guard. Just for a flicker of a second, his eyes widened, like the ground beneath him had shifted. Then the surprise hardened into something else. His voice dropped, low and even. “You think I don’t know how to ask? You think I don’t know how to take a girl to dinner, buy her flowers, wait for her to say yes?”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, leaning closer, his gaze like ice and fire all at once. “I don’t do that with you because I don’t want to give you the option to say no. I don’t want you to walk away. I couldn’t stand it if you did.”

Your breath hitched. He exhaled slowly, raking a hand back through his hair. For a moment, he looked almost… raw. “You don’t get it. You’re already mine. Always were, the second you looked at me with those soft eyes and handed me daisies like I wasn’t a monster.” His gloved hand brushed the lamp, a subtle reminder. “You think I do all this because I don’t know how to court you? I do it because I can’t stand the thought of you needing something and not having it. Because I want to see you safe. Fed. Smiling.” His voice broke on that last word, just barely.

Your heart pounded so hard you swore he could hear it. You should’ve been terrified. And maybe you were. But under the steel in his voice was something else—something aching and desperate. Still, you held your ground, even if your voice shook. “Then ask me. Like a person. Not like… this.”

The room went still again. He studied you for a long, tense beat, and you could see the war in his eyes—control versus obsession, command versus care. Finally, his lips curved into something softer, almost rueful. He leaned in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. “Fine, doll. I’ll ask.” His voice was rough, but there was a flicker of something new in it. “Dinner. Tonight. With me.”

The way he said it still didn’t sound like a question, but for the first time, you knew he was trying. And that unsettled you more than anything else.

---

Dinner with Bucky wasn’t what you expected. He came to the shop just before closing, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair combed back, his usual gloves on. He didn’t wait for you to lock up—he did it himself, sliding the key from your fingers with a quiet, “I’ll take care of it.”

The car waiting outside wasn’t the same sleek black one you’d seen lurking near your building before. This one was even darker, windows tinted, the kind of vehicle that made people cross the street when it pulled up. He opened the door for you, and his hand lingered on your lower back as you climbed inside.

The restaurant was one of those places you’d only seen in magazines—low lights, white tablecloths, the quiet murmur of money in every corner. The maître d’ didn’t even ask for a name; he bowed and led you straight to a private table at the back.

You shifted uncomfortably as you sat, smoothing the fabric of your dress. You hadn’t had time to change, still in the simple sundress you wore to work. Compared to the glittering couples around you, you felt out of place. But Bucky leaned back in his chair, eyes on you like there was no one else in the room. “You look perfect.”

Your cheeks warmed. “You didn’t even let me change.”

His mouth curved in that faint, dangerous smile. “Didn’t want to give you the chance to run.”

You frowned, half-playful, half-serious. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.” He poured you a glass of wine himself, ignoring the hovering waiter. “If I let you walk away, you’d start thinking too much. You’d talk yourself out of me. And I can’t have that.”

You looked at him, really looked. The way his metal fingers tapped lightly against the stem of his glass. The way his eyes stayed fixed on you, hungry and unblinking. “Bucky…” you whispered. “You don’t even know me.”

His jaw tightened. “I know enough.”

“That’s not the same.”

He leaned forward then, voice dropping. “I know you hate crowds but love little kids buying flowers for their moms. I know you hum to yourself when you sweep up the petals at night. I know you wear that same sundress every Wednesday because it makes you feel put-together.”

You blinked, startled. “You—”

“I pay attention.” His gaze softened, but the edge in his voice stayed. “More than anyone else ever has. Tell me I’m wrong.” You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your pulse raced under your skin. He reached across the table, taking your hand gently but firmly in his, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “I might not have asked the right way before. But I’m asking now. Let me have this. Let me have you.”

Your breath caught once again. The waiter appeared with menus, but Bucky didn’t even look at his. His eyes stayed on you, unwavering, as if the answer was the only thing that mattered. “Order something,” he said, tone clipped, smooth, the way he probably gave orders to his men.

You blinked, lowering your gaze to the menu. “You could say please, you know.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “I just did.”

“No, you told me,” you said quietly, the edge of a shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Telling isn’t asking.” That made him still. His head tilted, studying you as if you’d just spoken in another language. No one corrected him. No one pushed back. Certainly no one teased him. You turned a page in the menu, forcing your shoulders to stay loose, though your pulse hammered. “If you want me to do something, maybe try asking. Like a normal person.”

For a long beat, his eyes stayed locked on you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. You thought you’d pushed too far—until the corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Normal, huh?” His voice dropped low, velvet-dark. He leaned across the table just slightly, one hand resting near yours. “Alright, doll. What would please you tonight? Salmon? Steak? Or do you want me to ask sweeter?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it is.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles, light but deliberate. “You want me to say the words. ‘Please, sweetheart, pick something so I can watch you enjoy it.’ That what you want?”

You swallowed hard, caught between flustered and indignant. “It wouldn’t kill you to try it.”

For a long moment, he just watched you, silent, eyes burning into yours. Then, softly, deliberately, “please, doll. Order something. For me.”

Your lips parted in surprise. The weight of the words, the fact that he’d said them—not barked, not commanded—hit you harder than it should have. You ducked your head quickly, hiding your flush in the menu. “Okay,” you murmured, finally pointing to something on the page.

His grin widened, wolfish, triumphant. He sat back in his chair, content now, as if coaxing that small concession from you meant more than anything else on the table. But you caught the way his eyes lingered, sharp and possessive, even when his voice had softened. Like no matter how politely he phrased it, he still thought the end result was the same: you, bending to him. And part of you wondered if you minded as much as you should.

The dinner stretched on in a haze of soft light and low voices. The waiter came and went, but Bucky barely acknowledged him—every ounce of his attention stayed fixed on you. He did try, though. You could see it in the way he caught himself before giving another clipped order, the way he reshaped his words into something that almost sounded like a request. “Try the wine, doll,” he started to say, then stopped himself. His eyes softened, a little sheepish for once. “Would you… please try the wine?”

You bit your lip to hide a smile, lifting the glass to your lips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He chuckled low in his chest, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it.”

But he kept doing it. Through dinner, through dessert, through the awkward-lovely rhythm of you teasing and him adjusting. He was clumsy at it, but he tried—for you. When the plates were cleared and the check was slipped onto the table, and ignored by him, you expected him to take you straight home. Instead, he offered his hand as you slid from your chair, steady and warm at the small of your back as he guided you out into the cool night. The city hummed around you—cars hissing down wet streets, neon signs buzzing faintly in the dark. You walked together in silence for a while, his stride matching yours, his hand never quite leaving your back.

Finally, you glanced up at him. “You really don’t ask for things, do you?”

He looked down at you, brow furrowing slightly. “I do now.”

“You tell me what I’m eating, what I’m wearing, when I should go home—”

“Because you don’t look after yourself the way you should,” he cut in, voice steady, but softer than usual.

“That’s not the same as asking,” you insisted, your tone gentle but firm. “You keep saying I’m yours. But you never asked me if I wanted to be.”

That stopped him cold. His steps slowed, then stilled entirely. He turned to face you fully, the glow of a nearby streetlamp carving hard shadows across his jaw. No one ever pushed him like this. Not his men. Not his enemies. And yet here you were, standing there in your simple dress, looking at him with those soft eyes that had undone him from the start—and daring to tell him no.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. His jaw worked, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand. His voice was low, rough-edged, but stripped of command. “Do you?”

You blinked. “Do I what?”

“Want to be mine.”

The words were plain. Honest. Asked, not ordered. Your heart lurched, caught between fear and something warmer, heavier. You didn’t answer right away, and you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip on your hand tightened as if bracing for rejection. But you didn’t pull away. You held on. “I don’t know yet,” you admitted softly. “But if you keep asking instead of telling… maybe I’ll figure it out.”

The silence between you stretched, charged and alive. Then, for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bucky let out a breath that wasn’t weighted with control or calculation. He brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles once, reverent. “Then I’ll ask,” he murmured. “As many times as it takes.” And when he walked you home that night, he didn’t touch your back, didn’t cage you in with his presence. He just walked beside you, his hand holding yours, as though that was enough.

The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual. His hand stayed in yours, heavy, grounding, but he didn’t say anything more after that promise. The city’s neon glow flickered across the wet pavement, painting the silence in color. At your building, you stopped at the door, fingers brushing the keys in your pocket. He didn’t reach for them this time, didn’t lean against the frame and cage you in. He just stood there, watching you. You hesitated, then looked up at him. “Are you… coming in?”

His jaw worked once. You saw the war in his eyes—possession urging him to say yes, control telling him to wait. For the first time, he looked almost… uncertain. “I want to,” he admitted, voice low, rough. “But I’ll ask. Do you want me to?”

Your chest tightened. The way he said it—like the words were foreign, dragged out of him against instinct—made something inside you ache. You shook your head gently. “Not tonight.”

For a flicker of a second, you thought he’d argue. That steel-blue stare locked on yours, intense enough to burn. But then he nodded once, sharp and deliberate, like it cost him something. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”

You slipped inside, heart pounding, and leaned against the door after you closed it. His shadow lingered on the other side, unmoving, until you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.

The next morning, the bell chimed right on time. You looked up from the counter and there he was again—sharp suit, gloves, eyes only for you. But there was something different about him. The usual possessive certainty was still there, but now it was tempered, measured. He set a small bundle on the counter—gardenias again, perfectly fresh. But this time, he didn’t say take them. Instead, he watched you closely, voice low. “Do you want them?”

Your lips parted. You blinked, then smiled softly, shy but certain. “Yes.”

His shoulders eased, just barely. He nodded once, satisfied, though the glint in his eyes still promised he’d never stop wanting to give you more than you asked for. And as you placed the gardenias in a vase by the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He was still the storm hovering over your quiet life—but now he was learning how to ask before he struck.

---

The bell chimed when you left the shop that Sunday morning, keys tucked into your pocket and your bag over your shoulder. The sun was out for once, the kind of warm golden light that made the city feel softer, less sharp around the edges. You’d planned on wandering down to the farmer’s market, picking up fresh bread and maybe some fruit for the week.

You weren’t surprised when you felt him before you saw him. Bucky fell into step beside you like he always did, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the street. He didn’t say he’d been waiting, but he didn’t have to. “Going somewhere?” he asked, voice low and even.

“The farmer’s market,” you said. “Do you… want to come?”

It slipped out before you could stop it. You weren’t sure why you offered—maybe because it felt strange to keep pretending you didn’t see him watching you. Maybe because part of you wanted to see what he was like outside your shop, outside dim restaurants and shadowed sidewalks. His lips twitched, just slightly. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

The market was buzzing with people—kids tugging at their parents’ hands, couples wandering between stalls, vendors calling out prices. The air smelled of warm bread and herbs, the kind of scent that made you feel like the city wasn’t so heavy after all. Bucky stuck close, but not in the looming, possessive way he usually did. Today he just walked beside you, his broad frame making space for you in the crowd. He looked… normal. Or as normal as a man like him could look.

You stopped at a bakery stall, eyeing the fresh loaves stacked high. “These are always gone by the afternoon,” you explained, pulling a bill from your bag. Before you could hand it over, Bucky passed cash to the vendor instead, his gloved hand steady.

“Bucky—”

“Don’t argue,” he said softly, almost smiling. “Consider it me asking.”

You rolled your eyes but accepted the bread, and his smile deepened like he’d won something. At the flower stall—of course there was a flower stall—you noticed his gaze linger on you as you inspected the bouquets. For once, you didn’t feel self-conscious. You just let yourself enjoy it. Then you spotted a row of little jars at another table a few stalls away—local honey, the labels hand-painted with tiny bees. Without thinking, you grabbed his arm, tugging him along. “Come on, look at these—”

You let go as soon as you reached the stall, too focused on the honey jars to notice the way he froze for half a second when your hand touched him. His gaze dropped to where your fingers had been, his jaw tightening. He didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. But the weight of that touch lingered in his chest, hot and heavy, long after you’d pulled away. You picked out a jar, holding it up with a little smile. “Isn’t this cute?”

He nodded slowly, but his eyes weren’t on the honey. They were still on you, watching the way your face lit up in the sunlight, the way you smiled without thinking. And for once, he didn’t feel like the man everyone feared. He just felt like a man walking through a market with a girl who made him want things he’d forgotten he could have.

The market felt different with him beside you. Normally, you drifted through the stalls without much notice—just another face in the crowd—but with Bucky there, people stepped out of the way. Vendors straightened. Conversations dipped quiet for a moment before picking up again. You pretended not to notice, but you did. And so did he. His hand brushed the small of your back once or twice, subtle but guiding, as though keeping you in his orbit. At a food stall, the scent of frying dough pulled you in. You lingered over the handwritten sign—fresh fritters dusted in sugar—and before you could even reach for your bag, Bucky was already paying. “You don’t have to keep buying everything,” you said, exasperated but a little amused.

He handed you the warm paper bag, eyes steady. “I know. I want to.”

You bit into a fritter, the crunch giving way to soft, sweet warmth. A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. Bucky’s eyes softened. He didn’t take one for himself—he just watched you, like the sight of your smile was enough. You found a bench near the edge of the market, shaded by a tree. Sitting side by side, you let the crowd blur into background noise. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then you glanced at him, curious. “So… what do you do?”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Why?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve been… spending time together. You know a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you.”

His jaw tightened, as if weighing how much to say. Finally, he leaned back against the bench, gaze fixed on the crowd instead of you. “I run things. Businesses. Keep people in line.”

“That’s… vague,” you said carefully.

He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. Vague’s safer.”

You studied him for a moment, the sharp set of his shoulders, the way he scanned the people moving through the market like he was cataloging threats. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… something. Something real.”

His eyes flicked back to you then, and for a beat, the weight of his stare pinned you in place. “Something real?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a long time, then finally said, “I don’t sleep much. When I do, I keep the lights on. Always have.”

You blinked, surprised at the intimacy of the admission. He hadn’t given you facts about his work, but he’d given you something raw instead. Something closer to the truth. You nodded softly. “That’s… real.”

His shoulders eased, just slightly. The silence stretched again, but it felt different this time—warmer, less guarded. You shifted, brushing sugar from your fingers, and without thinking, offered him the last fritter from the bag. He didn’t take it right away. He just looked at you, eyes flicking down to your hand, then back to your face. Finally, he reached for it, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. “Thank you.” The words were simple, but they carried weight.

As you sat there together, sharing sugared dough in the sunlight, you realized this felt almost like a normal second date. Almost. And though you didn’t notice it, he did—the way your shoulders leaned just slightly toward him, the way your knee brushed his. To anyone else, it was nothing. But to Bucky, it was everything.

The walk back from the market felt easier than you expected. Maybe it was the sunlight softening the edges of the city, maybe it was the paper bag of warm bread under your arm, or maybe it was simply that Bucky wasn’t looming as much as usual.

He carried most of the weight without asking—jars of honey, bundles of herbs, a carton of fresh eggs balanced in one hand. He hadn’t made a show of it; the moment you’d started to juggle too many things, he’d quietly relieved you of them. “You don’t have to carry everything,” you said, hugging the bread close to your chest.

“I want to,” he answered simply. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, “besides, you’re terrible at hiding how heavy it is.”

You ducked your head, a little embarrassed, but the teasing softened the moment instead of sharpening it. The streets thinned as you left the crowded stalls behind. For once, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop to admire the painted mural on a corner building, the stray cat curled in a sunbeam on the stoop. His gaze followed everything you touched with your eyes, memorizing it silently. “You seem… different today,” you said after a while, glancing at him.

“How so?”

“Less…” You searched for the word. “Commanding. More like…” You gestured at the bags in his hands. “This. Normal.”

He was quiet for a beat, then let out a low breath. “Maybe I just wanted to see what it feels like. Doing this with you.”

You blinked. “Feels like what?”

“Like I’m not who I am,” he said, eyes straight ahead. “Like I could just… be a man walking home from the market with his girl.”

Your steps faltered. He noticed immediately, his head turning, sharp blue eyes locking onto you. But he didn’t backtrack. He let the words hang there, bare and heavy. You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you shifted the bread under your arm and kept walking. As you reached your building, you touched the edge of his sleeve lightly, without thinking, to slow him. “Thank you,” you said softly.

“For what?”

“For coming with me. For trying.”

His gaze softened, more than you’d ever seen. He leaned down just slightly, his voice quiet, meant for you alone. “I’d try for you, doll. Always.”

He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t push. He just pressed the bags into your hands and waited until you were inside, standing guard in the shadow of your building until the door closed. And though you couldn’t see him, he stayed there for a long time, staring at the place where your fingers had brushed his arm, replaying it like a man clutching his first breath after drowning.

---

The weeks passed quietly, the rhythm of your little flower shop unchanged in all the familiar ways and altered in one very specific one. The bell still chimed at odd intervals, children still pressed coins into your palm for bouquets for their mothers, and old women still lingered at the counter to gossip. But now, James “Bucky” Barnes was a fixture.

He came every day. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes at closing, sometimes both. At first, he’d only bought flowers. Now, more often than not, he was simply there—watching, asking you questions in that low voice of his, or taking up a quiet corner of the shop where his looming presence managed to make the whole space feel smaller.

What surprised you most was how quickly he adapted to your routines. One evening, as you were dragging a heavy bucket of water toward the back room, you heard a faint scrape. When you looked up, Bucky was already carrying it with one hand, like it weighed nothing. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he said when you frowned at him.

“I’ve been doing this for years,” you reminded him.

“Not anymore,” he replied, setting the bucket down and fixing you with that firm stare that made arguments slip off your tongue.

After that, he just started doing things. Sweeping up petals after closing. Refilling water vases. Straightening displays. The strangest sight of all was him in his immaculate suit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully trimming stems with the clumsy concentration of a man who had never held shears before. You caught yourself smiling one evening when he leaned too hard on the broom and nearly knocked over a pail of carnations. “What’s funny?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.

“You’re… bad at this,” you admitted, covering your mouth with your hand.

His lips twitched as though fighting a grin. “Maybe. But I don’t mind being bad at something if it’s for you.”

That made your chest tighten. Later, when he tried to lock up the shop himself, you shook your head. “You can’t just decide things, Bucky. You have to ask.”

He paused with the key in his hand, blue eyes sharp on yours. “Ask?”

“Yes. Like a normal person.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, silent. Then, with the barest hint of a smile, “may I lock up for you, doll?”

You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks, before nodding slowly. “Yes.”

He turned the key with a satisfied twist, and though he said nothing more, the look in his eyes told you he was storing that moment away, filing it under things he would never forget.

And that became the new pattern. The man everyone else feared—the man you still didn’t fully understand—swept floors and carried buckets in your flower shop. Not because you asked him to, but because he wanted to. Because it meant being near you, being part of your world, even if it meant stumbling through tasks that had nothing to do with his.

---

The idea came to you while restocking vases one quiet afternoon. Bucky had settled himself on the stool by the counter, jacket draped over the backrest, sleeves rolled up as he trimmed stems with more concentration than skill. It was still strange seeing him like that—this man who radiated danger, carefully adjusting the angle of scissors to keep a daisy neat. “You’re free tomorrow, right?” you asked, keeping your tone casual.

His head lifted, blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”

You hesitated, fingers brushing water from your palms. “There’s an exhibit at the museum. I thought… maybe you’d like to go with me.”

Silence. You felt suddenly foolish. Of course a man like him wouldn’t want to wander through quiet halls, looking at paintings. You opened your mouth to take it back, but he spoke first. “When?”

You blinked. “Noon?”

He nodded once, decisive. “I’ll pick you up.”

The museum was quieter than the farmer’s market, but no less alive. Families moved from gallery to gallery, tourists snapped photos, students sat on the floor sketching. You bought tickets at the front desk, and when you glanced over, Bucky was already scanning the lobby like it was a threat he had to neutralize. “You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you teased gently.

“I don’t like crowds,” he admitted, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Too many hands. Too many eyes.”

You offered him a small smile. “Then just look at me instead.”

Something flickered across his face at that—something raw and unguarded—before his expression smoothed again. He followed you into the first gallery without a word. The space was filled with soft light and framed canvases, oil paintings that stretched from floor to ceiling. You paused before one, studying the brushstrokes, and realized after a moment that he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was watching you. “You’re supposed to look at the art,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“I am,” he replied.

Heat crept up your neck, and you busied yourself reading the plaque beside the painting. As you moved from gallery to gallery, he stayed close, his hand brushing your back whenever the crowd grew too thick. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it surprised you. He had opinions—sharp, quiet observations about color, about shadow, about how one painting seemed “lonely” while another looked like “noise trapped in a frame.” His voice was low, thoughtful, nothing like the clipped commands he usually gave.

You stole glances at him while he studied the paintings. He didn’t fidget, didn’t check his watch or his phone. He looked, really looked, the same way he looked at you in the shop—like he was memorizing every detail.

At one point, you wandered ahead into a side gallery where a massive sculpture stood under a skylight. You stopped, tilting your head, trying to make sense of the twisting stone form. A moment later, his shadow fell across yours. Without thinking, you reached back and caught his hand, tugging him closer. “What do you think this is supposed to be?”

His hand stayed in yours, warm and steady. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tease. He just let you hold him, his gaze dropping briefly to where your fingers curled against his before answering. “Doesn’t matter what it’s supposed to be,” he said quietly. “Matters what you see in it.”

You didn’t even realize you were still holding his hand until you let go to gesture at the sculpture, your cheeks heating. He didn’t comment, though his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary. By the time you stepped back into the sunlight outside, the afternoon was waning. He carried the museum’s little pamphlet in one hand, folded neatly, like it was something precious. “Thank you,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself. “For coming.”

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “You ask, I’ll come.” And though his voice was steady, you couldn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his side—like he was resisting the urge to reach for yours again.

The walk home after the museum felt different than any other evening you’d shared with him. Maybe it was the soft glow of the setting sun bouncing off the buildings, or maybe it was the quiet between you—comfortable, not weighted the way it usually was.

You carried a little bag from the gift shop, a postcard print of your favorite painting tucked inside. He’d insisted on buying it when you lingered too long at the rack, ignoring your protests. Now it swung lightly from your fingers as the two of you turned down your street. He stayed close, as always, scanning shadows and corners. But he wasn’t tense. Not like usual. His shoulders looked looser, his jaw softer, as if he’d finally let himself breathe for once. At your building, you stopped at the door. He reached for the key the way he always did, but this time you didn’t hand it over. Instead, you turned it yourself, then hesitated. When you looked up at him, he was watching you, waiting. “Do you…” You bit your lip, suddenly nervous. “Do you want to come in?”

For a flicker of a moment, something raw crossed his face—surprise, then hunger, then something softer. His eyes searched yours as though trying to find a trick hidden there. “You sure?” His voice was low, almost rough. He was asking, not telling.

You nodded, stepping inside and holding the door open. He followed, quiet as a shadow, and the door clicked shut behind him. Your apartment wasn’t much—small, cozy, smelling faintly of lavender and bread. A few books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the couch, a vase of flowers by the window. His eyes swept the space once, but not with the sharp calculation you were used to. This time it looked like he was… curious. Taking in the pieces of your life he hadn’t been able to reach until now. You slipped off your shoes and gestured awkwardly. “It’s not much, but… it’s home.”

He stepped further in, silent for a moment, before his gaze found the vase by the window. White gardenias, still fresh, but starting to droop a little. “You kept them,” he murmured.

“Of course,” you said softly.

Something shifted in his expression then, subtle but undeniable. His shoulders eased even more, and when he finally sat down on the couch—careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb anything—he looked almost human. Almost ordinary. You brought him a glass of water, and he accepted it with a quiet, “thank you,” fingers brushing yours deliberately. The lamp he’d given you glowed faintly in the corner, casting its warm petals of light across the room. He noticed, of course. His eyes lingered on it for a long moment before he turned back to you. “Feels like you,” he said.

You tilted your head. “What does?”

“This place. The light. The quiet. All of it.” He leaned back into the couch, watching you with that same intensity he always did, but softer now. “I like it.”

Bucky didn’t sit like a guest. He sat like he belonged there, broad shoulders sinking carefully into your couch, his hand resting heavy on his knee. The lamplight painted him in soft gold, blunting the sharpness of his jaw, but nothing could dull the intensity of his eyes. They tracked you as you moved—setting the bread on the counter, tidying the little bag from the museum gift shop, fussing with nothing at all just to give your hands something to do.

You finally settled across from him, tucking your legs under yourself. He was too large for your space, all dark edges against your quiet home, and yet… he didn’t look out of place. Not anymore. “You’re quiet,” you said softly.

“I like it here,” he answered simply. His gaze flicked around the room again—the flowers on the sill, the stack of books on your table, the blanket folded neatly over the back of a chair. “Feels like you.”

Your lips curved, though you tried to hide it. “That’s because it is me. It’s my space.”

He studied you then, blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You let me in.”

The weight of those words settled heavy between you. He didn’t sound surprised. More like he was… marveling at it. Testing the shape of the truth on his tongue. “I trust you,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

His jaw tightened. His hand flexed once on his knee. “You shouldn’t,” he said, voice low, raw. “Not with me.”

The honesty in his tone chilled you, but it also pulled at something deeper. You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees. “Then tell me why.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, like he was deciding whether or not to let you see past the walls he kept so carefully built. Then he shifted, elbows on his thighs, leaning closer. “Because I don’t stop. Once I want something—once I want you—I don’t let go.”

Your breath caught, heat rising to your cheeks. But instead of recoiling, you held his gaze. “Then maybe you should ask me if I mind.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you?”

You hesitated, heart pounding, before whispering, “no.”

The silence that followed was thick, humming with unspoken things. He leaned back slowly, the tension in his body still coiled tight, but his expression softened—just barely. “Good,” he murmured.

You didn’t know what possessed you then, but you rose and crossed to the kitchen, pouring him another glass of water, setting it down beside him like it was the most natural thing. He accepted it without breaking eye contact, his metal fingers brushing yours deliberately.

The night stretched longer, the city outside dimming into quiet. At some point, you found yourself curled in the chair across from him, head resting against your hand, listening as he told you little things—not about business, never that, but about the food he liked, the places he couldn’t stand, the way he hated the sound of clocks ticking. Small truths, but truths nonetheless.

When he finally stood to leave, it was later than you realized. He lingered at the door, one hand braced against the frame. “Next time,” he said softly, “I’ll stay.”

You didn’t argue. When the door closed behind him, your apartment still felt full. Heavy with his presence. And when you went to bed, the lamp he’d given you cast its warm glow across the room, reminding you that letting him in once meant you’d never be rid of him again.

The next night, he didn’t wait on the street. You closed up shop, locked the door, and there he was—already leaning against the brick wall, arms folded across his chest. The way he looked at you made the air feel heavy, like he’d been waiting for this moment all day. “Come on,” he said quietly, falling into step beside you.

The walk to your apartment was silent, but not tense. His hand brushed yours once or twice, and though he didn’t take it, you felt the weight of restraint in every step he took. When you unlocked your door and pushed it open, you hesitated. He didn’t ask this time. He didn’t have to. The question was in his eyes, and the answer was already in yours. “Stay,” you said softly.

Something uncoiled in him at that word, something he’d been holding too tightly. He stepped inside without hesitation, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of your chair like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Your apartment filled with him—his size, his presence, the faint spice of his cologne. You made tea because it gave your hands something to do, and when you handed him a mug, his fingers brushed yours deliberately, lingering just long enough to make your pulse trip. He sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched. He drank the tea like he wasn’t used to it, sipping carefully, his eyes never leaving you. “Feels different,” he murmured after a while.

“What does?”

“This. Here. With you.” His gaze flicked around the apartment, then back to you. “It’s quiet. No one watching. No one waiting on me. Just… you.”

Your chest tightened. “Is that what you want?”

His jaw flexed. He set the mug down, metal fingers tapping once against the porcelain. “Yeah. More than I should.”

The silence stretched. You shifted under his stare, then finally leaned back against the couch, letting your shoulder brush his. He stilled at the contact, then eased, as if the world had just given him permission to breathe. The hours slipped by. You talked about nothing—books, music, the weather—and sometimes you didn’t talk at all. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, warm, almost domestic. When the clock ticked past midnight, you stifled a yawn. His head turned instantly, eyes narrowing. “You’re tired.”

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice was drowsy.

He stood, towering over you, then offered his hand. “Bed,” he said.

You arched a brow, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Excuse me?”

His mouth curved faintly. “To sleep, doll. I’ll take the couch.”

You hesitated, then nodded, leading him toward the small bedroom. He didn’t linger, didn’t push. He just pulled the blanket up to your chin once you were settled, his hand brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your throat ache. “Sleep,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes, the glow of the lamp warm against the walls, and the last thing you felt was the weight of his presence just outside the door—silent, steady, keeping watch.

The smell of coffee pulled you awake before the sunlight did. For a moment, you thought you were dreaming—the rich, dark aroma, the soft clink of ceramic from your kitchen—but when you sat up, the lamp still glowed faintly on your nightstand, and the blanket tucked under your chin smelled faintly of his cologne.

You padded quietly to the doorway, pausing when you saw him. Bucky stood at the counter, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he poured steaming coffee into your favorite mug. His jacket was still draped over the back of the chair from last night, his sleeves rolled up again. On the counter beside him was a loaf of bread you’d bought at the market, neatly sliced into even pieces, and butter softening in a small dish. It looked… domestic. Almost ordinary. And it made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for. “You don’t have to do that,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe.

He looked up instantly, sharp as always, but his expression softened when he saw you. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Figured I’d make myself useful.”

You smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You’re really bad at pretending this is normal.”

“Maybe,” he said, setting the mug in front of you. His voice lowered. “But I like pretending with you.”

The warmth of the cup seeped into your palms. You took a sip, humming at the taste—it was stronger than you usually made it, but good. He watched your reaction like it mattered more than anything else. “See?” he said, almost smug. “Better than what you usually drink.”

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “You think you can just take over my kitchen now?”

His grin widened, wolfish but soft around the edges. “If you let me.” For a long moment, you stood there, sipping your coffee while he leaned against the counter, watching you like the morning belonged to the two of you alone. When you finally set the mug down, he reached past you, brushing your wrist deliberately as he moved the butter closer to the bread. “Eat something,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes but picked up a slice anyway. “You know, most people say ‘please’ when they want something.”

He chuckled low, the sound warm and rough. “Please, doll. Eat something for me.”

You laughed then, quiet but real, and he looked at you like he’d just won a war without firing a single shot. And as you sat at your tiny kitchen table, him across from you with his coffee, you realized you weren’t just letting him into your apartment. You were letting him into your mornings, your routines, your life. He seemed to realize it too. Because when you reached for another slice of bread, he leaned back in his chair, eyes soft and possessive all at once, and said quietly, “get used to this. I’m not going anywhere.”

You thought he’d leave after breakfast—slip out the way he usually did, shadow heavy but fleeting. Instead, he stayed, long after the last crumb of bread was gone and your coffee had cooled. He didn’t hover, not exactly. He followed you with his eyes as you moved around your apartment, tidying plates, straightening cushions, feeding the little plant on your windowsill. Every small domestic motion seemed to hold his full attention, as if he were cataloging it all for later.

When you bent to pick up a book that had slipped under the table, he was suddenly there, crouched beside you. His metal fingers brushed the spine before yours could reach it. “Got it,” he murmured, handing it over. His eyes lingered on the cover—an old paperback, spine worn soft. “You like this one?”

“It’s a favorite,” you admitted, hugging it to your chest. “I’ve read it more times than I can count.”

He nodded slowly, eyes sharp, as though he were etching the title into his memory. You retreated to the couch, curling into the corner, and he sat at the other end—close enough that your knees brushed when you shifted. He leaned back, stretching an arm along the top of the couch, watching you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “You’re different here,” you said quietly.

“How?”

“Quieter. Softer.” You hesitated. “Like you’re not carrying the whole world on your shoulders.”

For a moment, something flickered across his face—something raw, almost vulnerable. “Maybe it’s because I’m with you.”

Your cheeks warmed. You turned your gaze toward the window, pretending to fuss with the flowers on the sill. “You say things like that too easily.”

“I don’t say anything easily,” he said, voice low, firm. “Not unless I mean it.”

The air grew heavier, thick with unspoken things. To break it, you stood and gathered the empty mugs. “I should wash these.”

“I’ll do it.”

Before you could protest, he was already in your tiny kitchen, sleeves pushed up, broad frame bent over your sink. The sight of him there—dangerous and untouchable to the rest of the city, carefully rinsing soap suds from your favorite mug—sent a strange ache through you. “You really don’t know how to act normal,” you teased gently, leaning against the counter.

He glanced at you, lips curving faintly. “This is normal. For me. If you let it be.”

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how easily he was weaving himself into your space, your life. When the mugs were clean and drying on the rack, he returned to the couch, looking far too at ease in your home. As though the line between visitor and resident had already blurred. And when you finally told him, half-awkward, that you needed to open the shop soon, he only nodded, standing slowly. His eyes swept the room one last time before settling on you. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, not as a command but as a promise.

And when the door clicked shut behind him, your apartment still felt full.

The second time he stayed, it felt less like a choice and more like inevitability. He didn’t even ask if it was alright—he simply slipped off his jacket, folded it neatly over the arm of your couch, and stretched his long frame across it like it was a habit he’d been keeping for years.

You went to bed with the lamplight still spilling warm gold into the hallway, the faint hum of the city outside, and the comforting knowledge that he was only a few steps away. It was deep into the night when you woke. Thirst pulled you from sleep, groggy and heavy-limbed. Padding into the living room, you found him still on the couch, blanket pushed low around his waist, one arm draped over the edge.

For a moment, you thought he was sleeping peacefully. His chest rose and fell, steady. But then you noticed the twitch of his fingers, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the low, almost inaudible sounds escaping his throat—half-formed words, broken whispers.

You froze. A nightmare. Your first instinct was to leave him be, let him fight his shadows alone. But something in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his breath hitched, made your chest ache. “Bucky,” you whispered, stepping closer. “It’s alright. You’re safe.” You reached out, intending only to brush your fingers across his shoulder, to anchor him in the present. But the instant your skin touched his, his metal arm snapped up, lightning fast, clamping around your wrist.

The pressure was startling, firm enough to hurt, and you gasped softly. His eyes flew open—wild, unmoored, glassy with panic. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t here with you. He was somewhere else. Then recognition hit. His grip loosened instantly, his chest heaving. “God—doll—” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You sank down onto the edge of the couch, cradling his arm with your free hand, your voice low and steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You didn’t mean to.”

But he was already shaking his head, his flesh hand scrubbing hard over his face. “Shouldn’t—shouldn’t touch you. Not when I don’t know where I am. Could’ve hurt you. Could’ve—”

You caught his wrist before he could pull further away. “You didn’t. You didn’t hurt me.”

His metal fingers trembled against your skin, so different from the usual deliberate steadiness you knew. He kept repeating it, almost under his breath, like a mantra breaking apart. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” you whispered, sliding closer, resting your other hand lightly against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your palm. “Look at me.” It took a moment, but his eyes finally lifted to yours—blue and raw, stripped of every layer of command and control. “You’re here,” you said softly. “With me. You’re safe.”

The tension in his arm eased by degrees, until his grip was nothing more than a loose circle around your wrist. He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven. “You shouldn’t have to… deal with this.”

“I don’t mind,” you whispered. And you didn’t. Not when it was him.

For a long time, you just sat there, your hand still against his chest, his breath slowly steadying under your touch. When his grip finally fell away completely, it wasn’t because he pushed you—it was because he let go, trusting you not to move. You didn’t. You stayed.

And when he drifted back into sleep, your wrist still tingled from the weight of his arm, but it wasn’t fear that lingered. It was the way his voice had broken on your name, the way he’d clung to your presence like it was the only thing anchoring him in the world.

By the time the apartment grew quiet again, you hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You’d sat there with him, your hand still resting over his chest, listening as his breath evened out beneath your palm. You told yourself you’d move once you were sure he was settled.

But your eyes grew heavy. The couch was warm beneath you, his body warmer still, and before you knew it, you were sliding sideways, cheek pressed against his shirt. His heart was a steady thrum beneath your ear, his arm—flesh, not metal—loosely draped over your back as though even in sleep he couldn’t help but hold you close.

The couch was small, too small for the both of you, but you didn’t notice. Not with the weight of him grounding you, not with the lamp’s glow painting soft gold across the room.

When you woke, morning light was spilling through the curtains, pale and thin. It took a moment to realize where you were—why your pillow was too firm, why your blanket smelled faintly of his cologne. You shifted, groggy, and felt his chest move beneath you. He was awake. His breathing was shallow, controlled, the way he sounded when he was trying not to disturb you. “Morning,” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.

His chest rumbled under your cheek with a low, uncertain sound. “You shouldn’t… have stayed here.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were sharp, but not cold. There was guilt there, deep and quiet. “Why not?”

“I could’ve hurt you,” he said. His metal hand flexed once against the blanket, as though the memory of gripping your arm was still burning through him. “I did hurt you.”

You shook your head, propping yourself on your elbow. “You didn’t. You scared me for a second, but… you didn’t hurt me.” His jaw worked, but he said nothing. You studied him for a moment—his hair mussed from sleep, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he looked so much younger like this, stripped of the armor he wore in daylight. “Bucky,” you said softly, “I wouldn’t have fallen asleep here if I didn’t feel safe with you.”

That silenced him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes flicking away for a moment as though he couldn’t bear the weight of what you’d just given him. Slowly, carefully, he brushed his knuckles across your cheek, his touch light, reverent. “You shouldn’t trust me that much.”

“Maybe not,” you whispered, leaning into his hand. “But I do.”

For the first time in longer than he could probably remember, his mouth curved into something almost fragile, almost grateful. You stayed like that for a long moment, the morning wrapping around you both like a secret. The couch was still too small, your neck was already sore, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Because for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were comforting him, or if he was comforting you.

---

The bell chimed as usual when he stepped into your shop, but today felt heavier somehow. Maybe it was the memory of the night before, of waking up in his arms on your too-small couch. Maybe it was the image of his wide, haunted eyes as he whispered apology after apology, and the way your chest had ached to soothe him.

You’d been thinking about that all morning. About how much he gave you—his presence, his protection, his steadiness—even if he never admitted it aloud. And for once, you wanted to give him something back. So you’d worked quietly before he arrived, hands steady even as your heart raced, trimming stems and tying ribbon. Now, as he approached the counter, you wiped your palms on your apron and brought the bouquet out from behind you.

It wasn’t like the ones you usually sold. This one was deliberate, personal. Deep blue delphiniums, soft cornflowers, pale forget-me-nots woven together in layers, all tied with a silver-gray ribbon. The colors matched his eyes perfectly—sharp and striking at the center, softer and gentler around the edges. You held it out shyly. “For you.”

He froze. For a man who seemed to always know what to do, what to say, he looked completely undone in that moment. His eyes flicked from the flowers to your face and back again, as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. “You made this… for me?” His voice was rough, low.

You nodded, your fingers twisting the edge of your apron. “You’ve brought me so much. I just thought—maybe you’d like to have something, too.”

He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and took the bouquet from your hands. His metal fingers brushed the ribbon with surprising gentleness, as though afraid he might crush the delicate stems. For a long moment, he just stared at it. Then his jaw worked, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “No one’s ever…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”

Your heart clenched. “Then I’ll just have to make sure it’s not the last time.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, something raw burning in them. He set the bouquet carefully on the counter, then reached across with his flesh hand, curling his fingers around yours. “Thank you, doll,” he said, voice unsteady. “You don’t know what this means to me.” But from the way he held your hand, from the way his thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of you, you thought maybe you did.

Bucky carried the bouquet back with him, cradled more carefully than the files his men handed him daily. When he entered his penthouse, the first thing Natasha noticed wasn’t the flowers themselves—it was the way he set them down gently on his desk, like they were priceless.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Boss, if you keep this up, you’re gonna need a bigger office. Between the vases and bouquets, it’s starting to look more like a conservatory than a headquarters.”

He shot her a sharp look, but it lacked real heat. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the bouquet, fingers brushing over the ribbon like he still couldn’t believe it was real. “You got a problem with flowers, Romanoff?” he asked, voice low.

Natasha’s smirk softened into something almost approving. “Not with flowers. Just with you hiding in here behind them.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m not hiding.”

“You’ve skipped the last three meetings,” she countered, stepping further into the room. “You can’t keep pushing them off. People are starting to notice. And this next one—you can’t get out of it.”

His eyes darkened, steel sliding back into his expression. “When?”

“Tomorrow night.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Seven o’clock. You’ll be there, and you’ll sit through it, whether you like it or not.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. His metal fingers tapped once against the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Then he let out a slow breath, eyes flicking back to the blue bouquet. “Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”

Natasha tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve got her making bouquets just for you now?”

His lips curved faintly—dangerous, but softer than usual. “Yeah. She did.”

Natasha’s brows lifted. “And you’re going to tell her where you’re going tomorrow?”

His gaze sharpened again, voice dropping low. “No.”

“Bucky—”

“She doesn’t need to know.” His eyes lingered on the flowers, something fierce burning beneath the calm. “Not yet.”

Natasha studied him for a long beat before finally sighing. “One of these days, Barnes, you’re gonna realize she’s not just another thing you can keep in the dark.”

But he didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the bouquet again, his hand steady, his mind already far from the meeting Natasha had chained him to.

The following evening, Bucky was restless. He’d shown up at your shop like he always did, the bell chiming as he stepped in, but his presence felt heavier than usual. He leaned against the counter, silent, eyes fixed on you while you arranged fresh stems in a vase. His gloves were still on—he hadn’t even rolled his sleeves the way he sometimes did when he helped close up. “Long day?” you asked, glancing up.

His jaw flexed once. “Not finished yet.”

Something in his tone told you not to press. But you noticed the way his gaze lingered on you a little too long, as though he were memorizing everything about you—the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your hands as you tied ribbon.

When you locked up for the night, he was there as usual, walking you home. His stride was slower, though, deliberate. Like he didn’t want the walk to end. At your door, instead of leaving with his usual “goodnight,” he lingered. His eyes traced your face with an intensity that made your heart race. “You’ll stay in tonight,” he said softly.

You blinked. “I was planning to, yes. Why?”

He exhaled, the faintest flicker of relief passing across his features. “Good. I need…” He hesitated, words sticking like they were foreign in his mouth. “I need to be somewhere. But I don’t want you worrying.”

Your brows furrowed. “Where?”

His eyes softened, but the steel never left them. “Not a place you need to know about.” It stung, a little, but before you could respond, his flesh hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin. His touch was warm, but his grip was firm, almost desperate. “Promise me you’ll stay here tonight,” he murmured. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”

“Promise me.” His voice was low, commanding, but under it was something raw. Fear.

Your heart twisted. “I promise.”

Only then did his shoulders ease, just slightly. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there longer than usual. When he pulled back, his eyes burned with something unspoken. “I’ll be back,” he said simply. And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the city.

You stood in your doorway long after he’d disappeared, the bouquet you’d given him still fresh in your memory. Whatever world he was going back to tonight, it wasn’t one you were part of—not yet. But the way he’d looked at you before he left made you wonder how long he could keep the walls up.

It was late when the knock came—so late the city outside had gone quiet, even the hum of traffic muted. You woke with a start, heart pounding, blinking against the faint glow of the lamp in your bedroom.

For a moment, you thought you’d dreamed it. Then it came again, firmer this time. Three heavy knocks that rattled the wood. You slipped from bed, pulling a sweater over your shoulders, bare feet whispering across the floor. When you peered through the peephole, your stomach dropped. Bucky. He stood close to the door, shoulders squared, hair mussed, suit rumpled. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with something fierce and unsteady. And his knuckles—flesh and metal both—were streaked with blood.

You unlocked the door quickly and pulled it open. “Bucky.” He exhaled your name like a prayer, his chest rising and falling hard. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, filling your small apartment with his presence, the door shutting behind him with a dull thud. You reached for his hand automatically, the blood stark against your skin. “What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said roughly, pulling back just enough to keep the mess off you. “It’s done.”

“Bucky—”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” His voice cracked low, raw, like he’d used up every ounce of steel at that meeting and had nothing left to shield himself with now.

You guided him toward the couch anyway, ignoring his protest. “Sit.” He hesitated, then obeyed, sinking down heavily. His shoulders were still tight, coiled with tension, his fists flexing and unflexing as though he hadn’t yet come down from whatever storm he’d just walked out of. You fetched a cloth and warm water from the bathroom, kneeling in front of him. He tried to take the rag from your hand, but you shook your head. “Let me,” you said softly.

For once, he didn’t argue. He let you cradle his hand, your smaller fingers working gently over the bloodstains. His skin was rough under your touch, his palm scarred, but you treated it like something fragile, as if the violence hadn’t seeped into the lines of his hand at all. He watched you in silence, blue eyes intent, following every stroke of the cloth. “You shouldn’t…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “You shouldn’t want to do this for me.”

“Maybe I want to anyway,” you whispered.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark. “You’re gonna ruin yourself, doll. Being close to me.”

You wrung out the cloth, wiping gently at his other hand, this one colder, harder. His metal fingers twitched under your touch, then stilled. “Maybe you don’t get to decide that,” you murmured.

His chest rose sharply, his eyes snapping to yours. The intensity there was almost unbearable—possessive, desperate, aching. “I came here,” he admitted finally, voice hoarse. “Because after it was over, all I wanted was you. Just… you.”

You finished cleaning the last smear of blood from his knuckles, then set the cloth aside. Without thinking, you reached up and pressed your hand against his jaw, tilting his face toward you. “I’m here,” you said simply.

And for the first time that night, his shoulders dropped, the fight bleeding out of him. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing, as though your palm was the only anchor he had left.

You didn’t let go of him right away. Even when his shoulders eased, when the fury and tension in him finally started to drain, you kept your hand at his jaw, kept your body close enough that he could feel your steadiness. When you finally shifted to stand, he caught your wrist—not tight, not desperate, but firm enough to stop you. His eyes opened, and there it was again: that raw, unguarded fear. Fear of you walking away. “Stay,” he murmured.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly. “But you need to rest. You can’t keep carrying all of this on your own.” You tugged gently until he let you go, then stood and gestured toward your bedroom. “Come on. You take the bed tonight.”

His eyes narrowed immediately. “No.”

“Bucky—”

“I’m not putting you on the couch in your own home,” he said sharply, rising to his feet. “I’ll take it. Always.”

The finality in his tone made you hesitate, but then you stepped closer, meeting his intensity with your own. “You came here for comfort, didn’t you? Then let me give it to you. Please.”

The word hung between you. You almost never asked him for anything. His jaw worked. He glanced at the bedroom door, then back at you, his expression caught between resistance and something almost… longing. Finally, he exhaled slowly. “Fine. But only if you stay too.”

Your breath caught. “Bucky—”

“I won’t sleep otherwise,” he admitted, voice low, hoarse. “Not without you.”

The ache in your chest deepened. You nodded once, quietly, and guided him into the bedroom. He moved carefully, stripping off his bloodstained shirt and leaving it folded on the chair before slipping under the covers in just his undershirt and slacks. He looked out of place in your small bed, too large, too coiled with silent tension.

You slid in beside him, the lamp’s glow soft across both of you. At first, he kept to his side, stiff and deliberate, as though terrified of crowding you. But when you reached out—just the lightest brush of your fingers over his wrist—he shifted closer, inch by inch, until his forehead rested against yours. “Sorry,” he whispered again, the word barely audible. “For last night. For tonight. For all of it.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you whispered back, eyes closing. “Not with me.”

His breath stuttered against your cheek, and then his arm—warm, heavy, trembling slightly—wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest. It was a long time before his breathing evened out, before the tension bled from his body completely. But when it did, he slept deeper than he had in years, anchored by your presence.

And you stayed there with him, awake for a long while, listening to the steady thrum of his heart and wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was learning how to let someone share the weight he carried.

---

You woke to the sensation of warmth. Not the sunlight—though that was spilling pale and soft through the curtains—but the solid weight of the man beside you. His arm was still around you, heavy and steady, his chest pressed to your back. For a moment you stayed perfectly still, afraid that moving would shatter the fragile quiet that had settled over him in the night.

Eventually, you stirred, stretching carefully. His arm slipped away immediately, as if he’d been awake already, holding himself too tightly so as not to trap you. “Morning,” you murmured, rolling to face him. He was lying on his side, head propped on his hand, blue eyes fixed on you. His hair was a little mussed, his undershirt wrinkled. But his gaze was sharp, searching, as though he were trying to read the truth in your expression. “You slept,” you said softly, surprised by how certain you were.

“Because of you,” he admitted.

Something in your chest squeezed. You brushed your thumb lightly across the back of his hand. “I’m glad.”

But he didn’t relax. His eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw flexing. “You don’t regret this? Letting me stay?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “No. Why would I?”

“Because you saw me last night.” His voice was rough, low, like he hated the words even as he forced them out. “Bloody. Angry. A mess. That’s who I am, doll. That’s what I do when I leave you here. And I don’t…” He trailed off, eyes flicking away for a moment. “I don’t want you to look at me different because of it.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbow, leaning closer, catching his gaze. “Bucky. I saw you. And I still asked you to stay.”

His throat bobbed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You shouldn’t have to comfort me.”

“Maybe I want to,” you whispered, echoing the words you’d spoken when you cleaned his bloodied hands.

The silence stretched, heavy but not unbearable. His hand lifted, brushing lightly over your head, fingers catching gently at the nape of your neck. “You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You shook your head. “Not even a little.”

His eyes closed briefly, as though the weight of that truth was too much to hold. When he opened them again, they burned with something softer than you’d ever seen in him, something dangerously close to hope. And though he didn’t say the words, you could feel them in the way he held your gaze, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin.

For once, he wasn’t just the man who haunted your shop, who walked you home, who carried storms in his chest. For once, he was just Bucky.

---

The day had been quiet, the steady hum of your little shop wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. You were working at the counter, arranging fresh lilies into a tall glass vase, humming softly under your breath. Bucky had slipped into the back earlier, muttering something about moving crates that were too heavy for you, though you hadn’t asked him to.

You balanced the vase carefully in your hands—just a little too tall, a little too slick with condensation—and then it happened. The glass slipped. You gasped, a sharp sound breaking the quiet as the vase hit the floor and shattered. Water splashed across your shoes, stems splayed in every direction, and shards of glass glittered in a jagged circle around your feet.

“Doll?” His voice was immediate, sharp, and then he was there, bursting from the back with all the force of a man expecting the worst. His eyes swept the scene in an instant—the water, the flowers, the glinting glass around your shoes—and then locked onto you.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, holding your hands up like surrender. “I just—”

“Don’t move,” he snapped, the command biting. But his eyes softened a heartbeat later, voice lowering. “Please. Don’t move.” You froze, biting your lip. Shards glittered dangerously close to your ankles, one sliver already catching at your sock. Bucky’s chest rose hard with a deep breath. Then he stepped closer, gaze flicking up to yours. “Do you trust me?”

The question startled you—so direct, so weighted. But your answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

In one smooth motion, his hands found your waist, strong and steady, and he lifted you up out of the circle of broken glass. You startled, legs instinctively tightening around him as he held you against his chest, the strength in his arms effortless and certain.

Your heart hammered, breath catching as the world tilted. You could feel the hard lines of him through his shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat pressed to your chest. For a moment, you were frozen, caught in the intensity of his eyes as he looked at you—so close, so intent, like you were the only thing in the world. Then, before you could stop yourself, a quiet giggle slipped out. You ducked your head against his shoulder, cheeks warm. “You’re… really strong.”

The corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous, but softer than you’d ever seen it. His grip tightened just slightly at your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how easily he held you. “Damn right I am,” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “Strong enough to carry you as long as it takes.”

Your breath caught, the teasing words laced with something heavier, deeper. You clung to him just a little tighter, not because of the glass scattered on the floor, but because of the way he said it—as though he meant more than just this moment.

And when he finally set you down on the counter, out of harm’s way, his hands lingered at your waist, eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His hands lingered at your waist even after he’d set you safely on the counter, his eyes locked on yours like he was trying to convince himself you were unharmed. Only when you shifted slightly—cheeks warm, fingers fiddling with the hem of your apron—did he finally step back. “Stay there,” he ordered softly. It wasn’t harsh, but it brooked no argument.

You opened your mouth to protest, then caught the flash in his eyes, the steel under the softness. You nodded instead, watching as he crouched to gather the scattered stems first, setting them aside with almost comical care before he tackled the glass.

He worked in silence, broad shoulders bent, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he swept every shard into a neat pile with practiced efficiency. He didn’t let you come near—every time you shifted on the counter as if to hop down, his gaze snapped to you, sharp as a warning. “You’re acting like I nearly lost a limb,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.

“You could’ve cut yourself,” he muttered, scooping the last of the glass into the dustpan. “Slipped, fallen—”

“Bucky, it was a vase.”

He dumped the shards into the bin and straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t matter. Anything that touches you—anything that could hurt you—it matters to me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy, possessive. Your heart thudded in your chest. When he finally crossed back to you, he brushed his hands down, metal glinting faintly in the shop’s light. Then, to your surprise, he reached out and gently lifted your ankle, checking your sock, then the other. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he needed proof with his own eyes that you were unscathed. “I told you I was fine,” you whispered, heat curling in your chest.

“I had to see for myself,” he murmured. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing lightly against the bone, before he finally let go.

You giggled then, nervous and shy, but unable to hold it back. “You really are strong, you know. Picking me up like that…”

His lips curved into something sharp and slow, a smile that was equal parts dangerous and softened just for you. “You liked that?”

You ducked your head, embarrassed, but nodded faintly. “Maybe.”

His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped closer, caging you gently where you sat on the counter. “Good. Because I’m not done showing you how strong I am.”

The words made your breath hitch, your pulse skittering wildly. And though he didn’t touch you again, though he only lingered there in your space, the promise in his voice wrapped around you like a second heartbeat.

The shop closed later than usual that evening—the broken vase had set you behind, and you insisted on mopping every last drop of water yourself while Bucky loomed nearby, pretending to help while really just watching you like a hawk.

By the time you stepped out into the cooling night, the streets were already washed in shadow. He fell into step beside you, as always, but tonight felt different. The air between you was warmer, charged, still echoing with the memory of his hands lifting you clear of the glass, your legs around his waist, your breathless little laugh against his shoulder.

You stole a glance at him as you walked. His jaw was set, his gaze sharp on the street ahead, but there was something softer in the curve of his mouth, something unspoken simmering in his eyes when they flicked toward you. “Thank you,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.

He turned his head slightly. “For what?”

“For earlier. For making sure I didn’t… get hurt.” You smiled faintly, shy. “And for carrying me. Even if it was just across a puddle of glass.”

The corner of his lips curved, slow and wolfish. “I’d carry you farther than that, doll. Anywhere you wanted.”

Your heart thudded, and you ducked your gaze to the pavement. When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly reluctant to let the night end. He stood close, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin, close enough that the city noise faded into nothing. He studied you for a long moment, blue eyes intent, then lifted his hand. His knuckles brushed along your cheek, light as a whisper, before he leaned down. The kiss wasn’t on your lips. It was at the corner of your mouth, feather-light, lingering just long enough to steal your breath. When he pulled back, his gaze was burning, fierce and possessive but softened in a way you’d never seen before. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

You managed a quiet, flustered, “goodnight,” before slipping inside, leaning against the door once it clicked shut. Your pulse was still racing. The ghost of his touch still lingered on your cheek. And you knew, with startling clarity, that something between you had shifted again—deeper, closer, and far harder to resist.

---

The last customer had barely left when you flipped the little sign on the door to closed. The shop was quiet, petals scattered on the counter, the air still thick with the mingled perfume of roses and lilies. Bucky was already there, leaning against the wall near the register, sleeves rolled up, watching you sweep the last of the day’s mess into a neat pile.

It was almost habit now—him staying until you locked up, walking you home like a shadow no one could shake. But tonight, as you tied off the trash bag and wiped your hands on your apron, you found yourself blurting something out before you could second-guess it. “Do you… want to come grocery shopping with me?”

His head lifted, eyes narrowing as though you’d just offered him something strange and dangerous. “Grocery shopping?”

You nodded, a little shy. “Yeah. Just the corner store, nothing big.”

For a moment, he just studied you, unreadable. Then his mouth curved, the faintest tug at the corner of his lips. “You’re asking me on a date to a grocery store?”

Your cheeks warmed. “Not a date. Just… normal. Something normal.”

That seemed to strike something in him. The teasing faded, replaced with that sharp, focused look he always gave you when he was paying too much attention. Finally, he pushed off the wall, slipping into his jacket. “Alright. Let’s go.”

The store was half-empty when you arrived, aisles humming faintly under fluorescent lights. You grabbed a basket, but before you could even step forward, Bucky plucked it from your hands, carrying it himself without comment. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, same as he always did when you tried to argue.

You shook your head with a smile and wandered down the first aisle. The ordinary act of choosing bread, fruit, milk felt almost surreal with him beside you. People glanced your way—some because of his presence, some because of his sheer size—but he ignored them, his attention fixed entirely on you. You paused at the shelf of pasta, biting your lip as you compared prices. He frowned. “What’re you doing?”

“Deciding which one to get.”

“Just grab both,” he said flatly.

You laughed under your breath. “That’s not how grocery shopping works.”

He arched a brow. “When I’m here, it does.” And before you could protest, both boxes were dropped into the basket.

A few aisles later, you spotted a display of apples, glossy and red under the lights. You reached for one, but he plucked the apple from your hand. “Too bruised,” he muttered, discarding it for another. Then another. Until finally he chose one and handed it to you, his expression deadly serious.

You bit back a giggle, putting it into the basket. “You’re very picky.”

“I don’t want you eating anything that isn’t good enough for you,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Your heart gave a little squeeze.

At the checkout, the clerk gave you both a curious look, eyes flicking from the man built like a soldier to the flowers still faintly clinging to your apron. Bucky ignored it, pulling out a roll of bills before you could reach for your own wallet. “Bucky—”

“Don’t,” he warned softly, sliding the cash across the counter.

You sighed, but your lips curved despite yourself. When you stepped back into the night, bags in hand, he shifted most of them to his own arms, leaving you only one light sack to carry. As you walked back toward your apartment, you realized your chest felt strangely full—like the simple act of buying apples and bread with him meant more than any extravagant gift could. And when you glanced up at him, his eyes already on you, you wondered if he felt the same.

The bags rustled quietly between you as you and Bucky made your way back to your apartment. He carried almost all of them, his broad frame cutting through the dim streetlight glow like a shield. Every so often, you’d catch him glancing down at you, his gaze lingering on your smaller bag as if he were annoyed you had any weight at all to carry.

By the time you reached your door, he was already fishing the key from your pocket—something he’d made a habit of, though tonight he looked at you first, waiting. You smiled faintly and gave him a nod. He unlocked the door, nudging it open with his shoulder, and followed you inside.

The apartment felt warmer with him in it, crowded but not in a way that unsettled you. He set the bags on the counter, already rolling up his sleeves like this was second nature. “You don’t have to help put everything away,” you said, slipping off your shoes.

“Not letting you do this alone,” he countered, already unpacking a bag.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re terrible at letting me do anything.”

“Only because you deserve better than doing it by yourself.”

The simple certainty in his tone made your chest flutter. You busied yourself with the pantry shelves while he stacked cans and jars, his movements precise, almost military. Every so often, he paused to ask where something went—not in his usual commanding tone, but softer, quieter, like he wanted to get it right. When you turned to find him awkwardly holding up a carton of milk, brows furrowed, you giggled. “That goes in the fridge, Bucky.”

He smirked, shaking his head as he set it inside. “Not my strong suit, doll.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “And here I thought you were strong at everything.”

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and knowing, but softened quickly. “I am. Especially when it comes to you.” Heat crept up your neck. You ducked back toward the pantry, pretending to fuss with the bags.

When the last of the groceries were tucked away, he leaned against the counter, watching you tie the bags into a neat bundle. His presence filled the small kitchen, his eyes steady and unreadable. “This is…” He paused, exhaling. “Nice.”

You glanced at him, smiling softly. “It is.”

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, you brushed past him on your way to the sink, your arm grazing his, a tiny, wordless acknowledgment. The evening stretched out lazily, the two of you lingering on the couch after the groceries were tucked away. You’d made tea, steam curling faintly between you, and at some point your head had drifted to the back cushion, eyelids drooping while Bucky sat beside you, quiet and watchful. “You’re falling asleep on me,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and almost amused.

“M’not,” you mumbled, even as your head tilted a little to the side, threatening to nod off completely.

His lips curved, subtle but there. “Doll, go to bed.”

You groaned softly, rubbing your eyes, and gave a small pout. “Don’t wanna move. It’s too far.”

The faintest laugh rumbled from his chest. “Too far? It’s ten steps.”

You cracked one eye open, playful despite your exhaustion. “Then carry me.” You hadn’t expected him to take you seriously. But before you could blink, his hands were at your sides, sliding under you with practiced ease. You let out a startled little gasp as the world tilted, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. He gathered you up without effort, cradled securely against his chest in a full bridal carry. Your breath caught, a laugh bubbling out as your cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Bucky—”

“Don’t pout at me if you don’t mean it,” he murmured, his voice quiet but edged with satisfaction.

He carried you through the small apartment like you weighed nothing, each step steady and sure. You didn’t protest—you couldn’t, not with the warmth of him surrounding you, not with the way he held you like you were something precious. By the time he set you down gently on the bed, pulling the blanket up over you, your heart was racing too fast for sleep. He lingered at your side for a moment, his eyes soft in a way they rarely were. “Better?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, cheeks warm, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Much.”

He exhaled slowly, almost like relief, before straightening. “Sleep, doll. I’ll be right outside.” And as you drifted off, you could still feel the phantom weight of his arms around you, carrying you like you were the only thing in the world worth holding onto.

---

It started with a lightbulb. You were balancing on the edge of a chair, stretching on tiptoe to reach the fixture above your counter when Bucky walked in. He froze in the doorway, eyes narrowing like he’d caught you dangling off a cliff. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Changing a bulb,” you answered, squinting up at the socket. “It burnt out last night.”

He stalked forward, plucking the box from your hand. “Get down.”

You turned your head, giving him a pointed look. “It’s just a lightbulb, Bucky.”

“Get down,” he repeated, voice soft but firm, like the sound of a lock clicking shut.

You sighed dramatically but stepped down, brushing dust off your apron. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re reckless,” he shot back, climbing onto the chair himself. It creaked under his weight, but he made quick work of the fixture, replacing the bulb in seconds before hopping down. He set the empty box on the counter like he’d just conquered something monumental. “See? No problem,” he said, smug.

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched. “You act like you saved me from falling off a building.”

His gaze softened as he brushed a speck of dust from your shoulder. “Doesn’t matter how small it is, doll. I don’t like seeing you in danger.”

The habit stuck after that. A loose hinge on your cabinet? Bucky fixed it before you even realized it needed repairing. A crack in the paint near your window? He brought in supplies and patched it one evening, sleeves rolled and shirt clinging to his back while you tried not to stare too obviously. And it wasn’t just repairs. One night you came home with groceries, and before you could even set the bags down, he was unloading them, stacking cans with soldier-like precision. He held up a carton of tea, frowning. “You drink this?”

“Yes?” you said slowly, tilting your head.

He dropped it into the cupboard. “Not anymore. I’ll bring you something better.”

You crossed your arms, trying to look stern. “You can’t just replace my tea without asking.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Then I’ll ask. May I replace your tea with something that won’t taste like dishwater?”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. “Fine. You win.”

But the moment that stayed with you came later, when you offered something back. You’d picked up a box of his favorite pastries—something you’d noticed he always lingered over when you passed a certain bakery. When you handed it to him shyly at the shop, his expression faltered. He blinked down at the package, then at you, as if the gesture didn’t compute. “For me?” he asked, voice quiet.

“Of course,” you said, suddenly nervous. “You’re always helping me. I thought… you might like them.”

He opened the box, stared at the neat row of pastries, then at you again. His jaw worked, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. “No one does this for me.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers over his wrist. “They should.” His eyes darkened, burning with something fierce, something hungry—but instead of pulling you closer like you half-expected, he only nodded, as if committing the moment to memory.

---

It happened on an ordinary night, the kind where the city felt half-asleep and the shop was already dark behind you. Bucky walked you home as usual, his hand brushing lightly at your back whenever the sidewalk narrowed. The streets were quiet, the glow of the lamps stretching long shadows across the pavement.

You were telling him about a customer who’d come in earlier, half-laughing at their confusion between carnations and camellias, when your foot caught on an uneven crack in the sidewalk. You stumbled, breath catching as your balance tipped forward.

Before you could even react, his arm was around your waist. It wasn’t just a steadying touch—it was a full, protective pull, yanking you against his chest so hard your breath whooshed out. His other hand splayed across your shoulder, holding you there, shielding you as if the cracked pavement had been a bullet. “Careful,” he rasped, voice rough, too sharp for the small stumble.

Your heart raced, half from the fall, half from the intensity in his eyes when you looked up. He wasn’t just steadying you. He was possessing you, holding you so tightly you couldn’t have slipped away if you tried. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice wavered.

He didn’t let go right away. His grip stayed firm, the muscle in his jaw ticking as though he was fighting some deeper instinct. Finally, slowly, his fingers loosened, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering even as you stood straight again. “You scared me,” he admitted, voice low. The honesty in it startled you more than the stumble.

You swallowed hard, shy under his gaze. “It was just a crack in the sidewalk.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, the words sharp but weighted with something else—something you couldn’t quite name. “Anything that could hurt you… I won’t let it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretched, heavy and electric, until you finally let out a small laugh to ease it. “Bucky,” you teased softly, “you act like you’re my personal bodyguard.”

His lips curved faintly, but his eyes never softened. “Maybe I am.” You didn’t argue. Not when your heart was still racing from the feel of his arms around you, not when the memory of his grip lingered like fire on your skin. And for the rest of the walk, his hand stayed at your waist, steady and sure, as if he didn’t trust the world not to trip you again.

---

It was late when you noticed it. The soft scrape of the couch, the low creak of springs shifting—quiet, but not quiet enough. You blinked awake in your bed, the faint glow from the lamp spilling into the hall. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d dreamed it. But then you heard the sound again, the unmistakable weight of someone moving restlessly.

You padded out into the living room, bare feet whispering on the floor. Bucky sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, elbows braced against his knees. His hands were clasped together so tightly the tendons stood out, and his jaw worked as though he was chewing back words. The blanket you’d given him earlier was pushed aside, rumpled like he’d tried to settle under it and failed. He looked up sharply when he heard you. His eyes softened, but only a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you whispered. You took a step closer, watching him carefully. “Nightmare?”

His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer, but the silence was loud enough. Your chest ached. You crossed the small space and lowered yourself beside him. For a long moment, you just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the quiet settle. Then, slowly, you leaned into him, resting your head against his arm. He went very still. You could feel the tension thrumming through him, the way his breath hitched, the careful restraint in the way he didn’t move. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you murmured.

He exhaled, a shudder slipping out despite himself. His arm shifted—hesitant at first—then wrapped around your shoulders, drawing you closer. You let him, curling instinctively against his side, your body fitting against his with surprising ease. The silence stretched. His breathing steadied, slow and deep, but you could still feel the echoes of the storm lingering in him. So you stayed, quiet and warm, letting your presence do what words couldn’t.

At some point, your eyes grew heavy again. The steady rhythm of his chest beneath your cheek, the weight of his arm holding you—it was too much comfort to resist. Sleep pulled at you until you gave in, drifting off curled against him.

When you stirred again, it was to the strange awareness of being shifted. His arms were around you, lifting you easily. Your head lolled against his shoulder, and you blinked blearily up at him. “You should be in bed,” he murmured, voice low and rough, though his eyes softened when he saw you awake.

“M’fine here,” you mumbled, not fully conscious of the words.

His lips curved faintly, but he didn’t set you down. Instead, he lowered himself back onto the couch, letting you settle against him, your cheek pressed to his chest this time. His hand brushed down your arm, steady and grounding. You drifted again, half-asleep, your last hazy thought the realization that he was calmer now—his heartbeat steady, his breathing even—as though holding you was the only anchor he needed.

---

The first thing you noticed when you woke was warmth. Not the blanket—you realized quickly it had slipped down in the night—but the steady heat of a chest under your cheek, the quiet rise and fall of someone breathing. It took only a blink to remember where you were, who you were on top of.

The early light from the window cut across the room, spilling soft gold on his face. His head was tipped back against the couch, lashes low, jaw unshaven and rough. He looked younger like this, stripped of the sharp edges he carried in daylight. Vulnerable.

You shifted slightly, the motion enough to stir him. His arm—still heavy across your waist—tightened instinctively, pulling you back before you could move away. His eyes cracked open, blue and still hazy from sleep, but the moment he realized where you were, they sharpened. “Morning,” you whispered, your voice catching at how close you still were.

His gaze searched yours, careful, guarded. “You’re still here.”

You smiled faintly. “Of course I am.”

He swallowed, his throat working, but he didn’t release you. His fingers brushed lightly along your side, almost tentative, as if waiting for you to flinch. “You don’t… mind this?”

Your heart skipped. You shook your head, whispering, “No.” The silence that followed was thick with things neither of you were saying. You could feel his pulse against your palm where it rested on his chest, steady but a little too quick. He was waiting—waiting for a crack, a sign that you’d regret what happened. Instead, you curled closer, nestling against him. “You slept,” you murmured, half teasing. “Didn’t even wake me this time.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “That’s ‘cause you were here.”

The words landed heavy, unpolished and raw, and for a moment neither of you breathed.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t break it. You just stayed there, your cheek against his chest, his arm secure around you, until the sounds of the waking city crept through the window and the day forced you to move. But even then, when you finally pushed yourself up, he let his hand linger at your wrist, reluctant to let go.

The morning moved slowly, like it didn’t want to let go of the quiet night before. You padded into the kitchen first, hair mussed, blanket still slung around your shoulders. Bucky followed a moment later, barefoot, his undershirt clinging faintly to his chest. He looked out of place and yet so settled, as if he’d been here a hundred mornings before.

You went for the kettle, but his hand slid past yours, already reaching for it. “Sit,” he said simply. You gave him a look, but he was already filling it with water, movements efficient, deliberate. You sank into a chair at the table, hiding a smile as you watched him. His broad shoulders bent under your too-small cupboards, his frown of concentration as he searched through your cabinets until he found the tea. He set it down with a grunt, muttering under his breath about “organizing this better next time.”

By the time he brought you a mug, he’d also sliced a piece of the bread you’d bought together, setting it on a plate with a seriousness that made you bite back a laugh. “You don’t have to take care of me every second,” you teased, wrapping your hands around the warm mug.

“Yes, I do,” he answered without hesitation, pulling out the chair opposite you.

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks. “That’s not very normal, you know.”

His gaze sharpened, then softened again, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t want normal. I want you safe. I want…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “…I want mornings like this.”

The honesty in his voice stilled you. Your throat felt tight, but you smiled anyway, shy and warm. “Then I guess I’ll let you keep making tea.”

For a long while, you just sat together in the small kitchen—the hum of the kettle, the creak of the chair under his weight, the soft sound of his breathing across the table. Ordinary, but not. Intimate in ways that left your chest aching. When you finally stood to rinse your mug, he was there instantly, taking it from your hands. “I said sit,” he reminded, his mouth curving faintly.

You rolled your eyes but went back to the table. Watching him wash the single mug at your sink, sleeves rolled, shoulders filling the space, you thought that maybe—just maybe—this was what he meant when he said he wanted mornings like this. And you thought, maybe, you did too.

--

It was one of those nights where the air felt restless, heavy with the promise of rain. The shop had closed hours ago, but Bucky lingered like always, walking at your side while the streets shimmered under the faint orange glow of the lamps. The first drop landed on your cheek just as you rounded the corner to your street. You brushed it away, glancing up at the dark sky. “Looks like we’re about to get drenched.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked upward, then back to you. “We’ll be fine. It’s not far.”

But by the time you reached the halfway mark, the drizzle had turned steady, cool drops soaking through your clothes. You let out a startled laugh, clutching the bag you carried tighter to your chest. “So much for fine.”

He caught the sound—the way you laughed, bright and unbothered—and something softened in his face. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” you admitted, tilting your head back to the rain. “Feels kind of… freeing.” He watched you for a long moment, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense. The city blurred around you, people darting for cover, but he stayed rooted, unmoving, his eyes fixed only on you. “Bucky?” you asked, blinking the rain from your lashes.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until his hand lifted—hesitant, almost reverent—and cupped your cheek. The rain beaded across his glove, slid down his wrist, but his palm was warm, steady. You froze, heart hammering. “I shouldn’t…” His voice was low, strained, like he was fighting himself. “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want this.”

Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding. It was slow, careful, almost cautious, as though he was giving you every chance to pull away. His lips were warm against yours, tasting faintly of rain and something darker, something entirely him.

For a moment, you were too stunned to move. Then you melted into him, your hand curling lightly into his shirt, your body leaning closer without thought. His thumb brushed along your jaw, grounding, steady, while his other arm slipped around your waist, drawing you nearer.

The world narrowed to the rhythm of the rain and the steady thrum of your pulse, the rest of the city fading away. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged, eyes burning through the thin veil of water between you. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll,” he murmured, voice rough and reverent all at once.

Your lips curved, trembling but sure. “Maybe I do.” He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, brushing another kiss—softer, fleeting—against your lips before tucking you firmly against his chest. The rain poured harder, but you barely noticed. Not with his arms around you, not with the weight of that kiss still lingering between you.

The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual, but it wasn’t the silence of strangers or awkwardness. It was charged, heavy with something unspoken—like every step still echoed with the kiss you’d just shared.

Bucky kept you tucked firmly against his side, his arm secure around your waist as though the rain or the night itself might try to take you from him. His head bent closer than usual, his hair damp and curling at the edges, his jaw tight with something you couldn’t quite read.

You caught him looking at you more than once. Not in the way he always did—observant, calculating—but softer. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, that you’d kissed him back, that you hadn’t pulled away.

By the time you reached your door, the rain had soaked through your clothes, dripping onto the floor as you fumbled with the lock. His hand covered yours, steadying, guiding the key into place. When the door clicked open, you stepped inside, turning back to him.

For the first time since you’d met him, he hesitated on the threshold. His shoulders were squared, his expression composed, but his eyes betrayed him—something raw flickering there. “You should get dry,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse.

“So should you,” you countered softly. “Come in.” For a beat, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, the door shutting behind him with a soft finality.

Inside, the apartment felt smaller than ever, the air thick with rain and warmth and the weight of what had just happened. You peeled off your damp sweater, tossing it over the back of a chair, and glanced up to find him watching you, his own jacket hanging heavy in his hand. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Finally, you whispered, “Bucky…”

He crossed the space in two strides, his hand lifting again to your cheek. You froze, heart hammering, as his thumb brushed a drop of rain from your skin. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he murmured, though his voice betrayed no regret.

You tilted your face toward his palm. “But you did.”

His lips curved faintly, a hint of something dangerous and tender all at once. “And I’ll do it again if you let me.”

You didn’t answer with words. You rose on your toes, closing the small space between you, your lips meeting his once more. This kiss was different—hungrier, deeper, the careful restraint from before crumbling under the weight of what you both had been holding back. His arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand cradled the back of your head like you were something breakable.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, murmuring your name like it was a vow. And in that moment, with the rain still dripping outside and his heartbeat thrumming against your chest, you knew something had shifted for good.

The rain had stopped by morning, leaving the city washed clean, the air sharp and cool when you cracked the window above your sink. Your apartment, though, was warm—warmer still with the weight of what had happened the night before. You padded into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, still in the oversized shirt you wore to bed. The smell of coffee hit you before you even saw him. Bucky was already there.

He stood at your counter like he owned the space, sleeves rolled, steam curling from the pot he’d set on. His jacket hung neatly on the back of the chair, his damp clothes from the night before draped over the radiator to dry. He glanced up when you entered, and for the first time in all the mornings he’d lingered here, his gaze softened in a way that made your breath catch. “Morning, doll,” he murmured.

You sank into a chair, watching him pour a cup. “You’re getting comfortable.”

He set the mug in front of you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I am.”

You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, thick with everything that had changed between you. Every glance lingered a beat too long, every brush of his hand near yours deliberate. When you finished your coffee, you stood to rinse the mug, but his hand caught your wrist lightly. “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to,” you said, smiling.

“I want to,” he countered, voice steady, his thumb brushing once across your skin before he released you.

Later, you opened the shop as usual, but the rhythm of the day felt different with him around. He stayed longer than he usually did, claiming a spot in the back to “keep out of the way” but emerging whenever he thought you needed him—hauling a box, adjusting a display, even holding the ladder steady when you climbed up to reach a high shelf. “You know I’ve done this before,” you teased, glancing down at him.

“Not on my watch,” he muttered, knuckles white on the ladder. By the afternoon, he’d drifted closer, sitting on the counter while you arranged a bouquet for a customer. His eyes tracked every motion of your hands, and when you tied the final ribbon, he murmured, “blue suits you better than those roses.”

You blinked up at him, flustered. “That wasn’t for me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low. “You’d make it look better.” Your cheeks warmed, and you quickly turned back to the flowers.

That evening, after you locked the door, he walked you home again. The air was still damp, the sky clear now, but his hand stayed at your back the entire way. At your door, instead of pulling back like usual, he lingered. “Let me in,” he said softly. Not a command this time, not quite. You hesitated only a moment before opening the door. Inside, you both shed your coats and shoes, the small apartment wrapping around you in its familiar warmth. He stood close, too close, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

For the first time, you didn’t look away. And though he didn’t kiss you again right then, you both knew it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. It was because the night before had changed everything—and you were both still learning how to live in that new space.

---

The first time he left, it felt strange. Bucky had woven himself into your days without question—closing the shop with you, carrying groceries, claiming the corner of your couch like it was his by right. He didn’t linger on the edges of your world anymore; he stepped directly into it.

But then one morning, he kissed your forehead at the door and said quietly, “I’ve got business I can’t put off any longer.” His eyes lingered on you like he hated the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ll be gone a while.”

You didn’t ask how long. You’d learned by now that some answers weren’t yours to demand. You only nodded, letting him go. When Bucky walked back into his penthouse, the silence struck him like a fist. It was too still, too immaculate, the air faintly cold from being shut up for days. Natasha was already there, perched on the arm of a chair like she’d been waiting. “Thought you’d moved out,” she said dryly, arching a brow.

He shrugged off his coat, dropping it onto the back of the sofa. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs.”

She tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the fresh bouquets lined along the window ledge. Some were old—petals curling, stems leaning—but the colors still painted the room in soft life. Your flowers. “Hard not to notice,” she said. “Your fortress looks like a greenhouse.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on the fading blooms, something tight twisting in his chest. He’d meant to bring them home, to replace them, to keep them fresh—but the shop, the walks, your laugh, your soft hands pressing tea into his grip… it had been easier to stay in your world than return to this empty one. Natasha’s voice pulled him back. “The meeting last week—you missed it. Again.”

He grunted. “Send them my apologies.”

“You don’t have apologies big enough for the people you’re brushing off.” She stood, crossing her arms. “You’re slipping, Barnes.” He shot her a look, sharp enough to silence most. But Natasha only raised a brow, unshaken. “What happened to you?” she asked, quieter now. “You used to live for this. Now I have to drag you back here by the collar.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He poured himself a drink instead, his eyes drifting once more to the flowers. One in particular caught his attention—a small blue bloom tucked into a vase. You’d given it to him, shy and smiling, saying you’d picked it because it matched his eyes. His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the glass. “I’m not slipping.”

“Then what do you call it?” Natasha pressed.

He looked at her then, his expression sharp, dangerous—but his voice was low, certain. “I call it finally having something worth more than this.”

Natasha studied him for a long beat, then huffed a quiet laugh. “God help her if she doesn’t know what she’s getting into.” Bucky said nothing. His eyes lingered on the blue flowers, softer now, before he turned back to the empty penthouse.

Bucky didn’t last the night. He’d tried—sitting in the penthouse office, staring at the stack of reports Natasha had dropped on his desk, the kind of paperwork he used to burn through without blinking. But the silence pressed in, suffocating. The city sprawled below him, restless and alive, but all he could think about was the warmth of your little apartment. The way your voice softened when you teased him, the way your hand lingered on his wrist when you passed him tea, the way you’d kissed him in the rain.

He set the pen down, unfinished page abandoned, and leaned back in his chair. His eyes found the vase on the windowsill again—the flowers you’d given him. The petals were curling now, the blue fading, but the sight of them punched straight through the cold shell he wore in this place. “Fuck this,” he muttered. Ten minutes later, he was gone.

It was well past midnight when the knock came at your door. You blinked awake, heart thudding, but you knew who it was before you even checked. The weight of his presence pressed through the wood like it always did.

You opened the door to find him there—damp from the mist outside, hair mussed, eyes burning with something fierce and restless. He didn’t say a word at first, just looked at you, drinking in the sight of you like he’d been starved. “Bucky?” you whispered, confused but soft. “It’s late.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, voice rough. The honesty in it knocked the air right out of you.

You stepped aside without thinking, and he slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. He stood in your living room like he was both too big for the space and yet exactly where he belonged. His jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, but his gaze was only on you. “I thought you said you had business,” you murmured.

“I did.” He exhaled, a sharp sound, shaking his head. “But none of it mattered. Not when all I could think about was you.”

Your breath caught, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your chest. “You came all this way in the middle of the night… just to see me?”

His jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I came because I needed to know you were here. Safe. Real.” The vulnerability under his words left you starstruck. For once, the weight he carried wasn’t hidden behind commands or possessive glares—it was just him, raw and unguarded, standing in your apartment like the man he didn’t show the world. And when you stepped closer, reaching out to brush the damp from his sleeve, his hand caught yours, holding it against his chest like an anchor. “I don’t care how late it is,” he said, voice low. “If you’ll have me, I’ll come back every night.”

The clock on your wall ticked quietly, the only sound filling the space between you. Bucky still hadn’t let go of your hand, his thumb brushing absently against your skin as though he couldn’t stand to stop touching you. His presence was steady, grounding—but you could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the way his shoulders slumped despite his stubbornness. You rubbed at your eyes, fighting the pull of sleep. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice small, rough with drowsiness.

He tilted his head, gaze softening instantly. “Yeah, doll?”

“Carry me back to bed?” The words slipped out before you could second-guess them, half a murmur, half a plea.

For a heartbeat, his expression flickered—surprise, something darker, something warmer. Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, into the kind of smile that always made your heart stutter. “You got it.” Before you could say anything more, his arms were around you. He scooped you up easily, strong and certain, bridal style once again. You gave a sleepy little sound of protest, more out of instinct than anything else, your arms looping around his neck as you curled against him. “You like makin’ me do this, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, almost teasing as he carried you through the dim apartment.

“Maybe,” you whispered, smiling faintly against his shoulder.

The bedroom door creaked open, and he nudged it wider with his foot. The room was still warm from earlier, the blankets rumpled. He lowered you onto the mattress with infinite care, like you were something fragile that might break if he wasn’t gentle enough.

But when you caught his wrist before he could pull back, your voice soft but certain, his entire body stilled. “Stay with me?”

His eyes flicked to yours—blue, burning, conflicted—and then he nodded once. “Always.”

He toed off his boots, shed his jacket, and slid onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the space between you vanishing when his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.

You sighed, nestling into him, your hand curling around his forearm where it lay heavy across you. His breath was warm against your hair, steady and sure, but you could still feel the tension in him, the way he held you like he was afraid you might disappear. Sleep tugged at you again, and just before you slipped under, you whispered, “feels right… when you’re here.”

He pressed his lips to the back of your head, a kiss so soft you almost missed it. “Good,” he whispered. “’Cause I’m not going anywhere.” And for the first time in a long time—for both of you—you fell asleep without a trace of fear.

The morning crept in soft and unhurried, sunlight spilling across your bedroom in pale strips. You stirred slowly, awareness tugging at you in waves—the warmth pressed against your back, the steady weight of an arm looped around your waist, the faint tickle of breath brushing against your hair. For a moment, you simply lay there, cocooned in the quiet. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against you, solid and reassuring, his arm heavy but comforting, like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep.

When you shifted slightly, he made a low sound in his throat, not quite awake but not fully asleep either. His arm tightened, pulling you closer, his face burying against the curve of your neck. The bristle of his jaw grazed your skin, and you bit back a laugh. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice still husky from sleep.

“Mm,” he rumbled, voice low, heavy with drowsiness. “Stay still. Too early.” You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into him. But when you wriggled again—just to tease—he huffed, pressing a kiss against your shoulder, lazy and soft. “Thought I told you to stay put,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin again, this time slower.

Your breath caught, warmth spreading through you. “You’re not usually this… affectionate in the morning,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a faint laugh, the sound vibrating against your back. “Don’t usually get mornings like this.” Another kiss followed, lower along your shoulder. Then another, featherlight at the back of your neck.

You giggled quietly, tucking your chin as if you could hide from the press of his lips. “That tickles.”

“Good,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your skin just enough to make you squeak. His arm tightened again when you shifted, holding you flush against him. “You’re not getting away.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you let out a breathy laugh, turning your head slightly to glance back at him. His eyes were half-lidded, blue softened by sleep but burning with something tender. The sight made your stomach flip. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, smiling despite yourself.

“Maybe,” he said easily, brushing his nose against your hair. “But you’re mine.”

The words should’ve sounded possessive, but in his voice—low, almost reverent—they were softer, gentler, like a confession instead of a claim. You didn’t argue. Not when his lips found yours a moment later, lazy and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to kiss you. And for once, maybe he did.

The lazy morning stretched long, unhurried, as though the world outside had decided to pause just for you. Bucky didn’t let you go right away. Every time you shifted like you might get up, his arm cinched tighter, his lips brushing your temple in silent protest. Eventually, though, your stomach growled loud enough to make you both laugh. “Fine,” he muttered, finally loosening his hold. “But only because you’re hungry.”

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging him along behind you by the hand, which he allowed with surprising docility for a man who barked orders at everyone else. He leaned against the counter while you rummaged through the cupboards, watching with that intent gaze that always made you feel both flustered and oddly cherished. “Eggs, toast… maybe fruit?” you mumbled.

“I’ll do it,” he said, already reaching for the pan.

You tried to argue, but he shot you a look over his shoulder—the kind that dared you to push back. You rolled your eyes but smiled, sinking into a chair as he worked. He wasn’t polished, but he was efficient, moving with the kind of quiet precision that said he’d cooked for himself far too many times in silence.

When he set a plate in front of you—scrambled eggs, toast buttered just the way you liked—you blinked, warmth spreading in your chest. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he cut in, his voice soft but firm.

The meal wasn’t fancy, but you couldn’t stop smiling as you ate together at your tiny table. He asked about your week, listened with rapt attention as you rambled about flowers and customers, and even smirked when you teased him about hogging the pepper.

The rest of the day unfurled lazily. You cleaned the shop’s ledger at the table while he stretched out on the couch, half-reading, half-watching you. At some point, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with tea, setting the mug by your elbow without a word. Later, you both ended up tackling laundry, and you laughed when he insisted on folding with military precision. “You’re ridiculous,” you teased, holding up a perfectly squared shirt.

“Efficient,” he corrected, lips twitching.

By mid-afternoon, sunlight spilled through the windows, and you both ended up back on the couch. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest while his arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He pressed the occasional kiss to your hair, to your temple, slow and lazy, as though he couldn’t help himself. One kiss landed just behind your ear, ticklish enough that you giggled, turning to nudge at him. “Bucky…”

He smirked faintly, kissing you again, this time softer, lips lingering against your skin. “What?”

“You’re… distracting.”

“Good,” he murmured, nuzzling lightly against your hair before kissing you again, this time catching your lips in a slow, lazy press that left your cheeks warm.

You tried to hide your smile against his chest, but he felt it anyway, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your arm. The day melted into evening like that—quiet, ordinary, yet threaded with something so tender it made your chest ache.

Evening settled gently, the last of the sunlight fading from your windows, and for a while it felt like the day might slip into night without disturbance. You and Bucky lingered on the couch, your head nestled on his shoulder, his arm looped comfortably around you. His thumb traced lazy arcs against your arm while your favorite show played faintly in the background.

It was quiet. Too quiet, maybe, because the knock at your door startled both of you. Bucky’s arm tightened around you instantly, his body going taut beneath your cheek. The easy warmth that had colored the whole day dropped from his face, replaced by sharp alertness. “Stay here,” he murmured, voice low, already rising to his feet.

You frowned, but before you could protest, he’d crossed the room. He opened the door a crack, blocking the entrance with his body. Natasha’s voice slipped in, calm but cutting. “You’ve been hard to reach.”

Your brows shot up, but you stayed where you were, listening. Bucky didn’t move aside, didn’t open the door further. “Not an accident.”

“You’re expected tonight,” she said, and though her tone was casual, there was no mistaking the weight behind it. “You’ve dodged the last two. That’s not an option anymore.”

“I said I’d handle it,” Bucky bit out, jaw clenched.

From your angle on the couch, you could see Natasha tilt her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You can’t handle it from here.”

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. For the first time, you realized just how little you knew about what “business” meant in his world. Bucky’s body blocked you from the door, but the tension in his shoulders told you enough. “I’ll come,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Tomorrow night.”

Natasha arched a brow, then glanced past him toward you. Just for a second, her eyes softened with something unreadable before she nodded once. “Tomorrow,” she confirmed, and then she was gone.

Bucky shut the door with a quiet finality, leaning against it for a moment before turning back to you. His expression had softened again, but not all the way. There was still a shadow there, still a reminder of the part of him you didn’t see when he was folding laundry or kissing your shoulder in the morning. You sat up a little, hesitant. “Was that… work?”

He crossed the room, his jaw tight, and sank back onto the couch beside you. His hand found yours almost instinctively, like he needed the contact to ground himself. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Work.”

You studied him, unsure whether to push, but the look in his eyes stopped you. Not because it was cold—but because it wasn’t. It was protective, desperate, like he’d do anything to keep you from the parts of his life that led Natasha to your door.

So instead of asking, you curled against him again, letting your fingers twine with his. “Tomorrow,” you murmured softly, repeating his promise. His arm wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing your temple. “Tomorrow,” he echoed. But the way he held you, fierce and unwilling to let go, told you that if it were up to him, he’d never leave your apartment again.

The night he finally went, the shift in him was immediate. You’d gotten used to a certain softness around him—the lazy mornings, his arm around your waist as you drifted through the farmer’s market, the way his mouth curved when you teased him. But when he stepped out of your apartment that evening, dressed sharp and dark, there was nothing soft about him. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, his whole body coiled tight like a man walking into battle.

You tried not to worry. He’d promised he would be back. Still, when you finally drifted to sleep on the couch, the clock ticking toward midnight, the sound of a knock at your door jolted you awake. You knew it was him before you even opened it.

Bucky stood in the hall, shoulders broad, coat collar turned up against the chill. His hair was damp with mist, but it wasn’t the weather that made your heart lurch—it was his hands. His knuckles were split raw, streaked with blood, some dried, some fresh. His face was drawn, exhaustion and something darker carved deep into his features. “Bucky,” you whispered, reaching for him before you could stop yourself.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past you into the warmth of the apartment. But the words rang hollow.

You shut the door quickly and followed him into the living room. He dropped heavily onto the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head bowed. For a moment, he just breathed, the weight of the night settling on him like armor he couldn’t shed. You crouched in front of him, your hand hovering near his without quite touching. “You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”

His eyes lifted, blue and tired, searching yours. Something in them softened, cracked, and for a moment he looked less like the untouchable man everyone feared and more like the one who’d spent the morning teasing you with kisses. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”

“It matters to me.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tight, but he didn’t pull away when you reached for his hands. Carefully, gently, you guided them into your lap, your thumbs brushing over the torn skin. You fetched the first aid kit you’d kept tucked away since the first time you’d seen him like this. As you worked, dabbing at the blood, his gaze never left you. His eyes followed every movement of your hands, every soft touch, every careful breath. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he murmured after a long silence.

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze steadily. “Maybe not. But I want to.”

His breath hitched, something raw flickering across his face. He leaned forward then, his forehead resting against yours, the distance between you vanishing. “Sweetheart…” His voice broke low, rough. “I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.”

Your fingers tightened around his, careful not to hurt him but unwilling to let go. “That’s not your choice to make, Bucky.”

For a long moment, you stayed like that—forehead to forehead, his battered hands in yours, the room hushed around you. And though he never said what had happened out there, the way he clung to you told you enough.

Bucky was quieter than usual after you finished bandaging his knuckles. His eyes tracked every movement you made, like he was memorizing them, but he didn’t speak. Not when you cleaned up the kit, not when you coaxed him toward your bedroom. When you tugged gently at his hand, he followed without resistance. His shoulders looked heavier than they had all week, but the set of his jaw eased the moment you reached the bedroom door.

You crawled into bed first, expecting him to take his usual place at your side, but when you looked back, he was still standing there. His eyes softened, shadows clinging to the edges of his expression. “C’mere,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “I’m already here.”

He shook his head once, low and deliberate. He sat on the mattress, leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out. His hand patted his chest. “Here. Want you here.” Your breath caught, heat rushing to your cheeks. The request was tender, almost vulnerable, but it was also so very him—not asking, but needing, like the idea of you saying no had never crossed his mind. Still, you didn’t hesitate. You climbed up, settling carefully between his legs, your back against his chest at first. But when his arms wrapped firmly around you, pulling you closer, you shifted, turning just enough to lay half across him, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, faster than it should’ve been for a man trying to rest. His chin dipped, lips brushing your hair as he murmured, “That’s it. Stay right there.”

You shifted shyly, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “You’re comfortable like this?”

His arms tightened, pressing you flush against him. “More than comfortable.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. You just breathed together, your body melting into his, his warmth sinking into you until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. The tension in his frame slowly unwound, his muscles relaxing bit by bit as though your weight anchored him back to the earth.

When you tilted your head slightly, you found his eyes already on you, blue and intent even in the dim light. Without a word, he dipped down, his lips brushing yours in the gentlest, laziest kiss you’d ever felt—more a question than a demand, more a sigh than a claim. You smiled against his mouth, shy and soft, and he kissed you again, this one lingering, his thumb tracing idle circles at your waist. You giggled when his stubble scratched your cheek, and his lips curved faintly against yours.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low and rough, “don’t giggle when I’m trying to kiss you.”

You flushed, hiding your face against his chest, and he chuckled quietly, his mouth pressing into your hair instead. It wasn’t long before your breaths synced again, the weight of the day pulling you toward sleep. But this time, when his body stilled beneath you and his chest rose and fell in the deep rhythm of rest, you knew he was holding you not out of fear, but because—for once—he could.

---

The fight started small—like most things between you and Bucky did. It was late afternoon, and you’d decided to run down the block to grab milk before closing the shop. Harmless, ordinary. When you returned, juggling the bag in one hand, Bucky was already waiting at the door, his expression sharp, his shoulders rigid. “Don’t do that again.”

You blinked, startled by the clipped tone. “Do what?”

“Leave without telling me.” His voice was low, edged, the kind that made most people freeze.

You frowned, setting the bag down on the counter. “Bucky, I was gone ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes is long enough for something to happen,” he shot back, stepping closer. “You can’t just walk out without me knowing where you are.”

Your chest tightened—not with fear, but with frustration. You’d had this conversation with him before. The way he framed things like orders, the way he seemed to assume he had the right to tell you what you could and couldn’t do. You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. “You didn’t ask me, Bucky. You told me.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “So? I don’t want you at risk. I’m not gonna apologize for that.”

“That’s not the point.” You stepped closer too, your voice rising just slightly. “I’ve told you before—I need you to ask me. Not command me like—like I don’t have a choice.” For the first time, he faltered. His mouth opened, then shut again, his jaw tightening. You could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to push back this hard. Your heart hammered, but you pressed on, quieter now, more vulnerable. “If you want me to tell you where I’m going… then ask me. I’ll tell you. Gladly. But don’t bark orders at me, Bucky. That’s not how this works.”

The silence stretched, thick with tension. His hands flexed at his sides, metal fingers clenching once before he exhaled slowly. “No one talks to me like that,” he admitted finally, his voice rough. “No one pushes back.”

You softened, your frustration edged with something gentler. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need someone who will.”

His eyes locked on yours, something raw flickering there—anger, yes, but also respect. And maybe, just maybe, a trace of relief. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful. “…Will you at least tell me next time?”

You bit back a smile, though your cheeks warmed. “See? Was that so hard?”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. And though the tension didn’t vanish completely, you knew you’d broken through something important—that he’d actually heard you. And Bucky, for all his control, didn’t know what to do with that.

The shop was already locked for the night, the ledger closed, and the soft glow of your single lamp lit the room. You’d expected Bucky to be restless after your argument—brooding, maybe even distant—but instead he lingered in the doorway, watching you curl up on the couch with a book.

When you looked up, you caught that same flicker from earlier—the one that said he’d actually listened. He crossed the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the couch. For a moment he just sat there, silent, his hands flexing once on his knees. Then, in a voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him, he asked, “can I hold you?”

Your breath caught. The simple question, asked instead of commanded, made your chest warm. You set your book aside and smiled softly. “Yes.” Relief flickered in his eyes. He shifted back, opening his arms. You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees bracketing his thighs, your arms looping around his shoulders. He drew you in immediately, strong arms banding around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’d been starving for this.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just curled into him, your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His breath stirred your hair, slow and deep, as though the tension had finally bled from him.

His hand slid up and down your back, not possessive now, but gentle, grounding. When he tilted his head down to press a kiss to your temple, you giggled quietly, shyer than you meant to be. “What?” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin.

“Nothing,” you whispered, though your cheeks warmed. “Just… it tickles.”

His lips curved against your hair. “Good.” He kissed you again, lower this time, at your cheekbone. “You’re sweet when you giggle.”

You hid your face against his shoulder, and his low laugh rumbled through his chest. “Don’t hide from me, doll,” he said softly, shifting to tip your chin up with his finger. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. “I like seeing you happy.”

The moment stretched, warm and quiet, until your lashes fluttered and you leaned forward, brushing a quick kiss against his jaw. His arms tightened, his breath catching, but instead of claiming more, he held you steady, letting you settle against him again. And there, curled in his lap, you realized that maybe—just maybe—he’d heard you after all.

---

It was a quiet afternoon in the shop, the kind where the sun streamed lazily through the front windows and you could hear the faint hum of the city outside. You were trimming stems at the counter when Bucky walked in, his presence filling the room the way it always did—solid, steady, magnetic.

But instead of his usual lean against the counter or wordless offering of help, he paused. His hands slid into his pockets, his eyes scanning the flowers before finally settling on you. There was something different in his gaze—not sharp or commanding, but hesitant. “Doll,” he said quietly, and when you looked up, you noticed the faint tension in his jaw. “Can I ask you something?”

You smiled faintly, setting down the shears. “Of course.”

He shifted, almost like he wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “There’s a gallery opening. Tomorrow night. I was thinking…” He trailed off, then forced the words out, softer now. “Would you come with me?”

The question caught you off guard—not because of the invitation itself, but because of the way he asked. Not a command, not an expectation. A question. You tilted your head, curious. “A gallery?”

“Yeah,” he said, lips twitching faintly. “Art. Paintings. You like that kind of thing, don’t you?”

Your chest warmed. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” His voice was low, steady, but his eyes flickered away for a moment, almost shy. “It’s… not really my scene. But I figured maybe you’d like it. And I’d like to take you.”

Your heart skipped. For all his power, his control, this moment felt different. Vulnerable. Human. You stepped closer, brushing your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I’d love to.”

Relief flashed across his face, subtle but undeniable. His hand covered yours, warm and solid, and he exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. We’ll make a night of it.”

The promise in his voice lingered long after, and for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about keeping you safe or close. This was him trying—awkwardly, earnestly—to give you something that felt like a real date. Something normal. Something yours.

---

The night of the gallery opening, the city felt different—brighter, sharper, like it was holding its breath. Bucky picked you up just as he promised. You’d taken care with your appearance—clean lines, a favorite dress, a touch of perfume—but as soon as you stepped out of the car and saw the crowd, you realized it wasn’t the same kind of “dressed up.”

Everyone else glided past in tailored suits, glittering jewelry, gowns that looked like they’d cost more than your entire rent. The women’s heels clicked against the marble entrance, men’s watches caught the light, champagne flutes sparkled in elegant hands. They looked polished, untouchable. A different world entirely. And you? You felt… small. Pretty, yes, but simple.

You faltered just a little at the entrance, but Bucky noticed immediately. His hand slid firmly into yours, anchoring you. “You’re perfect,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. His eyes caught yours, steady and unflinching. “Don’t even think about it, doll. They’ve got nothing on you.”

Heat crept up your neck, but you nodded, letting him lead you inside. The gallery itself was stunning—high ceilings, gilded light fixtures, and walls lined with canvases that demanded silence. The crowd murmured in low, cultured tones, laughter muffled behind polite smiles. It felt like stepping into another universe.

You noticed quickly how people looked at him. Heads dipped in acknowledgment, eyes flicking toward him as he passed. A few men approached with polite greetings, their voices threaded with deference. Women gave him longer looks, curious, measuring.

You didn’t know their names, but you could feel it: he belonged here. Even if he stood a little apart from the crowd, he carried himself with an authority that made people move out of his way without realizing they had.

And then there was you, clinging to his hand. For a moment, you worried you looked out of place—until you caught him watching you. His gaze softened, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. The look in his eyes made you forget the polished crowd, the crystal chandeliers, the undercurrent of wealth and power humming through the room.

“This one,” you whispered after a while, pausing before a painting of blue-gray waves crashing against dark rocks. The colors pulled you in, fierce and haunting, yet strangely calm. “I like it.”

Bucky leaned close, his hand still around yours, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Because it looks like my eyes?”

You flushed instantly, glancing up at him in surprise. The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you he’d said it on purpose. “Maybe,” you admitted shyly, but your smile gave you away.

He chuckled softly, his arm sliding around your waist. And just like that, the crowded room, the expensive clothes, the stares—they all faded. Because no matter what world he belonged to, in that moment, he was looking at you.

The gallery opening stretched on, the crowd shifting like a tide of silk and crystal. Every so often, someone approached Bucky—men in sharp suits, women draped in jewels, people who clearly knew who he was. Their greetings were subtle, respectful, often accompanied by a dip of the head or the briefest handshake. You noticed how quickly their eyes slid to you afterward, measuring, curious, but no one dared to say much beyond polite murmurs.

Bucky’s arm stayed around your waist through it all, his touch steady, grounding. He answered their greetings in clipped tones, a man who knew he didn’t need to waste words. The difference between how they treated him and how you knew him in the quiet of your apartment made your head spin.

At one point, a server passed with a tray of champagne. You hesitated, unsure if you should take one, but Bucky plucked a glass easily and offered it to you, his lips twitching faintly at your shyness. “Go on, doll. You’re allowed.” You took it, fingers brushing his, and felt oddly proud when you managed a small sip without feeling out of place. He leaned down, his voice low and meant only for you. “You doing okay?”

Your heart fluttered—not just at the words, but at the way he asked them. Quiet, careful, not assuming. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

For a while, you walked together through the halls, pausing before a few pieces of art. He didn’t say much about them, but you could feel his eyes on you as you spoke, listening as though your thoughts mattered more than the art itself.

And then, almost before you knew it, he was steering you away from the noise, out onto a balcony strung with soft lights. The city sprawled below, glittering, alive. Out here, the hum of conversation dimmed, replaced by the quiet night air. You set your half-empty glass on the railing, exhaling slowly. “They all know you,” you said softly, more observation than question.

Bucky glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “They know of me.”

The correction made your stomach flip. You turned toward him, searching his face. “And what should I know?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand reached for yours instead, fingers lacing with deliberate slowness. “Just that I wanted you here with me. That’s all that matters tonight.”

The way he said it—firm, certain, yet soft enough to make your chest ache—kept you from pressing further. You squeezed his hand, letting the quiet stretch between you, filled only by the glow of the city lights. When you finally left the gallery, his hand never let go of yours.

The car ride home was silent but not heavy. His hand rested over yours the entire drive, his thumb brushing absentminded circles against your skin, and every so often his eyes flicked to you, as if reassuring himself you were still there.

It wasn’t until he walked you upstairs, the city hushed around you, that he finally broke the silence. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he said simply, voice low, the words meant only for you.

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you smiled shyly, your fingers tightening around his. “Thank you for bringing me.” His lips curved faintly, and for once, the powerful, untouchable man from the gallery was gone. It was just Bucky—your Bucky—looking at you like you’d given him more than he’d ever thought to ask for.

---

Bucky’s office was dim, the blinds drawn against the daylight. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, though a closer look would’ve shown smudges of ink on his knuckles where he’d signed contracts and notes. He’d spent the whole morning hunched over the desk, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp and clipped as he handled one matter after another. The work never stopped; it simply waited for him to return.

Natasha leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her gaze steady on him as he hung up the latest call. She’d been patient—quiet even—but her silence was its own kind of weight. When he finally looked up, she pushed off the wall. “You’ve been slipping,” she said, matter-of-fact.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been managing.”

“Managing?” Her brow arched, cool and unimpressed. “You’ve been avoiding meetings. You skipped the last sit-down with the heads. You didn’t show up to the import check. That’s not managing, Bucky. That’s negligence.”

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the shift of his weight. “Everything that needed to be handled was handled.”

“Not by you.” Natasha’s tone sharpened. “And people notice. You can’t disappear into that flower shop every other day and expect them not to talk.” At the mention, his eyes flickered, a spark of something softer breaking through. Natasha caught it instantly. “There it is,” she said, quieter now. “You’ve been different. Lighter. Hell, even I noticed. But you can’t keep living in both worlds without one swallowing the other.”

Bucky’s hand curled into a fist against the desk. “She doesn’t know.”

“And she shouldn’t,” Natasha countered. “Not unless you’re ready to bring her in. Because if she stays in the dark, she’s a liability. Not because she’s weak—because she’s unprepared. And unprepared means vulnerable.”

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The thought of dragging you into his world, of letting you see the blood and steel behind the quiet moments you shared—it twisted something in his chest. He wanted to keep you untouched. Untouched and his.

Natasha’s voice softened, though it never lost its edge. “You’re at a crossroads, Bucky. Either you pull back, or you let her see who you really are. But you can’t keep her in the middle. That’s where it gets dangerous.”

His eyes narrowed, jaw working, but he didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t have an answer. Because she was right. The silence stretched, heavy as the air between them. Then finally, his voice came out rough, low. “I can’t let her go.”

Natasha tilted her head, unreadable. “Then you’d better figure out how to keep her safe. Before someone else decides she’s the best way to get to you.” The words hung in the room like smoke, impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt something he didn’t allow himself often: fear. Not for himself, but for you.

That night, you noticed something was different the moment Bucky walked through your apartment door. Usually, when he came to you after a day of work, there was a rhythm—sometimes tired, sometimes sharp-edged, but always softened the moment he saw you. Tonight, though, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual. His coat stayed on, his posture stiff, his eyes shadowed in a way that made your chest tighten. “Hey,” you said softly, trying to draw him in. “Long day?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough. He shut the door quietly, almost too quietly for a man who usually moved with certainty. His gaze flicked over you—like he was making sure you were really there—before he crossed the room.

When he pulled you into his arms, it wasn’t like before. Not just affection, not even just need—it was desperation. His grip was tight, almost crushing, his face buried in your hair. You froze for a moment, startled, before sliding your arms around him, holding on just as firmly. “Bucky,” you whispered, trying to lean back enough to see his face. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed against your temple, and you could feel his heart hammering through his chest. Finally, in a low rasp, he said, “you don’t understand how dangerous it is.”

Your breath caught. You’d always known, in some quiet corner of yourself, that there was more to him than the man who carried your groceries and folded your laundry with military precision. But hearing it now, in that tone—it was different. “Dangerous… for me?” you asked carefully.

“For you,” he confirmed, his hands tightening on your waist as though to prove his point. “Being with me… it paints a target on you. And if anyone ever—” His words cut off, sharp, like the thought itself was unbearable.

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then, softly, you said, “and if you left? If you pulled away?”

He finally lifted his head then, his eyes finding yours. They were raw, unguarded, and the sight of them nearly broke you. “I can’t,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’ve tried to think about it. Tried to imagine it. But I can’t, doll. I can’t stay away from you.”

Something in you cracked open at the confession, equal parts fear and tenderness. You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over the stubble there. “Then don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t stay away. Just… let me be here. With you.”

His breath shook, his metal hand lifting to cover yours where it rested against his cheek. He leaned into your touch like a starving man, his eyes shutting for a moment. When he opened them again, his voice was steadier, though still low. “If I do this—if I keep you close—it means you’ll see things. Parts of me, parts of my life… I’ve kept them from you on purpose.”

You swallowed hard but nodded. “Then show me. I’d rather see than be left in the dark.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, searching, as if weighing the truth of your words. And then, finally, he exhaled, pulling you back against his chest. “Alright,” he whispered into your hair. “But once you’re in, sweetheart… there’s no going back.”

And though his tone carried warning, his arms held you like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.

---

It started with a question you hadn’t expected. A few days had passed since that night in your apartment—the night Bucky had admitted he couldn’t let you go. He hadn’t said much more about it, but you felt it in the way he hovered a little closer, in how often his hand found yours, in the quiet determination that lingered in his eyes.

So when he showed up at your shop one afternoon, leaning against the counter with that intent look of his, you thought he was there just to keep you company. Instead, he said, “there’s a gala this weekend. I want you to come with me.”

You blinked. “A gala?”

“Big one. Everyone who matters will be there.” He didn’t elaborate who everyone was, but the weight behind his words made it clear. Then, softer, “I want them to see you with me.” The warmth in your chest almost made you forget to breathe. Official. That’s what it sounded like.

He didn’t waste time. The next day, you found yourself swept into a world you’d never touched before. The tailor’s boutique looked more like an art gallery than a store—marble floors, velvet curtains, rows of gowns shimmering under soft lights. You hovered near the entrance at first, your fingers twitching nervously at your sides. The place smelled faintly of leather and perfume, expensive in a way that made you want to keep your hands tucked safely away.

Bucky, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease. He guided you forward with a hand at the small of your back, his voice steady as he spoke to the attendant. “Something for her. For Saturday night.”

The attendant’s eyes widened just slightly, recognition sparking as she nodded quickly. Within minutes, you were being ushered into a fitting room with armfuls of gowns in every shade and style. The first dress was sleek, dark, clinging in ways that made you self-conscious. You stepped out hesitantly, smoothing your hands over the fabric. Bucky’s eyes lifted instantly. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even breathe for a moment. His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, before he finally said, “beautiful.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “It’s… too much, maybe?”

“Not enough,” he countered smoothly, his voice rougher than usual.

You ducked back into the fitting room, your pulse racing. The next dress was brighter, softer, with delicate embroidery along the bodice. When you stepped out this time, he leaned forward slightly in his chair, his elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. “This one’s good,” he said, but his tone wasn’t casual—it was thoughtful, assessing, almost protective. “But I want something that makes them stare.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “That sounds… intimidating.”

“Good,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “They should be intimidated.”

By the third dress—a deep navy that shimmered when you moved—you felt the air change. Bucky stood this time, crossing the room in a few strides. His hand lifted, brushing along the fabric at your waist, not quite touching you, but close enough to make your breath catch. “This one,” he said, voice low and certain. “Matches your eyes. And when you walk in with me wearing this, no one’ll dare forget it.”

You giggled softly, nerves twisting with warmth. “Bucky… it probably costs more than my whole apartment.”

His lips curved faintly, but his gaze stayed steady. “You let me worry about that.” And in that moment, as the silk whispered around your legs and his hand hovered at your side, you realized: this wasn’t just a dress. This was a declaration.

The attendant had just whisked the navy gown away to be pressed and boxed when something caught your eye. Off to the side, away from the racks of shimmering evening wear, hung a small collection of lighter dresses—soft fabrics, airy shapes. The kind of thing you’d wear in the shop on a warm day, not at some glittering gala.

One in particular made you pause. A simple sundress, pale with little embroidered details along the hem. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t dripping with jewels or stitched with silk. It was… sweet. Something you could actually see yourself wearing, not just trying on for someone else’s world. The attendant followed your gaze. “That’s from a quieter line,” she explained with a professional smile. “Not evening wear, but if you’d like to try it, you can.”

You startled slightly, glancing back at Bucky, who was still flipping idly through a lookbook the attendant had left with him. He looked up at the hesitation in your posture. “Try it,” he said simply. Not a command this time, but a suggestion—an invitation.

You hesitated. “I couldn’t… it’s not—”

His brow arched, the faintest curve of a smirk playing on his lips. “Doll, if you want to try it, you try it.”

So you did. The fabric was soft against your skin, the cut loose but flattering. When you stepped out, you felt lighter somehow, less like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s world and more like yourself. Bucky’s gaze lifted immediately. For once, he didn’t move, didn’t speak right away. His eyes roamed slowly over the dress, then back to your face. You fidgeted under the weight of it, tugging gently at the skirt. “It’s simple. Too simple, probably. Not for…” You gestured vaguely to the opulent boutique around you. “This.”

Still, he didn’t say anything. Just stood, crossing the room with quiet steps until he was right in front of you. His hand reached out, brushing the edge of the fabric at your hip, his thumb pressing lightly into the material. “You look…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, almost frustrated with himself. “You look like you.”

Your cheeks warmed. “That’s… good?”

“It’s perfect.” His voice was rougher than usual, sincere in a way that left no room for doubt. “The gala needs the navy gown. But this one? This one’s for me.”

Your heart fluttered, and before you could argue—before you could even tell him you couldn’t possibly afford something like this—he was already glancing over his shoulder at the attendant. “We’ll take both.”

Your mouth fell open. “Bucky—”

His hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, silencing the protest before it could fully form. His eyes softened, that steady, unyielding gaze fixed only on you. “Let me.”

And standing there, wrapped in a simple sundress in a boutique that reeked of money and power, you realized it wasn’t about the price. It was about him wanting you to have something that made you feel yourself, even in his world.

Bucky didn’t let you change out of the sundress. The attendant had neatly packaged the navy gown, slid it into a garment bag, and made a note of the transaction, but Bucky had waved her off when she offered to take the sundress back to the fitting rooms. “She’s keeping it on,” he’d said, casual but with the kind of finality no one ever argued with.

And so you found yourself leaving the boutique hand-in-hand with him, the evening air brushing against your legs as the hem of the simple dress swayed with each step. It felt strange—like you were supposed to be polished and expensive after a store like that, but instead you felt like yourself. More than that, you felt like his.

He opened the car door for you, but instead of giving the driver an address for home, he leaned down and murmured, “let’s take a walk first.”

The driver pulled away a few blocks later, leaving you and Bucky in a quieter part of the city. The streets were lined with little shops and cafés, the kind that glowed warmly in the evening. He guided you toward one tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall, the kind of place you might’ve gone with friends—if you’d had the time.

Inside, the café smelled like coffee and sugar, the hum of conversation gentle and low. No one looked twice at you. No one cared that you weren’t in glittering gowns or pressed suits. And Bucky—your Bucky, who had filled a marble-floored boutique like he owned the world—looked almost out of place here. His broad shoulders crowded the small table, his hands too large around the delicate porcelain cup. But the way he watched you, leaning forward as though you were the only thing that mattered, made the rest fade away. “You like it here?” he asked, his voice softer than the quiet jazz playing in the background.

You smiled, stirring your drink absently. “It feels… normal.”

“Normal,” he repeated, like the word was foreign on his tongue. His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Guess I could get used to that.”

For a while, you sat together in that small café, talking about nothing and everything. He asked you about your favorite flowers—not the ones that sold best, but the ones you secretly kept for yourself. You teased him about how he never drank his coffee until it was practically cold. He listened, his hand finding yours across the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in steady circles.

And when you left, walking slowly down the street, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop at the little bookstore window, linger at the flower stall, laugh at the sight of a dog sticking its head out of a taxi. At one point, you tugged his hand without realizing, pulling him closer to something that caught your eye—a display of postcards painted with watercolor scenes of the city.

He didn’t comment on the gesture, but you felt the weight of his gaze as you flipped through them, your fingers brushing over the colors. When you finally slipped back into the car, the sundress soft against your skin and a paper bag of postcards in your lap, Bucky leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You looked beautiful in the gowns,” he murmured, his tone low, almost possessive. “But this? This is what I’ll remember.”

And you realized it wasn’t the marble floors, or the glittering chandeliers, or the navy silk that made the night feel important. It was him. It was this.

---

The gala was nothing like the gallery. From the moment you stepped into the ballroom, it was clear this was a different level of opulence entirely. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light across the space, polished marble gleamed beneath your heels, and the air hummed with the low thrum of strings from a live orchestra. Guests glided past in gowns stitched with gemstones, tuxedos pressed to perfection, diamonds glittering at throats and wrists.

You’d taken extra care tonight, wearing the deep navy gown Bucky had chosen for you, the one that shimmered with every movement. It hugged you in ways that made you nervous at first, but when you saw the way his gaze lingered on you before you left your apartment—sharp, reverent, possessive—you knew you didn’t regret saying yes.

At first, you kept to his side, your fingers woven with his, your steps perfectly matched as he led you through the crowd. His presence was magnetic; people parted for him instinctively, their eyes darting toward you with open curiosity. Some smiled, others whispered, but all of them looked.

The first introductions came quickly—men with quick, firm handshakes, women with perfectly painted smiles. They greeted Bucky with respect, almost deference, and then turned their attention to you. The questions came in polite tones—your name, how long you’d been in the city, whether you enjoyed the gala.

You answered as best you could, but each new set of eyes made your chest tighten. You weren’t used to being the center of attention, and in a room like this, the stares felt heavier than silk gowns and diamond necklaces combined.

So you inched closer. It was subtle at first—your hand tightening on Bucky’s, your shoulder brushing his arm as someone else struck up a conversation with him. He didn’t move, didn’t draw you in, just let you settle where you wanted. But as the night stretched on and more people gathered, you found yourself tucking yourself closer and closer into his side.

By the time he was cornered by a trio of older men discussing investments, you were practically pressed to him, your arm sliding around his. His body was solid against yours, steady in a way that kept you grounded. He shifted slightly then, not pulling you in but adjusting just enough that you fit more comfortably against him. You realized you were hiding. And that he was letting you.

Between conversations, he leaned down just once, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, “you okay, doll?”

Your breath caught, but you nodded quickly, whispering back, “Just… a lot of people.”

His hand slid down, resting against the small of your back, warm and firm. “Stay close, then.” And you did. Through introductions, through polite laughter, through glasses of champagne that you barely sipped. You stayed tucked into his side, your cheek brushing his shoulder once when you leaned in to whisper something shyly, and his answering smirk told you he didn’t mind in the slightest.

It was overwhelming, yes. But the whole night, Bucky’s presence wrapped around you like armor. You weren’t just there as a guest—you were there as his. And judging by the way people looked at him, then at you, that message was loud and clear.

The gala bled into night, the golden chandeliers giving way to the hush of the city as you and Bucky slipped into the car. The door shut, muting the noise behind you, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and the faint rustle of your gown as you shifted against the seat.

For the first time in hours, you exhaled, your shoulders slumping slightly. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself until now. Bucky’s hand found yours almost immediately, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady rhythm. “You did good,” he murmured, his voice quiet but certain.

You smiled faintly, though your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t really do anything.”

His eyes slid to you, blue and intense even in the low light. “You were with me. That’s everything.”

The words settled heavy in your chest, warm and strange, like they meant more than you knew how to hold. The car turned, and instead of heading toward your apartment, you noticed the streets getting sharper, quieter, the buildings taller and glinting under the city lights. You glanced at him, curious. “This isn’t the way home.”

He didn’t look away, didn’t let go of your hand. “No. I want to show you something.” When the car pulled up to a gleaming tower, you felt your breath hitch. This was the kind of place you’d walked past before but never imagined entering. The doorman nodded the instant Bucky stepped out, opening the door like it was second nature. No questions, no hesitation. Just respect.

He offered his hand to help you out of the car, steady and sure, and guided you inside. The lobby was marble and glass, understated yet impossibly expensive. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to shout. The elevator ride was silent except for the low hum of the machinery and the sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears. His hand stayed at the small of your back, grounding you. When the doors opened, you stepped directly into his penthouse.

It was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, the city sprawled out beneath like a living map of light. The furniture was sleek, dark, carefully chosen—luxury without clutter. A bar lined one side of the space, glassware gleaming faintly under soft recessed lighting. There was a piano, too, its polished surface reflecting the skyline. You turned slowly, taking it all in. “This is… yours?”

“Mine,” he confirmed simply, watching you carefully as you moved further inside.

It felt surreal, like stepping into the part of him he’d kept hidden. The part that wasn’t coffee shops and farmer’s markets, but glass towers and quiet power. You drifted toward the windows, resting a hand against the cool glass as you looked out over the city. Behind you, you heard his steps, deliberate and steady, until his reflection appeared beside yours. “Why tonight?” you asked softly. “Why show me now?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because after tonight, there’s no pretending. Everyone saw you with me. They’ll keep seeing you. And I don’t want you walking into this blind.”

You turned, looking up at him. The shadows in his eyes were still there, the weight of his world, but so was something else—something softer, rawer. “I told you I’d rather see than be left in the dark,” you whispered.

His hand lifted, brushing lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s what scares me.”

And then, before you could answer, he bent his head and kissed you. Not the shy, tentative kisses of your apartment, but something deeper, firmer, threaded with everything he hadn’t said aloud. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he needed to remind himself you were really there. The city stretched endlessly below, but in that moment, all you could feel was him.

Bucky didn’t stop at the kiss. When he finally drew back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand slid down to lace with your fingers. “C’mere,” he murmured, tugging you gently away from the windows. “Let me show you around.”

The penthouse unfolded like something out of a dream. He guided you first through the living space—sleek lines, soft lighting, and a bar stocked more like a high-end lounge than a home. Past that was a dining area, the table long enough for ten but polished to a shine that suggested it wasn’t often used.

Then he took you down the hall to the master suite. The bedroom was spacious but not ostentatious, anchored by a bed large enough to swallow you whole. It was softened by details you hadn’t expected—heavy curtains, a worn leather chair in the corner, books stacked neatly on a nightstand. Not the kind of impersonal room you imagined in a man like him.

But it was the closet that stopped you cold. The space was larger than your entire bedroom at home, walls lined with dark wood shelves and neatly arranged clothing. His suits, pressed and orderly, filled one side. On the other, though—where you expected emptiness—were rows of neatly folded soft fabrics in your size. Pajamas. Sweaters. Undergarments in delicate lace and cotton, still with tags. Even shoes, flats and slippers and a pair of heels you knew you hadn’t bought. Your steps faltered. “Bucky…”

He watched you carefully, his hands tucked in his pockets, his jaw tight. “I didn’t want you to come here and not have anything.”

You turned slowly, looking at him. “You… bought all this?”

“I had someone pick it up,” he admitted, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing. But the way his eyes never left your face told you it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.

Your throat tightened. It wasn’t just that he’d thought of it—it was that he’d prepared for the possibility of you being here long before you ever were. You smiled softly, shy but earnest. “Thank you.”

His shoulders eased just slightly, and he stepped closer, brushing his knuckles along your arm. “Just want you comfortable, doll. Always.”

Before you could answer, a voice carried from down the hall, low but sharp. “She’s here, then?”

You turned, startled, as Natasha appeared in the doorway. She was different from how you’d pictured—tall, poised, her red hair a striking curtain around a face that gave nothing away. She leaned casually against the frame, though her eyes, green and assessing, flicked over you in a way that made you straighten unconsciously. Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah. She’s here.”

Natasha’s gaze lingered on you another beat before she gave the faintest of nods. “Good. Better she’s here than in the dark.”

You weren’t sure what to say, so you offered a small, polite smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Her lips curved, just barely. “We’ll see if you still think that later.” Then, with a glance at Bucky, “she’ll need to know more. Sooner rather than later.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, but he nodded once. Natasha’s gaze softened—if only slightly—before she slipped away as quietly as she’d come. The silence left behind felt heavier than the closet full of clothes, heavier than the glittering view outside. But when Bucky turned back to you, his eyes softened, grounding you once more. “You okay?” he asked. And this time, he phrased it like a question.

You let out a shaky breath, smiling faintly. “Yeah. I think so.”

Once Natasha’s footsteps faded, he tugged you gently back into the hall, his hand warm and steady around yours. “C’mon,” he said, softer now. “There’s more.”

The penthouse was larger than you’d realized. He showed you the kitchen first—polished stone counters, state-of-the-art appliances, cabinets so tall you wondered if he ever actually used them. But there were signs of him here too: a coffee mug left out near the sink, a half-empty bottle of scotch on the counter, a dish towel folded with military precision.

From there, he led you to a smaller sitting room, tucked away from the sweeping skyline. It felt more lived in than the main space—cozier, with a blanket folded across the back of the couch, a chessboard set up mid-game. You wondered if he played with Natasha, or if the board had been waiting for an opponent he hadn’t found until you.

He showed you a study too, lined with dark shelves and heavy books, the scent of old paper lingering faintly. A few leather-bound journals lay stacked neatly on the desk, a fountain pen resting perfectly parallel beside them. You didn’t ask, but part of you wondered what he wrote in them.

By the time you circled back to the master suite, the nerves that had knotted your stomach earlier had softened into something else—curiosity, warmth, and the quiet awe of realizing this was his space. And now, in some way, yours too. He paused at the bedroom door, his eyes flicking to you. “You should get ready for bed. The pajamas are in the closet.”

You bit your lip, shy but smiling, before disappearing into the walk-in again. The set you chose was simple—soft cotton, a pale color trimmed with delicate lace. It fit perfectly, hugging you without clinging, comfortable in a way that made your breath catch. He hadn’t just guessed. He’d known.

When you padded back into the bedroom, barefoot, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the pajama top, Bucky was already waiting. He sat at the edge of the bed, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, the city lights spilling across him through the windows. His gaze lifted the moment he heard you. And it lingered.

You froze for a moment under the weight of it, heat rushing to your cheeks. “They… fit,” you murmured.

His lips curved faintly, but his eyes stayed intent, almost reverent. “Told you. I just want you comfortable.”

You crossed the room slowly, and when you stopped in front of him, he reached for your hand, pulling you gently between his knees. His metal thumb brushed over your knuckles, his touch careful, grounding. “Stay here tonight,” he said quietly. Not a command. A request.

You nodded, your chest tight, your heart racing. “Okay.”

He exhaled softly, his hand sliding to your waist as he pressed a kiss against your stomach through the thin cotton. Then he looked up at you, his eyes blue and raw. “You look like you belong here.” And for the first time, standing barefoot in silk-soft pajamas in his penthouse bedroom, you believed him.

---

The bed was cold when you rolled over, your hand brushing against rumpled sheets where Bucky should’ve been. For a moment you thought maybe you’d imagined it—the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest pressed to your back—but the faint indentation in the mattress told you he’d only slipped away recently.

You sat up slowly, tugging the pajama top tighter around you, and padded out into the hall. The penthouse was hushed, the city beyond the windows muted in its endless glow. You followed the faintest sound—paper rustling, a pen scratching—to the study.

There he was. Bucky sat behind a heavy desk, sleeves rolled up, a lamp casting sharp shadows across his face. Papers were spread across the surface, neat columns of numbers, ledgers, notes scrawled in his firm hand. He didn’t look up at first, but the moment your bare feet padded against the rug, his gaze lifted. “Doll,” he murmured, his voice softening instantly. He set the pen down and held out a hand. “C’mere.”

You crossed the room, shy but certain, and when you reached him, he tugged you gently onto his lap. You settled sideways across his thighs, your head resting against his shoulder. His hand smoothed along your back, slow and steady, grounding you. “You should’ve eaten first,” he said, brushing his lips against your temple. “I’ll text Natasha, have her send something up.”

You hummed, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I didn’t come looking for food.”

His brow furrowed slightly as he angled his head to see you. “No?”

You shook your head, cheeks warming. “…I missed you. In bed.”

For a moment, the silence stretched. Then his chest rumbled with a low exhale, almost a laugh but not quite. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re gonna kill me saying things like that.”

You smiled shyly against him, and after a moment, curiosity tugged at you. You shifted just enough to glance at the papers scattered across the desk. Numbers, neat rows and totals, some underlined, some circled. “What’s all this?”

“Work,” he said simply, but when you didn’t look away, his mouth softened. “Keeping track of everything. Shipments, money in, money out. Making sure it all balances.”

You blinked, surprised. “You do the books yourself?”

“Trust’s hard to come by,” he said dryly, though his thumb traced idly over your hip. “Don’t like letting anyone else touch the numbers.”

Your lips curved faintly. “I do my shop’s books too. Every night before I close.”

That earned you a glance, one brow raised, a flicker of amusement breaking through his guarded expression. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not as complicated, but… numbers don’t lie. You can see the whole picture if you know where to look.”

His smirk deepened just slightly. “Smart girl.” He tapped one of the ledgers with a calloused finger. “Wanna help me, then?”

You looked at him in surprise, then back at the papers. The idea of being folded into this part of his world, even in something as simple as numbers, made your heart beat faster. Slowly, you nodded. “Alright,” you whispered. “Show me what you’ve got.”

And for the next hour, you sat curled on his lap while he walked you through the ledgers, his voice low and steady, his arm always around you. It was strange—intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not just the touch of him, but the trust of it.

Bucky’s voice had become a low murmur in your ear, patient as he explained the rows of numbers. You tried to keep up, scribbling a few notes in the margin of his ledger, but the warmth of his chest and the steady rhythm of his hand tracing circles over your thigh slowly lulled you. Your head grew heavier until it finally settled against his shoulder. He noticed the shift instantly. Your pen slipped from your hand, rolling across the desk. Bucky caught it without looking, setting it aside, his gaze softening when he realized your breaths had evened out. You’d fallen asleep on his lap, curled up like you belonged there.

For a while, he just let you rest, one arm wrapped around you protectively, the other turning pages with a deliberate quiet. Every so often, he brushed his thumb over your side or adjusted the blanket he’d pulled down from the back of the couch. A knock broke the silence. Sharp, precise. He didn’t even raise his voice when he answered, “come in.”

The door opened, and Natasha stepped inside, a tray balanced in her hands. Steam rose from a pot of tea, plates neatly covered. Her sharp gaze flicked over the scene in front of her—you asleep, Bucky’s arm wound firmly around you—and her lips curved just slightly. “She’s out,” she said softly, setting the tray down on the corner of the desk.

“Mm,” Bucky grunted in agreement, his hand still smoothing idly along your back.

Natasha straightened, crossing her arms. “You should put her in bed.”

His jaw tightened, and he shook his head once. “She’s fine here.”

The redhead studied him for a beat longer before nodding. “I’ll leave you two, then.” She turned to go, but paused at the door, glancing back with a raised brow. “You’re softer than I thought you’d be, Barnes.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just shifted slightly, holding you a little closer, his gaze fixed on your sleeping face. Natasha’s faint chuckle followed her out of the room. The penthouse grew quiet again. He leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the curve of your cheek against his chest. His hand stilled over your side as he bent to press the gentlest kiss to your hair. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so quiet you didn’t stir. “I’ll keep you safe. Always.”

The breakfast tray sat untouched on the desk, the tea growing cooler by the minute. But Bucky didn’t care. You were warm, you were breathing steady, and you were here.

And for him, that was enough.

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

bucky barnes taglist: @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu @averyhotchner @umbreoni

The SHIELD medical bay at 2:47 AM is meant to be empty—just you, a dislocated shoulder from a mission gone sideways in Prague, and the ice pack you're too stubborn to ask someone else to help you position. But there he is, Captain America himself, hunched forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside bed seven with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking in that particular way that says everything hurts and I'm trying to be quiet about it.

You freeze in the doorway, good arm holding your bad arm, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, making everything look sharp-edged and surreal. Your mouth goes dry. There's a metallic taste on your tongue—adrenaline, maybe, or just the copper-tang of exhaustion that's been following you since your transport touched down six hours ago.

He's still in his tactical gear—dirt-streaked and blood-spattered from wherever he's been. You'd heard whispers in the hallways. A Hydra facility. The Winter Soldier, recovered. Captain Rogers, who never fails, who never breaks, bringing his best friend home after seventy years. You'd seen him from a distance when they'd brought Barnes in, shield on his back like it weighed a thousand pounds, and thought what you always think: beautiful and untouchable as a monument.

Now, though. Now he's just a man in a room that smells like antiseptic and grief, crying over—

The bed. There's someone in the bed.

Barnes. James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Bucky. Whatever name he's wearing today. This is your first time seeing him up close, seeing him as something other than a ghost story whispered in SHIELD corridors. He looks smaller than the legends suggest, more human than weapon.

He's unconscious, or close to it, hooked to machines that beep in rhythms that must mean something to someone who isn't you. But what catches your attention—what makes your stomach twist and drop like you've missed a step going downstairs—is the woman curled against his side.

You don't know her, have never seen her before, but you know what she is. It's in the way she fits against him, like two pieces of something broken made whole. The way even unconscious, his body angles toward hers, his metal arm—and God, that's the arm that's killed presidents—draped protectively across her waist. The way her hand rests over his heart, monitoring his breathing even in sleep.

His soulmate. The Winter Soldier has a soulmate.

And Steve Rogers is crying over them.

Your shoulder throbs, sending white-hot spikes down your arm, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. You should leave. This is private, sacred, none of your business. But when you try to shift backward, your shoulder screams—a sharp, electric agony that races down your spine and makes your vision go spotty at the edges. The small sound that escapes your throat—half-gasp, half-whimper—cuts through the quiet like a gunshot.

Steve's head snaps up.

His eyes are red-rimmed, devastated, the blue of them turned dark and stormy with an emotion so raw it feels like looking directly at an exposed nerve. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, catching the harsh fluorescent light, and his lips are parted like he's forgotten how to breathe properly. For a second, neither of you moves. You're caught in the doorway like a deer in headlights, your pulse thundering in your ears, and he's frozen mid-grief, and the moment stretches taut as wire between you.

The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Your skin prickles with it, every hair on your arms standing at attention.

Then his face closes off. All that naked emotion disappears behind the Captain America mask, so fast you'd think you imagined it if your heart wasn't still trying to claw its way out of your chest from the impact of seeing it.

"You need help?" His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, gravel and exhaustion and something else threaded through it. He clears his throat, stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in. He's always so much—six feet of genetically enhanced perfection that makes your body confused about whether it wants to fight or flee or something else entirely that you refuse to examine.

"I—" Your voice catches, sticks in your throat like you've swallowed glass. You force yourself to look at your shoulder instead of his face, but that means looking at the way his hands flex at his sides, the way his weight shifts like he's fighting the urge to move toward you. "Dislocated. From Prague. I can manage."

"You can't." Matter-of-fact, not unkind, but there's something underneath it—a tension that makes your stomach flip. He crosses the room in three strides, and you have that thought again—monument—but monuments don't usually smell like gunpowder and sweat and something cedar-sharp that makes your hindbrain light up with interest you absolutely cannot afford.

He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The movement makes your shoulder scream, and you can't quite suppress the way your breath hitches.

"Really, I'm—"

"Stubborn?" There's something almost like amusement flickering across his face, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it makes your chest go tight and warm. "I know. You once tried to extract yourself from a building collapse with three broken ribs and a concussion."

You blink, stomach doing something complicated and uncomfortable. He knows that? He noticed that? Your skin feels too tight, like your body's trying to contain something that won't fit.

"Sit." He gestures to one of the beds, and when you don't move immediately—frozen by the way he's looking at you, intent and focused like you're a problem he needs to solve—his head tilts slightly. "That's an order, agent."

"You're not my CO," you point out, but you're already moving, because arguing with Steve Rogers while your shoulder feels like it's full of ground glass and your body is betraying you with all these inconvenient reactions seems like a losing proposition.

He follows, and you're hyperaware of him in that way you always are—the space he takes up, the way air seems to bend around him, the way your skin prickles with awareness even though he hasn't touched you. When you sit on the bed's edge, the paper crinkles beneath you, too loud in the quiet. He stands in front of you, and you have to focus on the SHIELD logo on his chest because looking at his face feels dangerous right now, like staring directly into the sun.

"This is going to hurt," he says, and his voice is lower now, closer. You can feel it rumble through the space between you.

"I know." Your good hand is gripping the edge of the bed so hard your knuckles have gone white. Your heart is doing something irregular and concerning in your chest.

"I mean it's going to—"

"Captain Rogers." You finally look up at him, find him watching you with an expression you can't parse—something intense and careful and guarded all at once. The fluorescent light catches in his hair, turns it more gold than blonde. There's a smudge of dirt on his jaw. "I've been in the field for six years. I know what a shoulder reduction feels like."

Something shifts in his jaw, that little muscle tick you've catalogued along with a hundred other Steve Rogers tells. Your breathing has gone shallow, and you don't know if it's from the pain or the way he's looking at you—like you're something he needs to be careful with.

Finally, he reaches for your arm.

He's wearing tactical gloves.

Of course he is. Steve Rogers always wears gloves on missions, black leather that make his already large hands look even more capable. You've never thought about it before—lots of agents wear gloves. Protection, grip, a hundred practical reasons.

But now, with him this close, with his hands carefully bracketing your injured arm, you notice the deliberateness of it. The way the leather covers every inch of skin from fingertip to wrist. The way he's careful, even now, not to let any exposed skin above the glove brush against you. There's a gap, barely an inch, where his sleeve has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin. You stare at it, pulse jumping in your throat for reasons you don't understand.

"On three," he says, and his voice is closer now, quieter. You can feel the heat of him, the solid presence that makes your good hand want to reach out and—

Your fingers twitch on the bed. The paper crinkles.

"One."

He adjusts his grip, and even through the leather, even through your tactical shirt, your nerve endings light up like a circuit board. Your breath catches, stops, starts again too fast.

"Two."

You're watching his face because you have to look somewhere, and that's when you see it—a flicker of something that looks like resignation. Like loss. Like he's steeling himself for something that's going to hurt. The tendons in his neck are taut, and there's a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple despite the cool air.

"Three."

The world whites out. Pain floods your system, sharp and immediate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. Your good hand flies up instinctively, searching for something to anchor you, and finds—

His vest. Your fingers curl into the tactical fabric, knuckles brushing against the solid wall of his chest beneath. You're falling forward, or maybe he's moving closer, and suddenly your forehead is almost touching his chest, and his hands have shifted to your shoulders—careful, still gloved, but holding you steady.

"Breathe," he says, and maybe it's the pain, but his voice sounds different. Softer. Rougher. His thumb moves in a small circle against your shoulder, probably meant to be soothing, but it sends electricity racing down your spine. "You're okay. Just breathe."

You realize you're making small, hurt sounds into his vest, and his body has curved around you slightly, protective, blocking you from the rest of the room. Your working hand has somehow fisted completely in his tactical vest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, too controlled to be natural. His heart beats against your knuckles, faster than you'd expect for someone with enhanced everything.

"I'm good," you manage, though your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, wrecked. "I'm—thank you."

You pull back, look up, and freeze.

He's so close. Close enough that you can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, the way his pupils have dilated slightly. Close enough to count individual eyelashes, to see the faint scar on his lower lip. Close enough that when his lips part slightly, you feel his exhale ghost across your face.

His eyes drop to where your hand grips his vest, and there's something almost stricken in his expression. His throat works as he swallows, and you track the movement helplessly.

Then his gaze snaps to your face, and for a second—just a second—his eyes drop to your mouth.

The air between you goes electric.

His hand on your shoulder tightens infinitesimally, leather creaking, and you're suddenly aware that your bodies are still curved toward each other, that if you just leaned forward an inch—

He jerks back. Takes three full steps back, actually, like he needs the distance. Like proximity to you is somehow dangerous. His breathing is slightly uneven, and there's a flush high on his cheeks that wasn't there before.

"You should get that x-rayed," he says, and his voice is too loud in the quiet room, just slightly unsteady. He's Captain America again, professional and distant, but his hands are clenched at his sides and he won't quite meet your eyes. "And ice. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."

"I know the drill." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, throaty and affected. Your good hand is still raised slightly, fingers tingling from where they'd gripped his vest.

He nods, sharp and efficient. Turns to go back to his vigil beside Barnes's bed. But something makes you speak, words tumbling out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

"He's lucky."

Steve stops. His shoulders go rigid, the line of his spine straightening like someone's put electricity through it.

"Barnes," you clarify, though you shouldn't. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy. "To have someone who—to have her. His soulmate. They're both lucky."

When he turns to look at you, there's something hollow in his eyes, something that makes your chest ache with recognition you don't want to examine. The muscle in his jaw is working again, and his gloved hands clench and unclench at his sides.

"Yeah," he says quietly, and the word comes out like it's been dragged over broken glass. "Lucky."

He says it like the word tastes like ash, like something burned and bitter on his tongue.

"Steve—" You don't know what you're going to say, don't know why his name feels like something precious in your mouth, why your body is still leaning toward him like a plant toward sunlight.

"You should rest." He cuts you off, gentle but firm, and there's something almost desperate in the way he's not looking at you. "That shoulder needs—"

An alarm goes off. Not the gentle chime of a normal medical alert, but the sharp, angry wail that means something's wrong. Steve's already moving, heading for Barnes's bed where machines are screaming and the woman—his soulmate—is sitting up, hands pressed to her temples, saying "Something's wrong, something's—"

Barnes jackknifes upright with a sound that isn't quite human, metal arm swinging blindly, and his soulmate catches his hand without flinching. The moment their skin connects, some of the wildness bleeds out of his eyes.

"Bucky." Her voice is steady despite the chaos. "You're in medical. You're safe. I'm here."

You should leave. This is definitely not for you to witness. But you're frozen, watching how Barnes's entire being reorganizes itself around her touch, how his breathing slows to match hers, how the machines gradually stop their shrieking as his vitals stabilize. The way she runs her fingers through his hair, and he melts into it, face pressing into her palm like he's trying to absorb her through skin contact alone.

And you watch Steve watch them, standing two feet away but somehow miles distant, his gloved hands clenched so tight at his sides that the leather creaks.

You've never wanted a soulmate. The odds are astronomical, the chance of finding them slim to none, and you've seen what happens to people who lose them—the hollow-eyed grief that never quite fades. Better to never have one than to lose them. Better to be whole on your own than broken in half of a pair.

But watching Barnes fold into his soulmate's arms like coming home, watching her hold him together with nothing but touch and presence and fierce, protective love—

Your chest aches with want so sharp it steals your breath. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your body is trying to tell you something your mind won't acknowledge.

When you look at Steve, he's already looking at you. For just a second, you see your own longing reflected in his eyes, the same hollow ache of watching others have what you'll never possess. His gaze drops to your hand—the one that had gripped his vest—and something flickers across his face, too fast to read.

Then he looks away, jaw tight, and the moment breaks, and you're just an injured agent who needs to stop projecting feelings onto a superior officer who barely knows you exist.

"Get some rest," he says without looking at you, voice carefully controlled. "That's an order."

This time, you don't argue. You leave him to his vigil, to his grief, to whatever it is that makes Captain America cry in hospital chairs over other people's happy endings.

Your shoulder throbs in time with your heartbeat as you walk away, and you tell yourself that's the only reason your chest hurts. That's the only reason your skin feels like it's burning where he almost touched you. That's the only reason you can still feel the ghost of his vest under your fingers, the phantom heat of him curved around you.

You're very good at lying to yourself at 3 AM.

But your traitorous body remembers the way he'd jerked back from you, the way his eyes had gone wide with something that looked like fear when he'd realized how close you were.

Whatever Steve Rogers is afraid of, you're starting to think it might be you.

The next time you see him is three days later, and your body knows he's in the room before your brain catches up.

You're bent over a terminal in the east wing surveillance room, trying to make sense of intel that feels like it's been encrypted in ancient Sumerian, when every hair on the back of your neck stands at attention. Your spine straightens involuntarily, muscles tensing like an animal sensing a predator—or worse, like iron filings responding to a magnet.

"Agent."

Just that. Just your title in his Captain America voice, all professional distance and careful neutrality. But your treacherous body reacts like he's whispered something filthy in your ear—pulse jumping, skin flushing hot, stomach doing that uncomfortable flip that's becoming alarmingly familiar.

You don't turn around. Can't. Not when you know what you look like right now—haven't slept in thirty-six hours, hair in a messy bun that's listing severely to the left, yesterday's coffee staining your SHIELD-issued crewneck. Not when you can feel him taking up all the oxygen in the room just by existing in it.

"Captain Rogers." You're proud of how steady your voice comes out, even as your fingers have gone white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. "Something I can help you with?"

Silence. Long enough that you almost turn, almost give in to the gravitational pull of him. Then: footsteps. Measured, deliberate. He's moving closer, and your body tracks his approach like sonar, every nerve ending pinging with proximity alerts.

He stops just outside your peripheral vision—close enough that you can smell him (soap, leather, that cedar-sharp scent that makes your hindbrain whimper), far enough that there's no chance of accidental contact. You notice he does that a lot. Maintains exact distances like he's calculated the precise minimum safe zone between bodies.

"The Brussels intel." A pause. You hear him shift, leather jacket creaking. "Fury wants us to run point together."

Your hands still on the keyboard.

Us. 

Together. 

Run point.

"Us," you repeat, carefully neutral, still not turning around because if you look at him right now your face will do something stupid. Something that reveals how your stomach just dropped through the floor at the prospect of working closely with him. Of being in proximity to Steve Rogers for an extended period when just standing in the same room makes you feel like you're about to vibrate out of your skin.

"Is that a problem?"

There's something in his voice—a challenge maybe, or a test. Like he's waiting for you to admit what you both know: that whatever this thick, electric tension between you is, it's becoming harder to ignore.

"No, sir." You turn then, because not looking is starting to feel more obvious than looking, and immediately regret it.

He's in civilian clothes—dark jeans that shouldn't be legal on someone with his thighs, a navy shirt that clings to his chest in ways that make your mouth go dry. The leather jacket that does things to his shoulders that ought to be classified. But it's his face that kills you—that careful, composed expression that doesn't quite hide the way his eyes darken when they meet yours, the way his jaw ticks when you unconsciously wet your lips.

"Good." He steps closer—just half a step, but your body reacts like he's pressed you against the wall. Your breathing goes shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, and his eyes track the movement before snapping back to your face. "Briefing's at 0800."

"I'll be there."

He should leave. The conversation's over, message delivered. But he doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can't read, and the air between you feels like it's getting thicker, harder to breathe. Your skin prickles with heat despite the aggressive air conditioning, and you can feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, between your legs—

"Your shoulder." The words come out rough, like he's had to drag them from somewhere deep. "How is it?"

"Fine." Your voice sounds breathy, affected. You clear your throat, try again. "Good. It's good. Thanks to you."

Something flickers across his face at that—almost pained, like you've said something that hurts. His hand comes up, and for a heart-stopping second you think he's going to touch you. Your whole body goes still, waiting, wanting, every cell screaming yes, finally, please—

But he just runs it through his hair, a gesture that's so uncharacteristically unguarded it makes your chest ache.

"Steve—"

"I should go." He cuts you off, already stepping back, and the loss of proximity feels like someone's turned off the sun. "Early morning."

He's halfway to the door when you speak, words tumbling out without permission.

"Why do you do that?"

He stops. Doesn't turn. "Do what?"

"Pull back." Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it with his enhanced everything. "You get close, and then you just—" You make a frustrated gesture he can't see. "It's like you're afraid of me."

His shoulders tense, and when he turns to look at you, there's something raw in his eyes for just a second before he shutters it away.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Then what—"

"I'm afraid of what I want from you."

The words hang in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Your breath catches, stops entirely. Your body goes hot and cold at once, skin too tight, like you're having an allergic reaction to honesty.

He looks as surprised as you feel, like the admission escaped without his permission. His hands clench at his sides—you notice he's not wearing gloves, and for some reason that feels significant. Dangerous. His fingers are long, elegant despite their strength, and you have the sudden, visceral thought of what they'd feel like on your skin.

"Captain—"

"Steve." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Just... when it's just us, call me Steve."

Your throat feels like you've swallowed glass. "Steve."

He makes a sound—small, strangled—and takes a step toward you before catching himself. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and his hands—Jesus, his hands are actually trembling.

"This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "I can't—"

"Can't what?" You stand, and your legs feel like water but you need to be closer to him, need to understand what's happening in the space between his words. "Steve, what—"

"0800," he says, and it sounds like surrender. "Don't be late."

He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in a room that feels too cold without him in it. Your skin feels raw, oversensitized, like you've been flayed open and exposed to the elements. You sink back into your chair, legs finally giving out, and press your palms against your burning cheeks.

I'm afraid of what I want from you.

Your body is still humming, vibrating at some frequency that feels like it's going to shake you apart. You can still smell him in the air—leather and soap and something unmistakably Steve that makes your hindbrain want to follow him down the hall, pin him against a wall, and find out exactly what he wants from you.

But you don't. You sit in your chair, stare at intel you can't process, and try to convince yourself that whatever's happening between you and Steve Rogers is just chemistry. Just proximity and adrenaline and two people spending too much time dancing around each other in small spaces.

You're getting better at lying to yourself.

But your body remembers the way his eyes had gone dark when he watched you breathe. The way his hands had trembled. The way he'd said your name like it was being torn out of him.

0800 can't come fast enough.

The briefing room is too small.

That's your first thought when you walk in at 0755, coffee clutched like a lifeline, to find Steve already there. He's studying a holographic map of Brussels, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a tablet. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows turns his hair gold and throws his profile into sharp relief, and your step falters in the doorway because he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting—all strong lines and perfect angles and terrible beauty.

He doesn't look up, but his shoulders tense slightly. He knows you're there.

"Morning," you manage, proud when your voice doesn't crack.

"Agent." Back to titles, then. Back to distance. But when he glances up, his eyes catch yours and hold for a beat too long, and you see him swallow.

You take your seat—across from him, with the whole width of the table between you like a demilitarized zone. But it's not enough. The room's too small, the air too thin. You can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb taps against the tablet in a rhythm that matches your elevated pulse.

"The target's a bioweapon," he says without preamble, swiping something on his tablet that makes the hologram shift and expand. "Hydra remnants, we think. They're moving it through Brussels tomorrow night."

You force yourself to focus on the intel, not on the way his hands move when he talks, precise and economical. Not on the fact that his sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that make your mouth water—all corded muscle and prominent veins and a dusting of hair that catches the light.

"Extraction point?"

"Here." He rounds the table to point at a specific building, and suddenly he's beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that when you breathe in, you get a lungful of his scent that makes your head spin. "Warehouse district. Minimal civilian presence after dark."

You turn your head to look at the map, but that's a mistake because now his face is inches from yours. You can see the barely-there freckles across his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. His eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he jerks back, stepping away so fast you feel the displacement of air.

"We'll go in quiet," he says, voice rougher than before. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his tell for when he's affected. "Two-person infiltration. Quick and clean."

"Just the two of us?" The words come out more breathless than you intended.

He nods, still not looking at you. "Fury wants it kept small. Discreet."

Discreet. Right. You can be discreet. You can be professional. You can absolutely handle being alone with Steve Rogers on a mission without doing something stupid like wondering what his hands would feel like in your hair, or how his voice would sound saying your actual name in the dark, or—

"Questions?"

You realize you've been staring at him, and your face goes hot. "No. No questions."

"Good." He's already moving toward the door, eager to escape, but he pauses at the threshold. When he looks back, there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "We leave at 1400. Quinjet bay three."

"I'll be there."

He nods, starts to go, then stops again. His hand tightens on the doorframe, knuckles going white.

"You should wear tactical gear," he says without turning around. "Full coverage. It's going to be cold."

There's something about the way he says it—careful, deliberate—that makes you think he's not really talking about the temperature. But before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone in a room that still smells like him.

You spend the rest of the morning trying to focus on mission prep, but your mind keeps circling back to the way he'd looked at your mouth. The way he'd jerked back like you'd burned him. The way he'd specified full coverage like he was trying to minimize the chance of—what? Of skin contact? Of touching?

By 1400, you're wound so tight you feel like you might snap. The tactical gear feels heavy, constrictive, like it's pressing all your sensitivity inward. Every brush of fabric against skin feels amplified, every movement hyperaware.

You find him in the quinjet, running preflight checks with the kind of focus that suggests he's trying very hard not to think about something. He's in his Captain America suit—the deep blue that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, red and white accents catching the cabin lights. No skin visible except his face and that thin strip at his neck where the cowl doesn't quite meet the collar, every inch of him covered like armor against something more than physical threats.

"Ready?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.

"Always."

The flight to Brussels takes six hours. Six hours of sitting across from each other in a quinjet that suddenly feels impossibly small. Six hours of trying not to stare at the way his hands move over the controls, sure and competent. Six hours of him studiously avoiding your gaze while the tension ratchets higher with every passing minute.

Halfway through, you shift in your seat, and your knee brushes his under the table. It's barely contact—layers of fabric between you—but you both freeze. His hands still on the tablet he's holding. Your breath catches in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting to see what the other will do.

He pulls his leg back.

You curl your hands into fists and stare out the window at clouds that look soft enough to touch, trying to ignore the way your knee burns where it brushed his, trying to ignore the way he's breathing just a little too carefully across from you.

"You should get some rest," he says finally, voice neutral. "It's going to be a long night."

You don't tell him there's no way you could sleep, not when every cell in your body is hyperaware of his presence. Not when you can feel the weight of his carefully maintained distance like a physical thing.

Instead, you close your eyes and pretend, counting your breaths, trying to ignore the way your body hums with proximity to him. Trying to ignore the fact that in a few hours, you'll be alone with him in the dark, dependent on each other in the way that missions make necessary.

Trying to ignore the way your skin already aches for something you've never had.

When you fake-wake an hour later, he's watching you.

The look on his face—unguarded, soft, almost pained—makes your chest tight. But the second he realizes you're awake, his expression shutters, locks down, becomes Captain America again.

"Descending in twenty," he says, all business.

You nod, start checking your gear, and pretend you didn't see the way he was looking at you like you're something he wants but can't have. Pretend your heart isn't racing from that single, stolen moment of his true face.

Twenty minutes to Brussels.

Twenty minutes until you're alone with him in the dark.

Twenty minutes until whatever this is either snaps or shatters.

Your hands shake as you load your weapons, and you tell yourself it's just pre-mission adrenaline.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The warehouse district in Brussels looks like every other warehouse district you've ever infiltrated—all concrete and shadows and too many places for things to go wrong. Your breath mists in the December air, visible for half a second before disappearing, and you're hyperaware of Steve beside you, the way his body heat seems to radiate even from three feet away.

Three feet. Always three feet.

You've been in position for forty minutes, watching the target building through night vision, and the tension between you has ratcheted so high you can practically taste it—metallic, electric, like the air before lightning strikes.

"Two guards, northwest corner," you murmur into comms, watching them through your scope. Your finger rests against the trigger guard, steady despite the way your whole body feels attuned to Steve's presence. "Rotation in approximately ninety seconds."

"Copy." His voice in your ear makes your stomach flip, low and authoritative. Through your peripheral vision, you catch him adjusting his shield, the movement precise, controlled. Everything about him is controlled. Has been since you touched down three hours ago. Maybe since before that. Maybe since that moment in the briefing room when he'd told you to wear full tactical gear like he was trying to armor you against something more than bullets.

The silence stretches, fills with things unsaid. Your skin prickles beneath the kevlar, every nerve ending hyperalert. Not from danger—not yet—but from proximity to him that feels more intimate than touch. You can hear him breathe, steady and measured. Can smell that cedar-sharp scent that cuts through the industrial stink of the district. Can feel the weight of his attention even when he's not looking at you.

"You know," you say quietly, because the silence is becoming unbearable, "for a stealth mission, you're thinking very loudly."

A pause. Then: "I'm not thinking anything."

"Liar." The word slips out before you can stop it, soft and knowing, and you feel him go still beside you.

"Agent—"

"You said when it's just us, I could—" You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "We're alone, Steve. You can use my name."

Another pause, longer this time. When he speaks, his voice is rougher. "The guards are moving."

He's right. You track them through your scope, watching them disappear around the corner, and try to ignore the way your name apparently burns in his throat, the way he can't seem to say it even when you've given him permission.

"Window's open," you confirm. "Ninety seconds, like clockwork."

"Let's move."

You're up and moving before the words finish forming, bodies falling into perfect synchronization. He goes high, you go low, covering angles with the kind of wordless communication that feels like dancing, like inevitability. Your breath syncs with his as you cross the open ground, and you tell yourself it's just tactical breathing, just professional compatibility.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The side entrance is exactly where intel said it would be. Steve makes quick work of the lock while you cover him, and the domestic intimacy of it—you protecting his back while he works—makes something twist in your chest.

"Got it." The lock clicks open, and he pulls the door wide, weapon raised.

You follow him into darkness.

The warehouse is a maze of shipping containers and scaffolding, all deep shadows and blind corners. Your night vision paints everything in shades of green, turning Steve into something otherworldly as he moves ahead of you, all lethal grace and coiled power. You've seen him fight before, but there's something different about moving with him like this, just the two of you in the dark. Something that makes your body hyperaware of every gesture, every signal.

He holds up a fist—stop. You freeze instantly, trusting him implicitly. He tilts his head, listening to something you can't hear, and you watch the line of his throat, the way his pulse beats steady and strong beneath the skin.

Then you hear it too—footsteps, multiple sets, coming from the east corridor.

Steve looks back at you, and even through the night vision, you can see something pass across his face. He points to himself, then forward. Points to you, then to a stack of crates that would provide cover.

You shake your head. You're not letting him go alone.

His jaw ticks—that tell you've catalogued along with all his others. But there's no time to argue. The footsteps are getting closer.

You move together, silent as shadows, until the first hostile rounds the corner.

Steve takes him down in one fluid motion, shield connecting with a dull thud that the man doesn't get up from. But there are more—so many more—and suddenly the warehouse explodes into chaos.

"Contact!" you shout into comms that suddenly fill with static, jamming signals flooding the frequency. "Multiple hostiles—"

A muzzle flash in your peripheral. You pivot, fire twice, watch the figure drop. Steve's shield sings through the air, ricocheting off three targets in quick succession before returning to his hand. You move back to back without thinking, covering each other's blind spots, and the contact—even through layers of tactical gear—makes your skin burn.

"We need to move!" Steve shouts over the gunfire. "The bioweapon—"

"I know!" You drop two more hostiles, reload with practiced efficiency. "Northwest stairs, we can—"

The explosion knocks you sideways.

Your shoulder hits concrete hard, night vision flickering, ears ringing. Through the smoke, you see Steve fighting like something out of legend—shield and fists and absolutely ruthless efficiency. But there are too many. They keep coming, and you're separated now, a wall of hostiles between you.

"Steve!" You fight toward him, muscle memory and desperation driving you forward.

"Get to the weapon!" His voice cuts through the chaos. "I'll hold them—"

"Like hell!"

But more fighters flood in, and you're forced back, forced to watch him disappear behind a wall of bodies. Your chest goes tight with something that's not quite panic but close—the thought of losing sight of him, of something happening while you're not there to cover his six.

You fight harder, brutal and efficient, trying to close the distance. Your body moves on autopilot while your mind tracks him through glimpses—the flash of his shield, the sound of his voice calling out positions.

Then you hear it. His sharp intake of breath, pained.

"Steve?"

"I'm fine." But his voice is strained, and you catch sight of him favoring his left side, blood dark on his tactical suit. "The weapon—"

"Fuck the weapon." You slam a new magazine home, determination crystallizing into something sharp and desperate. "I'm coming to you."

"No!" The authority in his voice stops you short. "That's an order—get the bioweapon. I'll meet you at extraction."

Every instinct screams against leaving him, but he's right. The mission. Always the mission.

You run.

The stairs are clear—too clear. Your instincts scream trap, but there's no time. You take them three at a time, hip protesting from the earlier fall, listening to the sounds of fighting below. Steve's still engaged, still fighting, and you track his progress through the warehouse by sound alone.

The lab is exactly where intel indicated—third floor, northeast corner. Also exactly as unguarded as you'd feared.

Trap. Definitely a trap.

But the bioweapon is there, contained in a small metal briefcase that seems too innocuous for something that could kill thousands. You grab it, already turning back toward the stairs when you hear Steve's voice crackle through the static.

Not "Agent." Your name, sharp and desperate, and the sound of it makes your blood freeze. "Get out. Now. They're—"

The static cuts him off.

"Steve? Steve!"

Nothing.

You're already running, taking the stairs so fast you nearly fall, the briefcase clutched tight against your chest. The warehouse has gone quiet—too quiet. No more gunfire. No more fighting.

Just silence.

You round the corner into the main warehouse floor and see him.

He's surrounded, on his knees, blood running from a cut above his eye. Six hostiles have weapons trained on him, and his shield is nowhere to be seen. But what makes your blood turn to ice is the seventh figure—a man in tactical gear holding something that looks like—

"No!" The word tears from your throat as you recognize the device. Sonic disruptor, strong enough to disorient even a super soldier.

The man's finger depresses the trigger.

Steve convulses, hands going to his ears, and the sound he makes—

You're moving before conscious thought catches up, pure instinct driving you forward. The briefcase clatters to the ground as you raise your weapon, laying down cover fire that sends three hostiles scrambling. But you're exposed now, in the open, no cover between you and—

The first shot catches you in the vest.

The impact slams you backward, driving all the air from your lungs in a whoosh that whites out your vision. Your body armor holds—SHIELD makes good gear—but the force spins you sideways, and before you can recover, before you can breathe—

The second shot finds the gap.

Right where your vest meets your hip, that vulnerable slice of space where mobility trumps protection. The bullet tears through tactical fabric and skin and muscle like tissue paper, and the pain—

The pain is exquisite.

White-hot agony blooms from your hip, spreading like wildfire through your nervous system until every cell is screaming. You hear yourself make a sound—sharp, breathless, more surprise than scream—and then your legs are failing, and you're falling, and the concrete rises up to meet you like an old friend.

Your name rips from Steve's throat like something being torn from his chest cavity.

Through blurring vision, you see him move.

The sonic disruptor doesn't matter. The six weapons trained on him don't matter. He erupts from his knees with a sound that's barely human, pure rage and desperation, and bodies go flying. He fights like something mythical, like something out of the stories they tell about Captain America, except there's nothing heroic about this. 

This is brutality. Devastation.

Your hands shake as they try to find the wound, fingers slipping on something warm and wet that's spreading way too fast. The pain is enormous, eating at the edges of your consciousness, white-hot and pulsing with each heartbeat. Your tactical pants are already soaked, the fabric clinging to your skin, and when you lift your hand it's painted crimson in the warehouse's emergency lighting.

That's... that's too much blood. Way too much.

Your body starts to shake—shock, probably, or blood loss, or just the simple animal recognition that you're badly hurt. Your teeth start chattering, and you can't make them stop, jaw clenched so tight you taste blood from where you've bitten your tongue.

"No, no, no, no—"

Steve crashes to his knees beside you so hard the concrete cracks. His hands—his bare hands, when did he lose his gloves?—hover over you for a fraction of a second before pressing against the wound. The pressure makes you scream, body trying to curl away from the pain, but he holds you down, holds you still.

"Hey, hey, look at me." His voice cracks completely, nothing like Captain America's steady authority. This is just Steve, terrified and desperate. "Look at me. Stay with me."

You try to focus on his face, but it keeps fracturing, splitting into doubles and triples before reforming. Your eyes won't track right, keep sliding away like they're too heavy. His face is covered in blood—from the cut above his eye, from other wounds you can't catalog—and there's something wild in his expression, something that makes your chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the bullet.

"Steve—" Your voice comes out wrong, too wet, copper flooding your mouth. When you cough, something warm splatters across your lips.

"Don't talk, don't—just stay still. I've got you." He's pressing so hard against the wound that new pain blooms, sharp and bright, making your vision white out at the edges. But his hands—his hands are shaking where they press against you, and that seems wrong somehow. Steve Rogers's hands don't shake. "Med evac's coming. Two minutes. Just two minutes, you have to—"

His voice breaks completely, and you realize he's crying. Captain America is crying over you, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and dirt on his face.

"'S okay," you slur, though it's not, though nothing is okay. Your tongue feels thick, clumsy. "'M okay."

"You're not okay." It comes out harsh, angry, but his hands on your wound are so careful, desperately trying to hold you together. "There's so much blood. Why is there so much—"

That's when you see it. His bare hands are pressed against your wound, skin to skin where your tactical gear has been torn away, and you wait for something—for warmth, for electricity, for whatever cosmic sign is supposed to indicate a soul bond. But there's just the cold creeping up your limbs and Steve's devastated face above you.

"Please," he's saying, over and over, like a prayer or a plea. "Please, just hold on. Just—"

He reaches for your face with one blood-slicked hand, maybe to check your pupils, maybe to keep you conscious, and that's when it happens.

His palm cups your cheek, and the world explodes.

Not with pain this time, but with something else entirely. Something that races through your dying body like lightning finding ground, like coming home, like every cell suddenly remembering what they're made for. The bond slams into place with the force of a freight train, decades of waiting condensed into a single moment of contact that rewrites everything you thought you knew about existence.

The warmth that floods through you has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with recognition. With rightness. With the soul bond that's singing in your bones, drowning out even the pain, making everything else fade to background noise. You can feel him—not just his hand on your face but him, his emotions crashing into yours like a tidal wave. Fear and longing and desperate denial and—

He rips his hand away like you've burned him.

"No." The word comes out strangled, broken. He's staring at his hand like it's betrayed him, then at your face with something that looks like pure horror. "No, not—not like this. Not now—"

The loss of his touch hits worse than the bullet did. Your body convulses, a sob ripping from your throat that you can't control, can't stop. The bond—new and raw and screaming—feels like someone's reached into your chest and started pulling things out. Every nerve ending is firing wrong, confused, desperate for the contact that just got ripped away.

"Steve." Your voice breaks on his name, barely human. The world is going fuzzy at the edges but this—this burning absence where his hand was—this is crystalline. "Steve, please—you're—we're—"

"Don't." He's pressing against the wound with just fabric between you now, using torn pieces of his uniform to maintain pressure without skin contact. His whole body is shaking, violent tremors that make his hands unsteady. "This can't—I can't—"

"Please." The word comes out slurred, desperate, all your walls crumbling with your blood pressure. Your body moves without permission, trying to arch toward him, and the movement sends agony through your hip but you don't care, can't care, not when every cell is screaming for him. "Need—need you t'touch me. Please. Hurts—hurts so much without—"

A whimper escapes, high and broken, and you're crying now—real tears mixing with blood from where you've bitten through your lip trying not to beg.

"I can't." He's sobbing openly, pressing harder against the wound as your blood soaks through the fabric barriers he's maintaining. His face is wrecked, destroyed, tears cutting tracks through dirt and blood. "I can't do this to you. I can't—everyone I touch—everyone I—"

"'M dying." It's matter-of-fact, clear even through the growing fog. Your body knows it, feels it in the way everything's going cold and distant.

Your hand lifts, trembling so hard it's more spasm than movement, reaching for his face. He catches your wrist with fabric-covered fingers, holding you back, and the sound you make—wounded, animal, barely human—seems to physically hurt him.

"You're not dying." Fierce, desperate, a lie that cracks in his throat. "You're not. Med evac's thirty seconds out. You're going to be fine, you're going to—"

"Hurts." The word is pure anguish. Not just the wound but the rejection, the bond screaming, tearing, dying in your chest. Your body's shutting down but somehow the ache of his denial cuts deeper. "Steve, please—am I—did I do something wrong? Am I not—not what you wanted—?"

"No." The word rips from him with enough force to echo off the warehouse walls. He's shaking so hard the fabric between you vibrates with it. "No, you're perfect. You're everything. You're—Christ, you're everything I never let myself want. That's why I can't—"

"Don' understand." Your vision is tunneling fast now, darkness eating the edges. Your body won't stop shaking, violent tremors that make your teeth chatter. "'S supposed to—soulmates supposed to—to help. To make it better. Why won't you—why won't you just—"

Another sob tears from your chest, weaker this time. Your reaching hand falls, fingers still twitching toward him.

"Because I'll destroy you." Raw, bleeding, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "Because everyone I've ever—because I'm not meant for this. For you. You deserve someone who—someone whole. Someone who isn't—"

"Jus' wanted—" Your voice is fading, each word a monumental effort. Your body feels like it's floating and sinking at once. "Jus' wanted to know what it felt like. To be yours. Steve—'m so cold—”

Your eyes are sliding shut, but you force them open one more time, finding his face. He looks shattered. Broken. Like watching you die is killing him too.

"'M sorry," you whisper, and you don't know what you're apologizing for. For dying? For being his soulmate? For not being enough to make him want to hold you? "Sorry I'm not—not worth—"

"Stop." His voice breaks completely. "You're worth everything. You're worth—"

But you're already going under, the last sensation being the phantom burn of where his palm touched your cheek for those thirty-seven seconds. The bond screams and screams and screams, and then—

The med evac arrives in a thunder of sound and motion, but you can't process it anymore. Hands are moving you, lifting you, but all you can focus on is Steve's face, the way he's looking at you like you're taking his soul with you.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice following you into the darkness. "I'm so fucking sorry. You deserve better. You deserve everything."

The last thing you see is him standing there, your blood painting his bare hands red, looking like a man who's just given up the one thing he wanted most in the world.

The last thing you feel is the phantom burn where his palm touched your cheek, the bond screaming for a connection that's been severed, your body trying to reach for something that's already gone.

The last thing you think, with the last conscious part of your mind, is that you would have been good to him. You would have been so good to him, if he'd let you.

But maybe that's why he pulled away.

Maybe he knows something you don't—that good things don't last, that soulmates are just another pretty lie the universe tells to make the dying easier.

Your hand falls limp, still reaching for him, and the darkness takes you under.

The medbay ceiling has exactly 247 tiles. You know because you've counted them approximately forty-three times since waking up, which was—what? Two weeks ago? Three? Time moves differently when your body is trying to rebuild itself from the inside out and your soul is trying to tear itself apart looking for someone who won't come.

The gunshot wound is healing. Slowly, methodically, with the kind of grinding precision that modern medicine excels at. They'd had to do surgery twice—once to stop the bleeding, once to repair the mess the bullet made of your intestines. The scar will be ugly, they tell you with professional sympathy, as if that's what you're worried about. As if the external scarring could possibly compare to whatever the fuck is happening inside your chest where the bond lives.

Or dies. You're not really sure which anymore.

Your nights follow a pattern now, predictable as clockwork. At 10 PM, the ward goes quiet, lights dimming to that particular hospital twilight that never quite achieves darkness. At 11:47 PM—always 11:47, like he's calculated the exact time the night nurse finishes rounds—you hear it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Careful, measured, but with that particular weight that only belongs to him. Your body recognizes them before your mind does, skin prickling with awareness, the bond flaring to life like struck kindling.

The first night, you'd opened your eyes.

He'd frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by hallway fluorescents, and for thirteen seconds (you counted), you just stared at each other. His face was—God, his face was something you'd never seen before. Raw. Destroyed. Like someone had reached inside him and rearranged everything until it no longer fit right.

"I—" he'd started.

You'd waited, heart hammering so hard the monitors had started alarming, bringing nurses running.

By the time they'd cleared out, satisfied you weren't dying, he was gone.

Now you know better. You keep your eyes closed, breathing deep and even, and let him have whatever this is. Whatever he needs.

He sits in the chair by the window—always the same chair, the one that creaks slightly when he shifts his weight. For the first ten minutes, he just sits there, breathing. You match your inhales to his, careful to keep them sleep-slow even though your heart is racing, even though every cell in your body is screaming to reach for him.

Sometimes he talks.

"They're releasing you tomorrow," he says tonight, voice barely above a whisper. "Fury told me. Said you're healing well. That you'll be able to—that you'll be fine."

Fine. The word sits between you like a lie neither of you believes.

"I know you're awake."

Your breath doesn't catch. You've gotten very good at this game.

"I know you're awake," he repeats, softer. "Your heartbeat changes when I'm here. Just a little, but—" A pause. The chair creaks. "I memorized it. Before. The sound of your heartbeat. Didn't mean to, it just—happened. Enhanced hearing and all."

You want to open your eyes so badly it's physical pain, but you don't. Can't. Because if you do, he'll leave, and even this—this careful distance, this monitored proximity—is better than nothing.

"I'm being reassigned."

Now your breath does catch, just slightly. You hear him shift forward.

"Fury thinks it's best. For both of us. Different divisions, different missions. Clean break." His voice cracks on 'clean' like the word itself is cutting him. "It's better this way. You can—you can find someone else. Someone who isn't—"

Broken, you want to finish. Scared. Frozen in a past that no longer exists.

But you keep your eyes closed, keep your breathing even, keep pretending that your chest isn't caving in with every word.

"I watched Bucky with his soulmate," he continues, and you've never heard him sound like this. Lost. "Watched how easy it was for them. How she touched him and suddenly he was whole again, was himself again. How the bond just—fixed things. Made sense of them."

The chair creaks again. Closer now. You can feel the heat of him, smell that cedar-sharp scent that makes your body ache with want.

"I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought if I didn't have a soulmate, I could pretend I didn't belong here. Could keep one foot in the past, you know? Keep waiting to go home to a time that doesn't exist anymore. But then you—"

Silence. Long enough that you almost open your eyes, almost give up the pretense.

"You make me want to stay," he whispers, and it sounds like a confession. Like something torn from him against his will. "You make me want to belong here. In this century. In this life. And that fucking terrifies me."

Your eyes burn behind closed lids. Your throat aches with words you can't say.

"So I'm leaving. Because you deserve someone who isn't terrified of wanting you. Someone who can touch you without feeling like the universe is ending. Someone who—" His voice breaks completely. "Someone who didn't let you bleed out rather than accept a bond."

You hear him stand, the chair scraping slightly against linoleum. Feel him hesitate, that particular stillness that means he's fighting himself.

Then warmth. Just for a second. The ghost of fingers near your hand where it rests on the blanket, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, the way the air shifts between you.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Then he's gone, and you finally let yourself cry—silent, body-shaking sobs that you muffle in the pillow so the night nurse won't come. The bond aches like a severed limb, phantom pain for something you had for exactly thirty-seven seconds in a warehouse in Brussels.

Tomorrow, they release you.

Tomorrow, you go back to a life where Steve Rogers is just someone you pass in hallways, someone who looks through you like you're a ghost, someone who touched your face once while you were dying and then decided you weren't worth the risk.

Tonight, though. Tonight you lie in a hospital bed and count ceiling tiles and pretend you don't know that he stands outside your door for another twenty-three minutes before he finally makes himself leave.

Your apartment feels like a crime scene you're returning to.

Everything is exactly as you left it three weeks ago—coffee mug still in the sink, laptop still open on the counter, the ghost of your normal life preserved in amber. Except you're different now. Hollowed out and reconstructed wrong, like someone took you apart and lost a few crucial pieces in the reassembly.

The first night is the worst.

You'd thought the hospital was bad, with its antiseptic smell and endless fluorescent twilight. But at least there, you could pretend Steve might appear. Could lie to yourself that the footsteps in the hallway might be his.

Here, in your own space, there's no such illusion.

The bond aches constantly. Not the sharp, immediate pain of the first few days, but a bone-deep throb that makes everything feel wrong. Food tastes like ash. Sleep comes in fragments, always interrupted by dreams of warehouse floors and the phantom warmth of a palm against your cheek. Your skin feels too tight, like your body is rejecting itself in the absence of touch it's only had once.

You try to go back to work after a week.

Fury takes one look at you—hollow eyes, hands that won't stop shaking, the way you flinch when anyone gets too close—and sends you home.

"Medical leave," he says, not unkindly. "Take the time you need."

You want to tell him that time won't fix this. That you could take a year, a decade, and you'd still be searching every room for a ghost who won't appear. But you just nod, gather your things, and pretend you don't see the pity in his eye.

The second week is when the anger arrives.

It starts small—irritation at the barista who makes your coffee wrong, frustration with the TV remote that won't work properly. But it builds, feeds on itself, until you're standing in your kitchen at 2 AM, hurling the mug Steve never saw you drink from against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces that still somehow hold more cohesion than you do.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

To touch you, to activate a bond you didn't even know existed, and then rip himself away like you're something toxic. To visit you every night but never when you're awake to actually see him. To make decisions about your life, your future, your soul without even asking what you want.

You track his missions through the internal SHIELD networks you're not supposed to have access to anymore. London. Moscow. Cairo. Always moving, always running, like distance could somehow break what's already broken. Your clearance hasn't been revoked yet—an oversight, probably—so you read his reports, clinical and detached descriptions of operations that tell you nothing about whether he's eating. Whether he's sleeping. Whether his soul feels as flayed as yours.

Probably not. He chose this, after all.

The third week is when you see him.

You're not prepared. How could you be? You're just buying groceries, standing in the cereal aisle like a normal person pretending to care about fiber content, when you feel it—that familiar prickle of awareness, the bond flaring to life like muscle memory.

You turn, and there he is at the end of the aisle. Frozen, like he's been caught. He looks—

He looks like shit.

Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones like he hasn't been eating, a carefulness to his movements that speaks of bone-deep exhaustion. His hands are shoved in his pockets, probably to stop himself from reaching for you. Or maybe just to hide how they're shaking.

For a moment, you both just stand there, two people separated by twenty feet of fluorescent lighting and an unbridgeable chasm of his making.

You watch his mouth form your name. Not quite speaking it, just shaping it, like even that much is more than he's allowed himself.

Your body moves without permission, taking one step toward him, and he takes a step back.

Right.

The message is clear. Crystal fucking clear.

You turn around, leave your half-full cart in the middle of the aisle, and walk out of the store with as much dignity as you can muster. Make it all the way to your car before the shaking starts, before you have to grip the steering wheel just to keep yourself anchored.

Twenty feet.

He couldn't even stand to be within twenty feet of you.

That night, you draft seven different resignation letters. Because fuck this. Fuck playing this game where you pretend you're okay, where you pretend that seeing him doesn't make you want to scream or cry or claw your own skin off just to escape the constant ache of the bond.

You don't send any of them.

But you keep them, just in case.

Week four is when Natasha shows up at your door.

"You look like hell," she says without preamble, pushing past you into your apartment.

"Thanks. Great pep talk. You can go now."

She ignores you, taking in the disaster you've let your living space become—dishes piled in the sink, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the general apocalyptic ambiance of someone who's given up.

"He's not doing any better, you know."

You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Good."

"He sits outside your building sometimes." She says it casually, like it's nothing, like it doesn't make your heart stutter and race. "At night. When he thinks no one will notice. Just sits in his car and stares up at your window like a fucking Victorian ghost."

"He made his choice."

"He made a stupid choice," she corrects. "Because he's a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he's protecting you."

"From what?" The words explode out of you, months of frustration and hurt finally finding voice. "From having a soulmate? From being loved? From fucking touching another human being?"

"From him." Her voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when she's being cutting. "From what he thinks he is. What he thinks he'll do to you."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No," she agrees. "It's not."

She leaves after that, but not before placing a small piece of paper on your counter. An address. A time. Tomorrow, 3 PM.

"He won't be there," she says. "But you should go anyway."

You stare at the paper for a long time after she's gone, memorizing numbers you'll probably never use.

But when tomorrow comes, you go anyway.

Because maybe you're just as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as he is.

Or maybe you're just tired of being angry.

Maybe you're just tired, period.

The address leads to a small gym in Brooklyn, the kind that smells like old leather and determination. You expect it to be empty—Natasha said he wouldn't be there—but there's someone in the ring.

Barnes.

He's working the heavy bag with mechanical precision, each punch measured and brutal. The sound echoes in the empty space—thud, thud, thud—rhythmic as a heartbeat. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his shoulders tense slightly, that particular stillness of someone who's hyperaware of their surroundings but pretending not to be.

Your stomach does something complicated. You've seen him around the Tower these past couple months since Steve brought him in, but always at a distance. Always with her—his soulmate, the one who somehow reached through seven decades of programming to find the man underneath. The one who touches him like it's breathing, casual and constant and necessary.

"Natasha send you?" His voice is flat, careful.

"Yeah."

He stops punching, turns to face you. Takes you in with those winter-gray eyes that see too much, catalog too much. There's still something unfinished about him, like he's a sketch someone's only halfway through shading. Two months of freedom haven't quite erased seventy years of being someone else's weapon.

"You look like shit," he says, which isn't what you expected.

"Thanks. Everyone keeps telling me that."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Steve looks worse, if it helps."

"It does, actually."

This time he does almost smile, just a flash before his face settles back into its usual brooding. He unwraps his hands slowly, methodically, like he's buying time to figure out what to say. The motion is practiced, automatic—muscle memory that belongs to James Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. You wonder how many things like that he's had to relearn. How many small, human gestures he's had to excavate from under decades of conditioning.

"This is..." He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. The gesture is so remarkably normal it makes your chest tight. "I don't usually do this. The talking thing. That's more—" A pause, like he's trying to remember who handles these things now, in this new life where he has friends instead of handlers. "That's not really my thing."

"Then why—"

"Because Steve's an idiot," he says bluntly. "And someone needs to explain why he's being an idiot, and apparently that someone is me." He tosses you a pair of wraps. "You know how to use these?"

"I'm on medical leave."

"Not asking you to fight. Just asking if you know how to wrap your hands. Gives you something to do while I..." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses the awkwardness of the entire situation.

You do know how to wrap your hands. The familiar ritual of it—loop around the wrist, between the fingers, across the knuckles—gives your body something to focus on besides the constant ache under your ribs where the bond lives. He watches you do it, noting the slight tremor in your fingers that hasn't gone away since Brussels. 

"He ever tell you about Peggy?" Barnes asks suddenly, like ripping off a bandaid.

You pause, stomach twisting into something complicated. "No."

"Course not." He leans against the ropes, and for a moment looks older than whatever age he's supposed to be. "From what I remember—and my memory's not exactly..." He taps his temple with his metal finger, the soft whir of recalibrating plates filling the silence. "But from what I remember, and what I've been able to piece together since, he loved her. Real love, not just wartime desperation. Had her picture in his compass, carried it everywhere. Used to moon over her like she hung the goddamn stars."

Your chest tightens, ribs suddenly too small for your lungs. You focus on wrapping your hands, but the fabric keeps slipping because your palms have gone sweaty.

"But he knew they weren’t soulmates."

"Yeah. And it didn't matter to him. He chose her anyway." Barnes's jaw ticks, and you can see him working through memories that might be his or might be stories he's been told—the confusion of it flickers across his face. "I was already gone when he went into the ice. But from what I've learned, when he woke up, she'd lived a whole life without him. Found her actual soulmate. Got married. Had kids. The whole American dream he thought he was fighting for."

The words land like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last. 

Steve chose Peggy. Chose her without destiny, without the universe's intervention, without biological imperatives. Just looked at her and decided she was worth defying fate for.

And you?

You're just what the universe assigned him. The consolation prize. The participation trophy for surviving into a century he never wanted to see.

Your hands still on the wraps. "That's not—she couldn't have known he'd survive—"

"Doesn't matter. Logic doesn't factor into it." His metal hand flexes, a nervous tic you've noticed before. "I think—and look, this is just my theory, thrown together from bits and pieces—but I think Steve maybe saw it as proof. That the universe was right all along. That choosing her was just him being stubborn, going against what was meant to be."

The words settle heavy in your stomach like you've swallowed cement. "So when he found out I was his soulmate..."

"Proof he's supposed to be here. In this century he's never felt like he belongs in." Barnes's voice goes quiet, almost careful. You can see him choosing his words, this man who's spent two months relearning how to have opinions. "Look, I've only been... back... for a couple months. I'm still figuring out who Steve is now versus who he was then. Half my memories of him are probably more fantasy than fact at this point. But from what I can see, if he accepts you, then he has to accept that this is where he's meant to be. That this is home."

"And he doesn't want that."

"He wants it so much it terrifies him."

Barnes moves to the speed bag, starts a rhythm that's almost meditative. His metal arm moves differently than the flesh one—more precise, less natural, like he's still learning to inhabit it.

"When they brought me in, when I was still more Winter Soldier than anything else, my soulmate—she didn't give me a choice." The rhythm falters for a moment. "Just kept showing up. Kept touching me even when I tried to—" He stops. Restarts. The sound fills the gym like a heartbeat. "Even when I was dangerous. Even when I couldn't remember her name five minutes after she said it."

You know this story, or pieces of it. Everyone at SHIELD does. But the way he tells it—halting, like he's still surprised by it—makes it feel different. Raw. Like he still can't quite believe someone chose to love him through the worst of it.

"I could have killed her. Almost did, more than once those first few weeks. But she kept coming back." The speed bag stills. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment he looks lost, like he's forgotten what to do with them when they're not fighting. "I didn't get to push her away. Didn't get to decide I was too broken or too dangerous. She made that choice for both of us."

"And it worked out."

"Yeah." His voice does something strange here—goes soft in a way you didn't think it could. Like even after decades of violence, there's still something in him capable of gentleness. "Yeah, it did. But Steve—Steve's got this idea that he's protecting you. From disappointment. From loss. From him."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No. It's not." Barnes looks at you directly, and there's something almost sympathetic in his expression. "But he's gonna make it anyway unless someone stops him. And I'm too fucked up myself to be giving relationship advice, but—"

The gym door opens, cutting him off, and Barnes's entire demeanor changes instantly. It's like watching winter thaw in fast-forward—his shoulders drop, his face loses that careful blankness, even his breathing seems to ease. You turn to see a young woman entering, all bright eyes and gentle energy that seems to fill the space with warmth.

"Hey," she says, and Barnes is already moving toward her like she's got her own gravitational pull, like his body just naturally orbits hers. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, doll. Just—" He gestures vaguely at you, and she turns that warm attention your way.

"Oh! You must be the one Nat mentioned." She extends her hand, and her smile is so genuine it makes your chest hurt. There's something knowing in her eyes, something that says she understands what it's like to love someone who thinks they're unlovable. "I've heard about you."

"Hopefully not all bad."

"Never." She squeezes your hand gently before releasing it. "How are you holding up?"

The question is so earnest, so carefully kind, that you almost start crying right there in the gym. Your throat goes tight, eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.

"I'm—" You stop, unable to lie to this person who radiates the kind of empathy that makes dishonesty impossible. "Managing."

She nods like she understands, and somehow you think she does. Then she turns back to Barnes, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge. He leans into her space without seeming to realize it, his hand finding the small of her back with the kind of casual intimacy that speaks of constant touch, constant contact. The metal hand, you notice. The one that's caused so much damage. She doesn't flinch from it.

"You eat today?" she asks him quietly, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice is impossibly soft, private.

"What did you eat?"

A pause. His mouth quirks slightly—a ghost of whoever James Barnes was before the war, before the fall, before everything. "You."

She smacks his chest. "That doesn't count as food, James."

"Seemed pretty filling to me."

"Oh my god." She turns to you, cheeks pink but biting back a smile. "Six decades as an international assassin and he thinks he's a comedian now."

"I'm hilarious," Barnes says, completely deadpan, but his hand is rubbing small circles on her back, and the look she gives him—fond and exasperated and completely besotted—makes something crack in your chest.

Because this is what choosing looks like. This is what wanting looks like when it's not forced by biology or destiny or the universe's sick sense of humor.

Steve chose Peggy like this. Without destiny. Without force. Just looked at her and knew she was worth everything.

And you? You're just the assignment. The universe's way of telling him he can't go home. The anchor keeping him in a century he never asked for.

Your hands curl into fists inside the wraps, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.

"We're gonna grab dinner," Barnes's soulmate says to you, still tucked against his side like she belongs there. "Real food," she adds with a pointed look at him. "You should come."

"I—no, thank you. I should—" You gesture vaguely at nothing, at the door, at escape.

"Think about what I said," Barnes interjects, not unkindly. His eyes are serious, understanding in a way that makes you want to run. "And..." He pauses, seems to wrestle with something. "Steve's an idiot. But he's an idiot who's been looking at you like you hung the moon since before Brussels. That's not the bond. That's just him."

They leave together, her hand in his, talking quietly about dinner plans and everyday things. You watch them go, Barnes letting her guide him toward something as simple as a meal, and the comparison burns in your throat like acid.

He never pushed her away. Even when he was dangerous, even when he was broken, even when he couldn't remember her name. He let her choose him.

But Steve? Steve took one look at the bond between you and ran.

Because with Peggy, he had a choice. He chose to love her.

With you, he doesn't. You're just what he's stuck with.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

He has a mission briefing tomorrow at 0900. Conference room C. Just saying.

You delete the text, but the information burns in your brain.

Maybe it's time to stop letting Steve Rogers make all the choices.

Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Even if you'll never be Peggy Carter.

Maybe especially then.

Conference Room C is empty.

You stand in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the polished table and empty chairs, at the blank whiteboard that mocks you with its pristine surface. The digital clock on the wall reads 09:07. You've been lurking in the hallway since 08:45, watching people filter in and out of different rooms, none of them Steve.

Of course.

Of course Natasha's intel was wrong, or maybe it was right and he changed locations when he realized you might—

Fuck this.

Fuck all of this.

The anger that's been simmering for weeks boils over, hot and sudden. 

You're done. 

Done waiting, done hoping, done letting Steve Rogers dictate the terms of your existence with his absence. Your hands shake as you turn to leave, the bond aching with fresh disappointment, and you're so focused on not crying that you don't hear the footsteps until—

A hand wraps around your elbow.

Even through the fabric of your shirt, you know it's him. Your body recognizes his touch like a key in a lock, every nerve ending suddenly alive, suddenly screaming. You're yanked sideways—not roughly, but with desperate efficiency—into a supply closet that smells like printer toner and industrial cleaner.

The door clicks shut, and you're plunged into darkness cut only by the thin strip of light under the door.

Your eyes adjust slowly, and when they do—

Jesus Christ.

Steve looks destroyed. 

No, destroyed doesn't cover it. 

He looks like someone reached inside him and hollowed him out with a rusted spoon. His uniform is torn—actually torn, with what looks suspiciously like blood staining the blue fabric black. There's a cut on his cheekbone that's already healing, but slowly, like even his enhanced body is too exhausted to properly function. His hair is matted with ash and something darker. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide in the darkness, and he's breathing like he can't get enough air, like his lungs have forgotten how to work properly.

"Steve?" Your voice comes out tentative, barely a whisper.

He makes a sound—broken, animal, completely unintelligible. His hand is still on your elbow, grip tight enough that it should hurt but doesn't, and you can feel him trembling. Not just his hand. All of him. Vibrating with something that looks like shock but feels like barely contained devastation.

For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dim light. His chest heaves with each breath, and you can smell the mission on him—gunpowder and smoke and something else, something that makes your stomach turn. Death. He smells like death.

"Steve, what—"

He breaks.

With a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like it's being torn from the very center of him, Steve pulls you against him. It's not gentle. It's desperate, consuming, like a drowning man finding solid ground. One hand tangles in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands hard enough to make your scalp sing with that perfect edge of pain-pleasure. The other arm bands around your waist, and then—

His hand slides up under your shirt, fingers splaying wide against the bare skin of your back, and you both gasp.

The bond roars to life.

It's not the gentle warmth you'd imagined soulbonds to feel like. It's a flood, a tidal wave, every point of contact sending liquid heat through your veins like you're mainlining pure sensation. Your knees buckle, but he's got you, holding you up with desperate strength as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder.

The noise he makes then—God, you'll hear it forever. Half sob, half relief, muffled against your neck as he breathes you in like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His body curves around yours, too tall, too broad, trying to eliminate every millimeter of space between you.

"Had to—" His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable, words pressed hot against your throat. "Had to find you. Couldn't—fuck, I couldn't breathe—"

His hand on your back moves restlessly, seeking more skin, and when his fingertips brush the edge of your bra, you shiver so hard he groans. The sound vibrates through your chest where you're pressed together, and you can feel his control fracturing, feel the way his hands shake with the effort of not taking more.

But he does take more.

His hand in your hair tightens, tilts your head back to expose your throat, and his mouth presses to your pulse point—not kissing, just resting there, feeling your heartbeat against his lips. The hand under your shirt spreads wider, slides higher, until his thumb brushes your ribs and you make a sound you've never made before.

"The mission," he says against your skin, and you feel more than hear it. "There was—Christ, there was this couple. Shopping for groceries when the building came down."

His whole body shudders, and he presses closer, pins you against the door with his weight like he needs the contact to stay upright. You can feel every line of him through the torn uniform—the hard planes of his chest, the way his stomach muscles clench with each ragged breath, the thick press of his thighs against yours.

"She died instantly." The words come out broken, wet. "But he—he lived long enough to feel the bond break. Have you ever—" His voice cracks. "I've never heard anyone scream like that. Like his soul was being ripped out through his chest."

"Steve—"

"All I could think about was you." His confession comes with another full-body shudder, and suddenly his mouth is moving against your throat, not kissing but talking, like he needs the contact to get the words out. "What it would feel like if—if I lost you before I ever—"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wet, devastated, completely without walls. "I can't lose you. I can't. I'll die. I'll actually fucking die."

"You won't lose me," you breathe, but he's already shaking his head, already pulling you impossibly closer.

"You don't understand." His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with reverent desperation. "The bond—it's not—for normal people it's intense, but for me—" He makes a sound like he's in physical pain. "The serum amplifies everything. Every sensation, every emotion, every—"

He cuts himself off by pressing his forehead to yours, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Steve."

"I need—" His hand at your back shifts, slides around to span your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, and you both freeze. The touch is electric, sends sparks racing down your spine, pooling low in your belly. "Fuck, I need to touch you. Need to—please. Please, just let me—"

"Yeah." The word comes out embarrassingly breathy, but you don't care because his hands are already moving, already taking.

He spins you suddenly, presses your back against the door, and then his hands are everywhere. One slides up to cradle your throat—not squeezing, just holding, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm. The other pushes your shirt up, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's memorizing you through touch alone.

"So soft," he murmurs, and it sounds like prayer. "How are you so fucking soft?"

His thumb finds the hollow of your throat, presses gently, and your head falls back against the door. He makes a sound like you've killed him, and then his mouth is on your neck, open and hot and desperate. Still not kissing exactly—more like tasting, like he needs to experience you with every sense.

Your hands come up to clutch at his shoulders, and he crowds closer, presses you harder against the door. His thigh slides between yours, and the pressure makes you gasp, makes your hips cant forward involuntarily.

"That's it," he breathes against your throat. "Let me feel you. Let me—"

His hand at your throat slides down, palms the curve of your breast through your bra, and the sound you make is embarrassing and needy and you don't care because he echoes it, his hips pressing forward to pin you completely.

"Been dying," he confesses against your collarbone, words muffled by skin and want. "Every day, dying by inches. Watching you walk past, smelling your shampoo in the hallways, hearing your laugh and knowing I couldn't—"

"You could have." Your hands find his hair, tangle in the sweat-damp strands, and he groans. "This whole time, you could have—"

"No." He pulls back to look at you, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. "Would've destroyed you. Consumed you. The bond, the way I need you—it's not normal. It's not healthy."

"I don't care."

"You should." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding up your ribs again, fingertips tracing patterns that make you shiver. "You should be terrified of how much I want you. How much I need to—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, but his body betrays him. His hips press forward, and you can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way he's shaking with want.

"Show me," you breathe, and he makes a sound like you've shot him.

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Then show me."

His control snaps like a rubber band stretched past its limit.

His mouth finds yours with the kind of desperation that makes your knees buckle, and it's nothing like you imagined during those long, empty nights. Nothing soft or careful or sweet. This is drowning. This is Steve Rogers trying to climb inside your skin through your mouth, one hand fisted in your hair to angle your head exactly how he needs it, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades like he's trying to fuse your chest to his.

His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you taste copper—blood from where he's bitten his lip raw—mixed with something that's just fundamentally him. Something that makes your brain short-circuit, makes you grab at his shoulders just to stay upright. The bond roars to life under your skin, weeks of rejection suddenly reversed, and the whimper that escapes you would be embarrassing if you could think past the electricity racing through your veins.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, not really pulling back, just speaking the word into you like he needs you to swallow it. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tug just hard enough to make you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to lick deeper into your mouth, thorough and filthy and completely at odds with Captain America's public persona.

Your back hits the door harder as he presses closer, and you can feel how affected he is—the way his chest heaves against yours, the tremor in his hands, the hard length of him pressed against your hip. It's overwhelming and not enough, too much and not nearly—

"Perfect," he growls, breaking away just long enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping in a way that's definitely going to leave marks. "You're so fucking perfect. Do you have any idea—" His hand slides under your shirt, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's mapping you for memory, "—what you do to me? How many meetings I've had to leave because you walked by and I could smell you?"

"Steve." Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. Your hands are in his hair now, tugging probably too hard, but he groans like you've given him a gift.

"I know, sweetheart. I know." His mouth finds your pulse point and sucks, and your vision whites out for a second. "I've got you. Let me—just let me—"

His hands shift with purpose now, one sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise, the other pushing your shirt up, up, until cool air hits your stomach. And then—Jesus Christ—he's dropping to his knees with a fluidity that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, pressing his mouth to the skin above your waistband like communion.

You look down and nearly combust. Captain America—Steve—on his knees in a supply closet, eyes closed like he's praying, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach that are somehow both worshipful and obscene. His tongue traces the line where your pants sit low on your hips, and your hands fly to his shoulders because your legs have forgotten how to work.

"Should've been doing this for months," he murmurs against your hipbone, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin and muscle and straight to your core. "Should've been worshipping you. Should've—" His voice cracks, and suddenly his arms are banded around your waist, his forehead pressed to your stomach like he's hiding. "That man today, when his bond broke—the sound he made—"

"Steve." You card your fingers through his hair, gentle this time, trying to soothe whatever demon is riding him. He shudders against you, full-body, and presses closer.

"I can't lose you." The words come out muffled by your skin, but the desperation in them is crystal clear. "I can't. I won't survive it."

"You won't lose me."

It's probably a lie. You're both in a dangerous line of work. People die. Bonds break. But right now, with him on his knees looking like you're the answer to every prayer he's never let himself voice, you'd promise him anything.

"Promise." His hands tighten on your waist, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the composed soldier the world knows. "Promise me."

"I promise."

He surges up and kisses you again, different this time. Still desperate but searching, like he's trying to memorize you—the shape of your mouth, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours, the way you shake when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra. It's overwhelming in a different way, intensity without hurry, and you're dizzy with it, drunk on the sensation of being wanted this badly by someone who's spent months pretending you don't exist.

When he finally pulls back, you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, slick, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. You probably look worse—you can feel your hair sticking to your face with sweat, your mouth tender and used.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. "For Brussels. For after. For being such a fucking coward."

"I know." You do. It doesn't fix anything, not yet, but you know.

"I'll make it up to you." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can't help the way your tongue darts out to taste it, salt and skin and Steve. His breath hitches. "However long it takes."

"You can start now." It comes out more breathless than the sultry suggestion you were aiming for, but something about your desperation makes his eyes go dark again.

He laughs, rough and ruined, and presses one more kiss to your mouth—this one soft, almost chaste, if not for the way his hand tightens possessively in your hair.

"Tonight," he says, and it sounds like a prayer. "Let me—let me shower, change, become human again. And then dinner. Real dinner. Where I pick you up and we go somewhere and I don't run when the bond makes me feel everything."

"And if you run?" You're trying for threatening but it comes out vulnerable, scared. Because he's run before. He's so good at running.

His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressed to where your pulse hammers against your skin. "You have my full permission to hunt me down and make my life hell."

"I will." And you mean it. You're done being the one left behind, the one reaching for someone who's already gone.

"I'm counting on it."

He steps back, and the loss of contact hits like cold water. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive, nerve endings firing confused signals—where is he, why isn't he touching us, bring him back. You can see him feeling it too, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the way his body sways toward you like you've got your own gravitational pull.

"Tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you have a bad mission, come find me. Don't wait. Don't hide. Just—come find me."

Something in his expression cracks open, vulnerable and raw and so un-Captain America it makes your heart skip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you one more time—quick, fierce, a brand, a promise—and then he's gone, leaving you slumped against the door on legs that feel like jello. Your mouth is swollen, your skin still burning everywhere he touched, and you're pretty sure you've soaked through your underwear, but the bond...

For the first time in months, the bond doesn't ache.

It purrs.

It fucking purrs.

Tonight. Eight o'clock.

You're going to need a very long shower. And possibly a new pair of pants.

And maybe—just maybe—you're going to get what the universe has been trying to give you all along.

Even if you're not Peggy Carter. Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Right now, with the taste of him still on your tongue and bruises already forming on your hips in the shape of his fingers, you can't bring yourself to care.

"Tell me about Peggy," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly breathy because Steve's just shifted his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh with bruising intensity. The pressure sends heat pooling low in your belly, makes your inner muscles flutter around him. "Can we... not?"

It's not the most unreasonable request in the world. He's inside you, after all, thick and perfect and stretching you in ways that make coherent thought impossible. You're straddling him on the couch, and he's maneuvering you exactly how he wants—one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, the other splayed possessively across your lower back, controlling your rhythm with casual strength that makes you dizzy. Like you weigh nothing. Like you're his to position and please and wreck completely.

"Bucky says—"

A growl rumbles through his chest at the name, vibrating through your body where you're joined. His hand slides from your back to your throat in one fluid motion. Just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath his palm. A reminder. A warning.

"Another man's name?" His voice is dark, edged with something primal that makes your stomach flip. "While I'm inside you?"

You gasp as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. "S-says she's the reason you stopped believing in soulmates."

Steve goes still. Not completely—he's still buried deep, still hard, still breathing like he's barely holding onto control—but his hands stop their restless movement, and his eyes snap to yours with something like exasperation mixed with disbelief.

"Are we really doing this?" His thumb presses against your pulse point, and you feel your heartbeat stutter. "You want to talk about someone else while I'm trying to fuck you through this couch?"

"I just—oh god—" Your train of thought derails as he rolls his hips up, deliberate and punishing, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

"What you need," he says, voice dropping to that Captain-giving-orders tone that should not work in this context but absolutely does, "is to stop overthinking and let me take care of you."

One hand slides up your spine to tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your neck arch, exposing your throat to his mouth. The other grips your hip, holding you still as he rolls his hips again, controlled and devastating.

"She wasn't my soulmate." The words are pressed hot against your throat between open-mouthed kisses that feel more like claims. "Loved her, yes. A long time ago. Thought I'd marry her if I survived the war. But she wasn't mine."

His teeth graze your collarbone, and your whole body shudders, nerve endings singing. The bond between you pulses with each heartbeat, amplifying every sensation until you can't tell if the pleasure is yours or his or some perfect fusion of both.

"Not the way you are." His hand in your hair tightens, forces you to meet his eyes. They're blown dark, barely any blue remaining. "Not even close to the way you are."

"But—"

"Sweetheart." He stops moving entirely, and you make a sound of protest that would mortify you if you could think past the need coiling tight in your belly. "Listen very carefully, because I'm only saying this once."

His hand leaves your throat to frame your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the possessive grip in your hair.

"She chose someone else. Her actual soulmate. And yeah, it messed me up. Made me think the universe was laughing at me." His hips flex slightly, involuntarily, and you both gasp. "But you know what I realized?"

"What?" The word comes out wrecked, barely audible.

"The universe wasn't wrong. I was." He releases your hair only to grip the back of your neck, holding you steady as he starts to move again, slow and deep and deliberate and exquisite. "I wasn't meant for that time. If she'd been my soulmate, I'd have stayed in the forties. Lived a quiet life. Had the house and the kids and the picket fence."

"That sounds—"

"Like everything I thought I wanted," he agrees, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that has you seeing stars. "Until I woke up here. Until you walked into that briefing room two years ago, looking so goddamn competent and untouchable, and my body knew you were mine before my brain could catch up."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, and you feel his pleasure spike through the bond, mixing with yours until you can't separate them.

"I fought belonging here for so long," he continues, voice getting rougher, more breathless. "But you—Christ, you make me want to stay. Make me grateful the ice gave me you instead of her."

"Steve—"

"That’s it, sweetheart. No more names but mine," he commands, and then he's kissing you, deep and claiming and filthy. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste desperation and possession and something that feels dangerously close to devotion. When he pulls back, you're both panting. "And I want to keep hearing it. Preferably screamed."

You nod, words beyond you, and something dark and satisfied flashes across his face.

"Good girl."

The praise shoots straight through you, makes your cunt clench around him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and his control finally, blessedly shatters.

He fucks up into you with purpose now, each thrust deliberate and devastating. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, palming your breasts with possessive familiarity. Every touch feels magnified, the soul bond amplifying sensation until you're drowning in it. You can feel his pleasure mixing with yours, feeding back on itself in an endless loop that has you both gasping, clutching at each other like you might dissolve without the anchor of skin on skin.

"This is what I think about," he confesses against your throat, words punctuated by the snap of his hips. "Not the past. Not her. You. Always you. How you feel around me, how you taste, the sounds you make when you're close."

Your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks, and he hisses, the pain-pleasure bleeding through the bond making you both groan.

"The serum," he pants, rhythm getting erratic. "Fuck, the goddamn serum makes everything more intense. Every touch, every—I can feel you everywhere. In my blood, in my bones. Under my skin where I couldn't get you out even if I wanted to."

"Don't want you to," you manage, chasing your release, that coil in your belly wound so tight you might shatter.

"Never." It's a vow pressed into your skin with teeth and tongue. "Never letting you go. Mine. My soulmate, my—fuck, I'm close—"

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you're gone. The orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, pleasure so intense it borders on transcendent. You do scream his name, just like he wanted, and he follows you over, your name on his lips like a prayer, his hands holding you against him like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. The bond hums between you, satisfied and warm, and for the first time in months, you feel whole.

"So," you say once you can form words again, unable to help yourself, "just to be clear—"

He flips you suddenly, pressing your back into the couch cushions, and the predatory look in his eyes makes your breath catch. He's still hard, still inside you, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, you both groan.

"You want clarity?" His voice is dark, promising. He hitches your leg higher around his waist, slides deeper, and your head falls back. "Let me be very, very clear."

He pulls almost all the way out, then slides back in with devastating slowness, making you feel every inch.

"You are the only person I think about," he says, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and intentional. "The only person I want. The only person who's ever made me grateful to be exactly where I am, when I am."

His hand slides up your thigh, grips behind your knee to open you wider, and the new angle has you gasping, clutching at his shoulders.

"The past is the past," he continues, voice steady despite the way his control is visibly fraying, tendons standing out in his neck. "And I plan to spend my future making up for lost time. Starting now."

"Steve—"

"That's it," he praises when you say his name, and rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that has your back arching off the couch. "Just like that. Let me show you exactly how not hung up on the past I am."

And he does.

Thoroughly.

By the time he's finally satisfied you understand, you've forgotten not just her name, but your own. The only thing that exists is him, the bond between you singing with contentment, and the absolute certainty that the universe knew exactly what it was doing.

Even if it took Steve Rogers seven decades to appreciate the gift.

You don’t need much.

You never do.

Only a job to do and quiet air to breathe and a way to make yourself invisible in a world filled with men who speak louder than their hearts beat.

You make yourself small.

Small like the corner of the kitchen where the marble curves and your knees tucked up into a soft hush of silence. Like your voice, folded and placed beneath the drawer where silverware sings.

You move silent. Always. No sound, no trace. Just the scent of lemon oil and the faint thud of footsteps that never want to be heard.

You’ve been working since morning.

Hands chapped from washing crystal glassware. Your apron stained with stories you never get to tell. You move through the mansion like a ghost trained to hold teacups and wipe sins from polished wood.

You move through a house that’s too grand, too cold, too full of men in ironed suits who smile without kindness. It’s not a home. It’s a den. A kingdom with a crowned wolf.

And that wolf is James Buchanan Barnes.

You are always in the background. Always where he doesn’t look.

But he always seems to be everywhere.

And you feel him everywhere you go. You don’t let yourself meet his gaze often, but when you do - god. His gaze is a cut you don’t mind bleeding from.

He owns the mansion and everyone in it, including the space you take up - barely - with your existence. He speaks and the walls listen. He blinks and the world rearranges itself. And when he walks into a room, everyone becomes more careful with their breathing.

But you are always careful.

You wipe the countertops, polish the dark wood, realign vases as if your life depends on symmetry. You refill crystal glasses before they’re empty. You hold your breath when his men laugh too loud and clap each other on the back as though violence is an inside joke.

Today is a meeting again. Important. The men arrive in thick coats and cigars clenched between teeth. They talk in low voices, laugh in cruel ones.

You glide around them.

You keep your head down.

You serve drinks.

You disappear.

Unseen, as always. Useful, as always.

You are a ghost in this grand house and you like it that way.

But ghosts can still be seen sometimes.

There’s a man with a crooked smile and a gold ring too heavy for his fingers. He watches you. Follows you with the kind of eyes that make your skin want to run away without you. He finds you alone in the hallway. You pretend not to see him.

“Hey,” he speaks up.

You freeze.

“I was talking to you,” he says again, his voice wet and syrupy with menace. “Don’t be rude, babygirl.”

You turn slowly, heart thundering. You duck your head and try to walk around him. He blocks you.

His hand is on your arm. His fingers grip tight.

You wince. Your breath falters like a snapped violin string. He says things you don’t understand at first - words made of oil and sleaze, slipping against your skin like poison. You pull back. He smiles with a sneer.

He doesn’t like you resisting him.

He grips harder. Says something crude. Filthy. Something about Bucky and what he lets you do behind closed doors. His other hand reaches for your waist. You shake your head. You plead with your voice, plead with your eyes. But he touches you again. His thumb presses into the hollow beneath your chin. Too hard. Too cruel.

“No,” you whimper, though it feels too quiet. “Please, don’t.”

Then, there’s a crash.

Something hit the ground with a sound like shattered sky.

Porcelain. Old porcelain and ivory. Sacred. Delicate.

It was a vase. Bucky’s vase. You know, because you’ve dusted it countless times. Venetian. A hundred years old.

Your breath dies in your throat. Your heartbeat is louder than the crash had been.

Footsteps. Loud. Fast.

Bucky.

He’s there, suddenly. Looking at the shards on the floor. At the man who no longer stands in touching range. At you.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is calm. Too calm.

The man laughs cruelly. His mouth curls into the kind of smile that sharpens knives. “She did it,” he says. “Clumsy thing. Guess that’s why you keep her in the background, huh?”

Bucky’s eyes burn straight through you. Blue ice, molten core. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink.

You can’t speak. Your heart is wild. Your mouth is full of cotton and panic and him. Because the guy who just assaulted you is leaning close. Too close. His lips not moving, but the threat is there, dangling in the air like a noose. His dark eyes are terrorizing you, pressuring you to lie and admit it was you.

So you do.

Your tongue is made of sand. Your voice cracks in half when you say it. “It was me, Mr. Barnes. I am sorry, sir.”

Bucky says nothing.

He watches you. Watches the tremble in your hands. Watches the shame crawl across your face.

His gaze cleaves you in two.

Steel and smoke and ice. His eyes are so still. So impossibly, unreadably still. As if he’s measuring time in heartbeats. As if he is listening for a lie buried inside your lungs. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even breathe. Just looks. And looks. And waits.

He’s giving you a chance.

To take it back.

But you can’t. You don’t. You’re afraid.

And you wish you could explain. That this man - this stranger - made you feel like nothing, and now you’re even less. That you didn’t mean to lie. That you didn’t mean to let him believe something so vile. That you’re scared. Terrified. That you’d rather be punished than see another man’s fingers curl around your throat as though they have the right.

But you say none of those things.

Bucky shifts.

It’s slight. A quiver running through his jaw. A breath through flared nostrils. His hand brushes his coat back and you see the glint of his silver wrist. His metal hand. His death sentence, they call it.

And it’s trembling.

From rage.

And you nearly take a step back. You feel like your ears are about to burst from all that blood rushing through them.

You let your fear cloud the truth. You think it’s you. You think it’s your name in the back of his throat like a stone he’s about to spit out. You think you’ve disappointed him. Shamed him.

But he’s not even looking at you. He’s looking at him.

That other man says something. Something you don’t entirely pick up. A joke. A smirk in sentence form. But Bucky still doesn’t look away from him. He steps forward once, slow, deliberate, the way storms begin.

And then his voice. Low. Quiet. Commanding. Deadly. “Go to your room.”

You flinch.

You think it’s punishment. It has to be. You’ve failed him. You’ve confirmed his worst suspicions about you. Maybe he never looked at you with softness at all. Maybe it was pity. Nothing more.

So you obey. You bow your head and turn away and walk fast. Fast enough that he won’t see the tears forming in your waterline. You don’t see the way Bucky moves behind you. You don’t see the way he corners the man without lifting a hand. You don’t hear what he does.

You only disappear into your room, close the door, and shut yourself from the world once more.

But it’s too quiet in here.

Too clean.

It smells of soap and fresh laundry.

And it’s too small for your feelings.

Too small for this kind of fear.

It sticks to the curtains. Soaks into the mattress. And you can’t stop shaking. Your hands, your ribs, your breath - all traitors.

You’re curled in the corner with your apron still on, knees pulled so close to your chest, you wonder if you could disappear inside yourself and never come back out.

Your chest is an echo chamber of scattered apologies. In your mouth, there’s a foul taste, iron and sorrow, and the salt of your own shame.

You shouldn’t have spoken. You should have just let that man do to you what he wanted, then nothing would have happened. You shouldn’t have broken that vase - even if you didn’t. But somehow you did. Somehow you should have stopped it. Somehow it’s your fault. You should have been more careful. Faster. Quieter. Smarter. Less.

Less.

You think you keep whispering it under your breath. Less, less, less. As if shrinking small enough would undo it all. As if reducing your worth to nothing would rewind time and prevent his eyes - James Barnes’ eyes - from looking at you that way.

You think you saw the end of everything in that gaze.

You think your heart might fall out of your chest if you don’t keep your legs curled up.

You hear a knock on your door. Soft. Almost nothing.

But the sound sends lightning through your spine.

Then the door opens, and the owner of everything that is yours steps inside.

Your bones snap into panic.

You scramble backward. Away. Away. You don’t mean to, but your body remembers pain that hasn’t happened. Your heels knock against the leg of your bed frame and you choke on a sob you didn’t give permission to be born.

Bucky just stands there. Stares at you as if you’re not real, as if his eyes don’t know how to look at you like this. His mouth parts.

Your chest caves in and your mouth is flooding. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry,” you sob, too fast, too loud, too much. “I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t, please- I will work longer, I will stay up all night- I’ll do more, I’ll be better- I can- I will fix it- I don’t need pay, I really don’t- I will do better- I promise, please-”

You scramble further back, against the wall as though the floor has been cut out beneath you. Your breath catches like a fishhook in your throat.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, and your words stumble, collide, collapse into each other like bodies on a battlefield. “I didn’t mean to break it. Please- please, don’t-”

Something in Bucky’s face cracks.

He flinches.

But you’re not looking at him. You can’t. You’re crying too hard. Your words are broken glass, cutting your lips on the way out. You can’t breathe past the guilt sitting on your chest like a cinder block. You don’t even realize you’re begging. You just know you’ve ruined everything and he’s there to punish you.

But nothing comes.

He doesn’t shout.

He doesn’t move.

He just stares. Stands there with his mouth agape and stares.

Still. Shocked. As if your words have peeled the skin off his chest.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes.

But you don’t recognize his voice. It’s a whisper trying not to cry. It’s the sound of a thousand pieces clicking out of place in real time.

He doesn’t come closer. Not yet. His hand lifts - painstaking and cautious.

It’s enough to make you flinch.

And he freezes. Showing both his palms up for you to see that he is unarmed. As if you could hurt him.

Your eyes land on his face for a second. Just a second. And god. You’ve never seen him like this.

Not Bucky Barnes, not the man who breaks other men with a single glance. Not the man who commands a room without speaking. Not the man who walks like thunder in a suit tailored by the devil himself. That man is gone.

This one - this Bucky - is wide open.

His brow is furrowed deep with perplexity. With horror. With something that looks like heartbreak. He’s staring at you as though he’s witnessing something sacred being shattered.

You. He’s looking directly at you. As though you’ve wounded him just by being so scared.

He takes one step closer.

You flinch again and press yourself farther into the wall. Your body wants to disappear. Fold into the drywall. Cease.

Bucky pauses. But then he takes another step. Slower this time. His hands are still lifted in surrender. His mouth opens and closes as though he’s trying to say something but has to learn how.

“You think I believed him,” he finally manages. It’s not a question. It’s a breath. Something broken.

You press your forehead to your knees and cover your ears. You don’t really hear him. You don’t want to hear what he has to say. You don’t want to remember. Those hands on you. That laugh. That sneer. The crash. The guilt.

You want to crawl out of your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you choke. “I’m sorry. Please- I didn’t mean to-”

“No,” he cuts and it’s a whisper made of thunder. “No, don’t- please don’t say sorry, honey. Don’t apologize. Sweetheart, look at me- look at me.”

You can’t.

And he kneels.

The James Buchanan Barnes - the wolf-king of these walls - kneels on your floor as though he’s kneeling at an altar. As though you are something holy and he’s just now realizing he’s blasphemed by letting you believe, even for a second, that you were unloved. He’s giving you the higher ground. As though he’s the one begging.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice breaks. You didn’t think it could do that.

He looks at you as if he wants to gather you up but doesn’t dare move.

“Please, darling, look at me,” he pleads.

You do for a second. A single beat of a glance and then your body is shuddering on another sob and you’re turning your shoulder to the wall.

He looks away for a moment. Muscles tic in his jaw, his throat works hard.

“Don’t be scared of me,” he whispers, and his voice is nothing but heartbreak now. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t look at me like that.”

He doesn’t touch you. His hands hover near your arms but don’t make contact. His eyes are begging for permission. For forgiveness. For something maybe he himself doesn’t know.

“I should’ve been there faster,” he croaks. “I should’ve- I didn’t know he got that close to you. I didn’t-” He pauses. He breathes. A self-inflicted punishment in the tremble of his hands.

“But don’t you ever - ever - think I’d hurt you. Don’t you ever think that someone would get away with this.”

You want to believe him. You want to crawl toward the sound of his voice and the warm safety it promises.

But your body is a locked door.

And fear is the keyhole you can’t look through.

He watches you fold into yourself again, and something in his eyes flashes - pain, sharp and bright, like a wound reopening. He reaches out slowly, achingly, as though every inch is a question.

You don’t move. You tremble.

Still, his hand hovers in the air between you, trembling too.

“Can I-” he starts, voice rough. “Can I touch your hand?”

You hesitate.

But after a few tense seconds, you nod. Small. Weak. Just enough for him to see it.

His fingers are warm. Gentle. His touch is soft. Like lullabies. He exhales vehemently. As though he’s been holding his breath the moment he walked in.

“You’re safe, sweetheart,” he whispers. “You hear me? You’re safe with me. I’m not gonna hurt you. He’s not gonna come near you again. No one is.”

Your breath stutters and your head lifts just a little. And that’s all he needs. His metal hand slowly moves to brush your cheek. His thumb, ever so carefully, ever so tender, wipes away a tear. Then another. Then all of them.

You look at him. And he’s wrecked.

His eyes are a war zone and you are the peace treaty he doesn’t think he deserves to sign.

“I took care of him,” he goes on, voice as soft as your pillow, but there is something burning in it. “He’ll never be able to touch you again. He’ll never be close enough to breathe your air.”

You’re still shaking, but less so.

Because his hand is still on your face.

Because he’s still kneeling on your floor.

Because his voice is shattered and not out of rage, but grief.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he repeats, so patient, so soft. “Please hear me, love. You didn’t. You did what you thought you had to. I’m the one who’s sorry, baby. I should’ve protected you. I should’ve known better.”

You hiccup. The sob catches in your throat but you don’t try to swallow it.

“You’re not mad at me?” you sniff weakly.

His whole body stutters at that. He closes his eyes, jaw clenched. You think you see pain twist across his mouth. When he opens his eyes again, they are wet.

“Mad at you?” he echoes with a broken voice. Then, he whispers again, his thumbs swiping over your hand and cheek. “Sweetheart, I’m mad for you.”

You stare at him, breaths ragged and eyes bloodshot, not knowing what to do. Not knowing what to say.

“You’re safe,” he soothes, again. And you almost believe him. “With me, you’re safe.”

And ever so slowly, your body stops flinching and starts leaning. Ever so slowly, the tension drains from your shoulders like thawing ice. Ever so slowly, you let your fingers curl back around his.

And it seems you’re breathing again. Your chest is heaving.

And he sees it. Feels it.

And as tenderly as he can, he moves closer, and pulls you into his arms.

And you let him.

You collapse into his chest as though he’s the ground after a long fall. His arms are strong around you, protective. Not like a cage. Like a home.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against your temple. “I’ve always got you.”

His heart drums beneath your ear. His hand strokes your back, your hair.

He holds you for a long, long time.

You cry. He doesn’t let go. He only pulls you closer. Tighter to him.

You close your eyes and breathe him in - smoke and cedar and something that smells of safe.

He rocks you a little, just enough, just right.

And maybe it’s possible that you didn’t deserve what happened to you. And that you deserve this instead.

Because Bucky Barnes, mob king and monster, is holding your shaking body in his arms and soothingly shushing you with a voice so soft, you don’t know if anyone ever heard it before, and promised himself he’ll never let anyone make you feel this small again.

“This is for you.”

Twelve-year-old Bucky Barnes looked up from the wriggling worm on the ground and squinted his eyes against the blinding sun. The sky of Brooklyn was the color of his eyes today, bright and vast as if someone had splashed a painter's brush across the horizon. Under the stretch of blue, his gaze landed on you—the new girl at school, the one his classmates had been whispering about since Mr. Morris decided to take everyone out to the park for today's PE lesson. 

Johnny Hurst told Bucky that you were the prettiest dame he had ever seen.

And boy, if the punk weren't telling the truth.

Bucky's eyes flitted over you from head to toe—taking in the slight tilt of your head, the subtle curve of your lips, and the worn blouse that clung to you at least half a size too big—before they finally landed on the hand outstretched towards him.

“What's this?” he asked.

“It's a flower.”

“I can see that.”

Abandoning the worm, Bucky rose to his feet and brushed the dust off his slacks. You observed his movements with fervor, your hand still curling around the yellow daffodil as if its petals held the cosmic tethers that kept the entire universe from falling apart.

You extended your palm further, positioning the flower directly under his nose until he could smell the fragrance caressing his cheeks.

“It's for you,” you repeated.

Bucky's eyes flicked twice between your face and the daffodil. “Is this a trick?”

“No.”

“Someone put you up to this?”

“No.”

“Where'd you get the flower?”

“From there.”

Bucky's eyes followed the direction of your finger, spotting the daffodil bushes located just a few paces ahead. Not in full bloom yet, but nearly. A golden oasis in the midst of a playground of gray and trampled grass.

You turned towards him again, your expression remaining unchanged as you told him, “I picked it up from the ground.”

Bucky stared at the daffodil in silence. “You're giving me a wilted flower?”

“It's not wilted.”

There was a shadow appearing in the center of your forehead. Your fingertips twitched where they hovered attentively around the yellow petals, as though the accusation had offended you, as though Bucky had spoken blasphemy against the flower by calling it wilted.

“It's been on the ground,” Bucky pointed out.

“So? It simply fell off. Doesn't mean it's wilted.”

“Ain't that the same thing?”

“No.” You pouted, your forehead creasing deeper as your hand cradled the daffodil closer to your chest. “A wilted flower is dead. It doesn't have any love remaining inside it. This flower is not like that.”

And then, like some kind of switch had been flipped, you angled your head towards him—entwining his eyes with your steadfast gaze, rendering his legs motionless with the sight of a brilliant grin stretching across your beautiful face.

“This flower still has a lot of love to give to the world,” you proclaimed.

Bucky's heart stuttered.

It must have been a premonition from the heavens when Bucky's arm began lifting of its own accord, receiving the daffodil from your hand and relishing in the elated hum that the gesture elicited. The petals were delicate against the skin of his palm, and Bucky suddenly feared the possibility of crushing them due to his overt carelessness.

“She's yours now.” You beamed, swaying slightly on your feet as your hands clapped in infectious joy. “She'll give you all of her love if you promise to take care of her.”

His lips quirked. “It's a she?”

“Of course,” you replied, the sun glinting radiantly in your pupils. “All the beautiful things in life are a she.”

Bucky couldn't find it in himself to argue.

He watched you leave with heart on his sleeve, bewitched by the ribbon of your laughter dancing in the wind. His fingers curled protectively around the yellow daffodil, his heart singing in tandem with the rhythm of your skipping feet echoing through the earth.

“Hey!” Bucky called out. You stopped halfway in your tracks, smiling at him from the distance like his wildest daydreams made into flesh. “Why me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why'd you decide to give the flower to me?”

The grin on your face widened, and Bucky—bless his heart—thought for a moment that his entire limbs might collapse.

A breeze rustled the surrounding trees, cavorting around until it floated across your cheeks. You stumbled back a step upon its intrusion, your eyes peering shyly under the harsh judgment of the sun. And yet, your smile prevailed—still soft as a wisp, still managing to make Bucky's chest alight with something more precarious than a raging flame.

“Cause you're handsome,” you answered at last, the sound of your giggles resonating throughout the air and straight into Bucky's soul. “Take good care of her, James Buchanan Barnes.”

Blue eyes trailed along as you disappeared around the hedge, remnants of your melodic voice still dithering in the sky, a gentle lull against the wild thumping of his heart. As the world settled into its insipid normal, Bucky Barnes knew that there were two things of which he was absolutely certain.

One: the flower in his hand had now become the most prized possession in his otherwise monotone life.

And two: he had actually never told you his name.

Somehow, Bucky found that he didn't quite mind both.

“Say, handsome. Any chance you could tell a girl where to find a good time around here?”

Bucky hadn't even turned when the smile broke across his lips. 

His soul meandered towards your voice, his heart leaping out of its cage as he took in your entire figure for the first time that night—flowy dress and red lipstick, platform heels and a pair of lips that looked like they held whispers of a secret he would spend a lifetime trying to unravel. Your own smile blinded him as you approached closer, the cadence of your steps a harmonious symmetry with the surrounding ruckus of the carnival. 

“I'd show you a good time, doll.” He smirked once you stood in front of him, your chin tilting up in a way that made Bucky want to drop to his knees and worship the ground you had walked on. “All you gotta do is ask.”

“Really? Just ask?” You hummed, fluttering your lashes and sending a whole swing band loose in Bucky’s gut. “Shame. Here I thought I'd bargain a smooch for your company. Guess I'll just have to give it to someone else, then.”

You didn't have a chance to turn before Bucky yanked you back towards him, firm fingers curling around your wrist like a ship finally mooring to land. He swallowed your surprised yelp with a kiss, devouring your gasps as if the two of you weren't standing under caramel-slicked air and a parade of balloons and shrieks.

“Quit jokin’ about kissing someone else, sweetheart,” he rasped against your lips, fingers resolute where they squeezed around your hip. “Lest you're lookin’ to see me die of a heart attack.”

Your smile bloomed. “Then why don't you kiss me some more, Buck?”

He was more than happy to oblige.

His lips found yours again, slower this time, savoring every second as if he were living on borrowed time. The world around you faded away into an abstract background, centering you in the moment, where everything you yearned and cared for was the hint of sugar you could taste on your boyfriend's lips.

When the two of you parted for the second time, Bucky studied your face as though memorizing a miracle right before his very eyes. It made something stir in the depth of your chest.

“Got you something,” Bucky admitted, excitement and joy spilling out of his skin.

You waited patiently as he reached into his pocket, pulling out an eyeglass case that made your eyebrows pinch in wonder—since when did he wear glasses? But before you could ask, Bucky was already opening the lid, and the view of its content managed to coax a gasp of awe from somewhere within your ribs.

“Bucky, this is amazing.”

You picked up the tiny arrangement between your pointer and middle fingers, admiring the way the flowers were bound together into a miniscule bouquet. They were tethered to one another by a string of stem and twine, a thread of nature and mankind, existing side by side in an eternal waltz that fate had bestowed upon them.

Your chest tapered, bringing the tiny bouquet closer to your heart as you captured the giddy blue of Bucky’s eyes. “You made this yourself?”

“I did.” Bucky nodded, his chest inflating in a pale delight. “Well, Becca helped. Who could've guessed that tying a yarn around flower stems required nimble fingers, huh?”

You laughed along, concealing the way your insides were melting into a puddle as if this weren't the nicest gesture anyone had ever done for you.

“Ma gave me an earful when she saw me in the garden, dirt on my hands and knees, lookin’ for fallen blossoms. Said I'd better get some proper flowers for my girl if I didn't want her runnin’ off with another fella.” Bucky chuckled. “But I told her this was more special. After all, these buds ain't wilted yet, which means—”

“They still got love to give,” you whispered, void of air and yet brimming with boisterous affection. You kissed his chin and rewarded him a grin. “You know who else got love to give, Buck?” 

Bucky laughed, that rare, beautiful sound that always seemed too big for the world to hold. He cupped your cheek like he was holding a precious porcelain, leaning closer until your foreheads rested against one another.

"Yeah, sweetheart." He breathed, nudging his nose to yours. "I sure as hell do.”

“Mission report,” a voice commanded.

In the center of the room, the Soldat sat on a throne made of metal and terror. A cushion designed not for rest, but for bearing witness to the drips of blood pooling beneath restraint-bound limbs. Other soldiers stood all around the room, their cowardice louder than their breathing, their backs refusing to peel from the walls as if it could absolve them of their complicity.

The quiet stretched.

Out of the shadows, the tall, fiendish man emerged, carrying the kind of cruelty that even hell would cower from. He examined the Soldat and raised his eyebrows, noting down the asset's lack of response—an observation for later, an error to repair as if the Soldat had been a mere machine instead of a living soul.

The man stepped closer, repeating himself with a bellowing voice that would beckon the dead from their graves, “Mission report, Soldat.”

Still no answer.

The tension sweltered.

“What's wrong with him?” another man chimed in.

The first one shook his head, his mind already gearing, going through the motions on how he could pick apart and assemble the Soldat into something new, something better. But before he could jot down the evil plan on his notepad, his gaze slid downward, spotting the defensive curl of the Soldat's flesh fist hidden partly by his right thigh.

“There is something in his hand.”

The second man sprung into action, approaching the chair and demanding the frozen man on it to unclench his fingers, now. But the Soldat didn't move, not even a single indication to acknowledge the receival of the command. Even when the smack thundered across his cheek, the Soldat continued to stand his ground, a show of defiance through the very last thing he could still afford.

“Soldat.” The first man attempted again, a cold edge coursing through his words. “Give us what's in your hand before we put you back in the cryo.”

The Soldat didn't say anything, but his fingers flexed—just a tiny bit—though it was enough to help the second man pry the mysterious object out of the Soldat's hand.

“What is it?” the first man asked, a hint of impatience leaking through his practiced image.

“It's, uh… It's…” the second man stammered. 

He turned his palm around, confusion palpable in his eyes as he showed his colleague the mysterious object that the Soldat had guarded with more ferocity than any weapon they’d ever placed in his hands.

A slightly crumpled yellow daffodil.

“It's a flower?” the first man nearly roared. “It was just a fucking wilted flower?”

“It's not wilted.”

The room fell into an instantaneous hush. Every pair of eyes inside ambled towards the center of the room, towards the assassin who had just decided to break his silence over the trivial matter of flowers.

The first man turned towards the Soldat with a menacing stare, his eyes a pair of blades as he stepped closer towards the seat of torture, studying the Soldat who was still sitting stiffly as if awaiting the next round of nightmares. But beneath the blue eyes, usually steely and cold, something else had clawed its way through—something fiery and reckless, something akin to humanity.

The first man sneered, turning to the entire room to bark his orders, “Wipe him. And put him in the ice until further notice.”

People moved in a flurry of limbs as soon as the instruction had settled. Amidst the havoc, everybody failed to notice the silent tick of the Soldat's jaw, the scintillating shift of his pupils as unsolicited hands forced him back against the chair, strapping his entire body with restraints that felt more like burning coals against an expanse of skin.

The Soldat kept his eyes trained on the drab surface of the ceiling, bracing himself for the pain to come, for the same searing agony that had muddled his brain far too many times to count. He wouldn't remember much afterwards—wouldn't remember how desperately he kept wishing for death in those horrifying moments—but he would certainly remember the fear. Thrumming under his skin like lightning against a drowning man's ribs.

At the first descent of the machine upon each side of his head, the Soldat suddenly heard it—the voice. 

The one who wasn't his own but sounded like a missing piece of his soul.

The one who always appeared in times when he needed an anchor and something to hold.

The one who had told him to pick up the daffodil while he was on the field.

“Take it,” the voice had adjured. “Take the flower. It's not wilted yet, it has simply just fallen.”

So he did.

And right now, the voice was returning once more, only this time, it didn't come alone.

It came with flashes—images.

An image of laughter and smiles, of promises and dreams. An image of two bodies tangled beneath the sheets, spent breaths and a humming pleasure rushing through bloodstreams.

It came with an image of you.

“It's gonna be alright,” you told him, so gentle and kind that he almost believed it. “Everything's gonna be alright, honey. I'm right here with you.”

The machine awakened with an ominous snarl, triggering a low whine inside his skull, rising gradually until it split the edges of his mind apart. He tried to hold onto something, anything, but there was nothing left inside him except for scraps of bones and a heart mangled beyond any devastation the world could ever imagine.

He was no one. 

No name. No face. No soul. 

Just a body, wired and broken, as mechanical as the chair he sat upon.

As good as wilted.

“You're not wilted.”

The Soldat blinked.

“You've merely fallen, honey,” you assured, smiling so sweetly he could almost taste it on his tongue. “Fallen things aren't wilted. And fallen things—oh, sweetheart—they still have so much more love to give.”

“You dropped one, Sarah.”

Bucky bent down to pick up the flower on the floor, the one that had fatedly fallen from the bouquet of fragrance and colors that Sam's sister was currently moving to a clear vase. The petals fluttered like silk on the skin of Bucky's palm, and his knees nearly gave out from underneath him when he finally took a proper look at the blossom in his grasp.

A yellow daffodil.

“Just throw it away, Buck,” Sarah said from her place in the kitchen. She crumpled the parchment wrapper of the bouquet before throwing it into the bin, the arrangement of flowers now sitting proudly on the kitchen counter. “It's been on the ground, anyway.”

“Just ‘cause it's fallen, doesn't mean it's wilted yet.” Bucky sauntered towards the kitchen, stopping to position the bud amidst the array of petals and stems. “They still got a whole lot of love left to give, you know?”

Sarah's eyebrows rose.

Before she could comment on Bucky's surprising sentiment, Sam came striding into the house, his dark eyes immediately zeroing on the two people standing by the kitchen counter.

“What's this?” Sam asked, suspicion dripping from his voice. “Yo, man, I told you to stop flirting with my sis.”

“Nobody's flirting, Sam. We were just talking,” Bucky clarified. Then, just to ruffle Sam’s feathers, the super soldier flicked his gaze towards Sarah, tilting his lips in the way he used to do when he wanted to coax something out of you. “Right, Sarah?”

The woman giggled, and Bucky could almost beam in satisfaction at the imaginary smoke coming out of Sam's ears.

“He was just helping me, Sam,” Sarah told him. “One of the flowers fell, so he returned it to me.”

“Nuh uh. I don't believe that's all there is. That must be him tryna make a move. That was you making a move, isn't it?” Sam demanded, his gaze jerking aggressively between his sister and a smug Bucky. “What'd he tell you? Whatever it was, don't listen to it. Don't believe him. It's just a bunch of bullshit.”

“God, Sam, he didn't say anything.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “He just told me something about flowers. About how they aren't wilted if they fell, and… what was it again, Buck?”

The man tensed.

Bucky regained his composure in the blink of an eye, keeping the other two oblivious to the surge of turmoil that the simple question had sent. Keeping them in the dark about the way Bucky's heart had stumbled at the mere memory of your smile flaring across his mind and straight into his soul.

“It was nothing,” Bucky said. “Just a silly saying.”

“Oh, right!” Sarah snapped her fingers. “Fallen flowers still have lots of love to give.” She smiled proudly, eyes flickering towards Bucky with conspicuous excitement. “Was I right?”

Bucky's jaw clenched.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Sam questioned, his forehead knitting, vexation melting into incredulity. “That your game, Buck? Sounds lousy as hell.”

Bucky sighed. “Sam…”

“Did that kinda thing really work in the forties? ‘Cause damn, I could've been a real ladies man back then. Would've been so easy if all it took was one lame shit about flowers, and—hey, where you goin’?”

“Getting the hell away from you!”

Bucky heard Sam's laughter echoing from behind him, mocking and unaware of the wound in the former's chest that was beginning to crack and bleed all over the floor. The sound of your voice lingered in Bucky's mind, a ghost only he could hear, a cursed rapture that broke him apart at the seams before stitching him together all at once.

Before Bucky could exit the house, Sam's voice erupted again, “Hey! At least tell us how you got the idea for such a cheesy saying!”

He’s in one of those frats I usually stay far away from. The kind that smells like cheap beer and Axe body spray. Always yelling, always playing music way too loud, always shirtless for no reason. I swore I’d never waste my time on a guy like that. I really thought he was gonna be a cocky, arrogant douche when I first got assigned to tutor him.

But he’s not. Like… at all?

He’s actually really nice. Like, unfairly nice. That casual kind of nice that makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed. He remembers stuff I say. Not the big stuff, the tiny stuff. Like how I chew my pen when I’m stressed, or how I like lemon Gatorade for cheerleading practice. And yesterday he brought me those sour gummy worms I mentioned ONE time. Just handed them over all casual like, ‘Thought you might want a little sugar after practice.’ Who does that?? Like… stop. That’s not fair.

But of course, he’s like that with everyone. That’s the worst part. He’s charming in this totally effortless way. Looks at you like you’re the most interesting person alive and then turns around and does the exact same thing to someone else. How am I supposed to know what’s real?

And GOD. He’s hot. Like, it’s actually rude. He laughs and it does something to me. Like full-on makes my brain stop working. And his ARMS?? Every time he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows I lose one year off my life. For real. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. (I mean, he’s not, but like… what if he is???) Sometimes I forget what I’m even explaining because he’s just sitting there smiling at me with those eyes and that stupid little smirk and suddenly I’m thinking about kissing him instead of confidence intervals. It’s not okay.

He’s on the football team. Scholarship guy. Big deal. Girls are obsessed with him. I’ve literally heard people talk about him in the locker room like he’s a celebrity. And me? I’m just… I don’t know. I’m me. I cheer and I study and I try not to let my GPA fall apart and I pretend I’m not crushing on someone completely out of my league.

So no. I’m not gonna say anything.

Because maybe I did catch him looking at me the other day when I tied my hair up. Maybe he does stay a little longer when we’re done. Maybe he leans in a little closer than necessary. But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I want it too bad and I’m just reading into everything. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to get hurt.

So I’m gonna do what I’m supposed to do. Help him pass stats. Smile when he brings me candy. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Pretend like my heart doesn’t skip a beat every time he says my name.

I’m just going to help him pass stats. That’s all this is. Right? God, I’m so dumb.

—

You were fucked. Well and truly screwed.

You couldn’t even focus during practice. Missed counts, off-beat claps, a completely botched dismount that nearly took you and the poor girl spotting you both out in one go. Natasha pulled you aside with that look—the one that said she was two seconds away from losing it—and muttered something about getting your shit together because the big game was in a week and this wasn’t the time to be spacing out.

But how were you supposed to focus? Your diary was missing.

Your actual, physical, spiral-bound diary filled with every unfiltered thought you’d been too scared to say out loud. The same one where you’d spent the last four pages gushing about Bucky freaking Barnes like some sad, delusional teenage cliché. You didn’t even want to think about what you wrote last night, something about his arms and the way he smiles and how you swore he looked at you differently when you tied your hair up. It was humiliating.

You never should’ve taken it out of your room. You knew it was a bad idea. But Yelena had been on one of her ‘I’m bored and nosy’ benders, and the last time you left anything out, she’d read your old poetry journal and quoted it back to you at breakfast. You weren’t about to risk that again. So, like a total idiot, you shoved your diary in your bag before heading to class, thinking you’d keep it safe with you.

The entire day had been chaos. You barely managed to scarf down lunch between lectures, and by the time your 3 p.m. class let out, you were already sprinting across campus to make it to Bucky’s place for tutoring. Not that you actually got much tutoring done. You never did, not when he looked at you with that stupid, easy grin, or leaned back in his chair like he owned the air around him. One second you were going over statistical formulas, and the next you were talking about childhood pets and favourite movies, laughing like you hadn’t just been drowning in assignments ten minutes earlier. Time always slipped away around him. You ended up bolting to cheer practice.

It wasn’t until hours later, back in your dorm with your bag dumped upside down on the floor, that you realised your diary was missing. Your diary. 

You’d spent a solid hour panicking, then a full thirty minutes rummaging through the lost and found at the campus security office, practically elbow-deep in a box of mismatched gloves and cracked phone cases. The guy behind the desk eventually looked up from his screen, where he was rather obviously playing solitaire, and told you with the energy of someone who very much did not care that maybe it hadn’t been handed in.

You wanted to scream.

Now your most personal, most mortifying thoughts were just out there. Floating around. God only knew where or with who. And sure, maybe whoever found it wouldn’t read it. Maybe they’d be a decent human being and just turn it in without flipping through. But let’s be honest, if you found a diary with someone’s deepest secrets in it, you’d probably peek too.

You were going to be sick. Actually sick. And not because Natasha had you running suicides again like she was training you for the NFL, but because your life might genuinely be over. Because if he found it? What if you left it in his room? What if Bucky read even one word of what you wrote?

You didn’t even want to finish that thought.

No, you literally couldn’t even finish that thought because, as Natasha finally called for the end of the session and the team began their warm-down stretches, swapping tired smiles and gulping down water, you saw him.

Bucky.

Standing at the edge of the field in that stupid grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up, all smug and handsome like he hadn’t just shown up to ruin your entire existence. He had that lazy, charming smile on his face, the one that made people trust him too fast, the one that made you trust him too fast, and in his hand?

Glittery blue cover. Spiral binding. Your diary.

You were going to throw up. No, genuinely, you could feel your stomach lurch. This was it. This was how you died. Not in a blaze of glory or during a botched basket toss, but here, sweaty, humiliated, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the goddamn football field.

You didn’t even think. You just stormed over before anyone else could notice, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind the bleachers like it was a crime scene. Which it kind of was. A crime against your dignity.

Bucky didn’t protest. He followed easily, letting you pull him along like it was some sort of game. Of course he did. And of course, he was smiling the whole time, like you hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest ten feet away.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could barely speak. It rattled in your chest like a warning, like it knew this moment was about to go down in your personal hall of shame.

“Where…how…why do you have that?” you hissed, snatching at the diary, but he held it just out of reach, still annoyingly calm.

He raised a brow, like you’d just asked him what two plus two was. “You left it at my place. After tutoring. You were in a rush, remember?”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Of course, it had been his place. Of course.

“I—I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I just—” You were spiralling, words tumbling out too fast, too breathless, and your fingers were twitching like you might just snatch the book and sprint across campus. “Did you…Did you read it?”

A beat. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.

And then, God, he smiled. Not the cocky one, not the football-star grin. This one was softer. Slower. Dangerous.

Your stomach dropped.

“I read enough,” he said.

You froze.

Your ears rang. Your mouth went dry. Your body just stopped.

“Enough?” you echoed, voice cracking halfway through. “Enough of what? Enough to—oh my God.”

You turned away instinctively, hand over your mouth like that could somehow keep your soul from escaping your body. Because what did that mean? What was ‘enough?’ Enough to ruin your life? Enough to laugh about it with his frat brothers? Enough to tell every girl on campus that the cheerleader who couldn’t even stick a full-out had a crush on him?

You didn’t even realise you were pacing until Bucky gently caught your wrist.

“Hey. Relax,” he said, and his voice was way too steady for someone holding the social equivalent of a loaded weapon.

You yanked your arm back like his touch burned. “Relax? Bucky, that was private. It’s literally a diary! It’s not for reading, it's for… spiralling in silence!”

He tilted his head a little, watching you carefully, and if he was offended by your panic, he didn’t show it. “You left it on my bed. Open.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “Please. Just kill me. Right here. Hide the body under the bleachers. I’m serious.”

Bucky chuckled—chuckled, like this was some kind of joke—and stepped closer. You could feel his presence even before you lowered your hands again. 

“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, quiet now. “If you felt that way.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Because I didn’t know if it meant anything! You’re nice to everyone. You flirt like it’s a reflex. You remember everyone’s drink orders, compliment their outfits, hold doors and say all the right things. I thought I was just another person you were… nice to.”

He didn’t answer your panicked rambling right away. Just looked at you for a long moment.

“Yeah, I’m nice to people. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way I feel about you.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, hating how small your voice sounded.

He held your gaze, completely serious now.

“Like I wanna kiss you every time you chew that damn pen cap. Like, I think about you even when I’m supposed to be studying. Like I can’t focus when you’re talking ‘cause all I do is stare at your damn lips.” He paused, and something almost like a laugh broke out of him, soft and self-conscious. “Like I’ve been trying to find a not-creepy way to tell you I like you since the second tutoring started, but you were always so focused and cool and out of my league.”

That last part made your head spin.

“Out of your league?” you repeated, eyes wide.

He smirked, stepping just a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Have you seen yourself? You’re smart, you’re so pretty it’s ridiculous, and you’ve got this whole thing where you act like you don’t know you’re the coolest girl on campus. Of course, I was nervous.”

You blinked at him. “Bucky… are you flirting with me behind the bleachers while holding my diary hostage?”

He grinned. “Maybe. Depends. Is it working?”

You tried to snatch the diary out of his hand, but he was faster, effortlessly holding it just out of reach like it weighed nothing.

“God, I hate you,” you muttered through gritted teeth, bouncing up on your toes in a desperate attempt to grab it. All it earned you was the embarrassing realisation that you were now fully pressed against his chest, warm, broad, and stupidly solid.

“You really don’t, at least not according to this—” he said, low and smug.

“Bucky!” you warned, trying to reach again, but he shifted it higher.

“Give. It. Back,” you hissed, practically climbing him at this point.

“I will,” he said, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your stomach twist and your breath catch. “But only if you let me kiss you first.”

Your brain short-circuited. Completely and entirely. The words took a second to process. His voice had dropped, softer now, more serious, like he wasn’t just messing with you anymore.

You looked up at him, heart thudding so loudly against your ribs you swore he could hear it. His eyes searched yours, and for once, he didn’t look like the effortlessly confident guy everyone knew. He looked… nervous like he was the one waiting to be rejected.

“…Fine,” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips, but your smile gave you away. It was impossible to hide, giddy and crooked and ridiculous.

And then he kissed you.

He bent his head and closed the gap like he’d been waiting weeks for it—maybe he had. His mouth was warm and sure against yours, one arm still holding the diary hostage, the other dropping to your waist, pulling you in like he couldn’t help himself. You kissed him back without thinking, without doubting, like maybe this was the answer you’d been afraid to ask for all along.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and blinking at each other like idiots, he handed over the diary with a grin.

“Okay,” you whispered, still a little breathless. “That was… good.”

“Just good?” He smirked.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Don’t push it.”

He laughed softly, thumb still brushing your cheek. “So… does this mean I get to keep seeing you after stats is over? Or do I have to fail on purpose to keep you around?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right. You’d probably kill me.”

“More like definitely.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. He looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking. And for once, you didn’t feel like running from it.

You were so, so screwed.

If someone were to ask you about the beginning, your mind would immediately go straight to that day.

Six years ago, your thread of fate wove into his, placing the two of you on polar ends in the middle of a highway shoot-out that revealed the face beneath the infamous Winter Soldier's mask. You recognized him from the sketches littered across Steve Roger's desk: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky, as Steve had called him. A shadow of the past, long presumed gone to the clutches of war and time. 

Yet, there he was.

Alive and breathing.

And he was trying to kill you.

After the events in D.C., you helped the Captain search for the man who had risen from the dead. You saw Bucky's apartment in Bucharest—a depressing little hole in the wall that was barely suitable for a human being to live in. It nicked at your chest, wrestled with a docile side of your heart that you hadn't entertained since they had dubbed you one of earth's mightiest heroes. And when you finally stood in front of the man—not the Soldat, not the merciless assassin who had sliced a dagger to your side two years prior—your chest tapered at the quiet war waging behind his eyes.

“I wasn't in Vienna,” Bucky told Steve. His eyes flickered briefly towards you as he said it, willing, perhaps, for at least one person in that room to put their trust in him; the man standing vulnerably in that apartment, not the weapon he was forced to become. 

“I don't do that anymore,” he added.

You believed him.

Steve did, too.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of chasing and being chased. After Zemo broke the Winter Soldier out of the facility in Berlin, you took Steve and Sam to an abandoned site you once neutralized where the three of you could keep Bucky safe from the authorities. You watched from the sideline as Steve interrogated Bucky for answers, listening intently while the Captain and the Falcon began rummaging their heads for a viable plan of action. 

Once Sam left to reach out to his contacts, Steve also excused himself from the room, muttering something about needing to make a phone call and leaving you alone with the burly man who was trying miserably to hide behind his curtain of hair.

Wordlessly, you walked towards the paper bag you kept on a rusty oil barrel, grabbing one of its contents before cautiously approaching the brooding man in the center of the room. Bucky looked up the moment you shoved the packaged croissant in his face, confusion shining with blue under the taut crease of dark eyebrows.

“Take it,” you said simply.

Bucky's frown deepened as he stared at your hand. 

You masked the sinking feeling in your stomach with a sigh, putting the package next to the makeshift chair Bucky was sitting on. 

“You haven't eaten since yesterday.” Your hands were buried in the pocket of your jeans as you spoke, hiding the tremble in them so the man in front of you wouldn't see just how much your heart was breaking for him. “We have a long journey ahead of us. And if Steve is anything to go by when it comes to a super soldier's calorie intake, you must be running on extreme deficit by now.”

Bucky stayed silent. 

You scraped the ground with the toe of your shoes, trying to fill in the quietness as you rambled, “I would've loved to prepare you a nice three-course meal, but considering half of the world is on our asses, I didn't think you'd mind a small downgrade. Believe me, I'd kill for a real croissant right now. There's a bakery near the Avengers’ old tower whose owner makes the best chocolate and butter croissants. They're fantastic. This one tastes like a foam board compared to them.”

Bucky continued to stay silent, only perusing you under his intense gaze. You rubbed the back of your neck and managed an awkward chuckle. “You know what? You don't have to eat that. It tastes terrible anyway. I'll just throw it out. Let me see if the pigeons would like some.”

You reached out to grab the plastic packaging, but Bucky stopped you in tracks, grabbing the croissant with a hesitant drag of his hand.

“Thank you,” he muttered curtly.

The sight in front of your eyes would have made you chortle under any other circumstances—the ludicrousness of seeing a Herculean with a metal arm grappling with the flimsy packaging of a factory-made pastry. The croissant was ridiculously small in Bucky’s hand, and you felt foolish for thinking it could offer anything close to sufficient sustenance for a man his size. He could probably devour the whole thing in a single bite and still be starving.

And yet, before he even savored a taste, Bucky tilted the croissant towards you in a silent proposition. An offer to share. To tear the pastry in two as if he didn't barely have enough for himself in the first place. The gesture lurched at something in your chest, winding down your ribs like overgrown vines.

You feigned a smile, feeling it crack around the sorrow you were desperately trying to quell. “That’s for you, Bucky,” you told him softly. “I have mine.”

The man nodded, hesitantly, as if the thought of having something to himself was stranger than fiction. He took a tentative bite, his forehead creasing as he chewed on the sad excuse of a pastry.

“Bad, huh?” You cringed sheepishly. “Told you. It's borderline inedible. You don't have to finish it if you don't want to.”

“I've had worse.”

You clenched your teeth. 

There was no room for doubt in your mind that he probably did have worse than an additive-laden confectionery.

“Yeah?” You didn't know why you were asking. “Like what?”

The metal fingers on Bucky's thigh whirred, like he was flexing, removing the stiffness in his joints if there had been flesh instead of vibranium. You waited with bated breath as he stared at a suspicious puddle on the ground.

“I was stuck in an underground cave system once,” Bucky began, pausing to take a tiny bite of the croissant. He looked defenseless that way. Almost like a child. “Spent a few days there. The only thing around me were bats.”

Your nose wrinkled. “You ate bats?”

Bucky didn't attempt to correct your assumption, just kept on munching on the artificial croissant as if he were a kid snacking on candy.

“Were they… good?”

Stupid.

What an incredibly, unbelievably stupid question.

“They were good enough to keep me alive.”

You didn't know what to say to that.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “just tell me if you change your mind on that croissant. I can get you something else. Remember those pigeons I mentioned? They're not bats, but they've got, you know… protein.”

Then, upon some kind of miracle, it happened.

Bucky smiled.

It was brief, an ephemeral thing that evaporated by the next time you blinked, but it was there. As clear as day, as real as the foul smell of rotten carcasses that surrounded you in that dismal place.

You willed for the excitement in your belly to die down—the last thing Bucky needed was for you to go deranged over a mere smile, probably one of the firsts he allowed himself to have after decades of drought—giving Bucky a short nod before turning around to reward him some privacy, but you didn't go far before a rough voice halted your footsteps.

When your gaze landed on him again, Bucky was tense. His shoulders curled inward as if struggling desperately to keep himself small, his fingers twitched where they were curled around the half-eaten pastry.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asked.

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted in a mixture of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I'm fine? Well, as fine as one can be after becoming a fugitive of the law, but otherwise—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His scrutiny roved over your figure from the distance, as though his stare could penetrate through the deepest layer of skin, lighting up a flame that licked through every inch of your bloodstream. Blue irises jerked towards the side of your abdomen, a fleeting tic, but it was enough to force the realization to dawn on you.

Bucky was talking about your wound.

The laceration wound that he—no, that the Soldat—had administered during your altercation in D.C.

Instinctively, your hand lifted, brushing against the jagged scar that you knew was seething under the cover of your shirt. The simple movement didn't escape Bucky's notice, and you chastised yourself for your lack of consideration when you saw his body fold lower towards his knees.

“Bucky—”

“I'm sorry,” he said heavily, shakily. A striking fragility from a man who was supposed to be carved out of steel.

You shook your head in urgency, crossing the distance between you and him before stopping a good six feet away from the defeated man. He didn’t even look up at your proximity, keeping his head angled to the ground, shrinking more and more with every passing second as if he wanted to disintegrate into oblivion.

With careful strides, you removed the remaining space separating you and Bucky, sinking to your knee right in front of him. You called his name softly, begging him to glance up, coaxing him out of the shell of condemnation that he had crawled himself into.

When he finally peered at you, the blue of his eyes had dimmed into a stormy gray. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward and gather this broken man into your arms.

“Bucky,” you called his name again, resolutely this time. Firm and steady, offering no room for even an ounce of doubt or a breath of protest. “It wasn't your fault.”

Bucky fleered.

“I mean it.” You searched his gaze, commanding him to stay there, to not run away from your eyes because you needed him to hear this. You needed him to believe. “I'm not gonna hold you accountable for what happened on that highway, or for anything else you might have done in the past few decades. None of that is your fault. They used you. You couldn't even remember your own name, let alone understand what HYDRA was forcing you to do. You're also a victim here, Bucky.”

He shook his head.

Your heart shattered into tiny little pieces all over the ground.

You shifted on the ball of your knee, sighing as you felt exhaustion pulling at your limbs. 

“Steve would agree,” you said quietly.

Those three words managed to snatch Bucky's attention.

“Actually, Steve does agree.” You glimpsed towards the entrance where the Captain had disappeared through earlier, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “It's the reason why he's here. The reason why we all are. He is the literal embodiment of everything good in this world, Bucky. And if Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—looks at you and sees someone worth saving, someone who deserves a second chance despite all that happened, then that says everything I need to know about the kind of man you truly are.”

You waited for something to shift, for the contempt in his eyes to dissipate, for the strain in his shoulders to melt, but nothing happened. He continued to drown, making no moves to get himself out of the murky waters that were pulling him under.

“Everything that happened while you were under HYDRA’s control—the missions, the casualties—none of it is on you, Buck,” you pressed on. “The wound on my side? That wasn't your fault either. Hell, I was shooting at you, too! I didn't know who you were back then. You didn’t know me. You didn’t even know yourself. They made sure of that.”

You took a shuddering breath, physically readying yourself to voice the next conviction out loud.

“If someone has to carry the blame, it should be HYDRA,” you determined. “Not you, Bucky. Never you.”

The silence that followed was strangulating. You watched Bucky with heart in your throat, waiting for him to react, to do something or say something. Perhaps if he had cried, it would've been better. Because then, you might have been able to help, to offer him the solace of your arms, to teach him how he could peel back the guilt that was clinging to him like a second skin. 

Yet, Bucky just sat, still as a tombstone and quiet as a graveyard. 

The eerie calm before a catastrophic storm.

When he finally looked up, Bucky's eyes were a tempest—dark and turbulent, thundering with the repercussions of a hundred lifetimes he never asked to live.

“Maybe—” Bucky's voice quivered. He ran his flesh hand across his face and started over, “Maybe you're right.

Your chest staggered.

Before you could respond, Bucky's gaze dropped, teetering towards your side, as though he could see the ridges of skin underneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. The place where flesh had once split under a blade he hadn't even known he was holding.

On his knee, Bucky's fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out, to inspect the remnant of the wound with his own flesh and skin but didn't know how to trust himself enough to do so.

His jaw tightened.

“But it was still me, wasn't it?” Bucky's breathing stammered. The words came out choked, as though the truth tasted like rust on his tongue. “I was still the one holding the knife, Sugar.”

The nickname maimed you more than one could expect. Had Bucky said it with enough cynicism, maybe you would have chalked it up to bitterness and moved on. But he hadn't said it like that—he had said it with a devastating frailness, a frayed piece of another life bleeding through the cracks. It came from a version of him that had smiled at strangers and walked dates home in the rain, a boy from Brooklyn who probably said it with a charming grin and a flirtatious warmth.

Your heart broke for him all over again.

You ransacked your brain for something to say, to convince Bucky that he was wrong, but the sound of incoming footsteps stripped you of the chance, forcing you to quickly rise to your feet just in time for Sam and Steve to enter the room. Your conversation with Bucky was shoved to the backburner as the other two apprised you of your next step, both unaware of the tension stretching taut in the air, suspended between you and Bucky like a ghost no one else could see.

The next thing you knew, your life was unraveling like a house of cards in the span of one night. It felt like you blinked, and suddenly you were standing in the middle of a tarmac, staring down faces you used to sit with during breakfast and mission briefings, others who carried the weight of loyalty you could no longer afford.

The spider-like kid who loved to crawl on things was the first one you faced. He was nimble, all limbs and chatter, a fleck of innocence to testify to his lack of experience. You tuned out his nervous jokes and wide-eyed commentary as you focused on blocking each of his strikes, breathing through the ache in your ribs, willing your body to stay sharp.

But then, your instincts faltered.

The agonized sound wasn't loud, especially compared to the surrounding chaos that had befallen the airport. Your eyes flitted towards the man anyway, as if having a mind of their own, making you lose your footing for a fraction of second as your gaze landed on him from the distance.

Bucky.

The sight of him staggering back—blood blooming across his skin like a crimson tear—rustled an unknown weight within your chest. Natasha stood just a few paces away, her favorite knife in hand, the blade gleaming in the same shade of red running in rivulets down Bucky's cheek.

The moment of distraction was fleeting. Short. But it was the only opening your opponent needed to yank you off balance and send your back straight to the ground. 

“Sorry,” the Spidey kid huffed, straddling your legs, his grip surprisingly strong for someone built like a string bean in spandex. “Big fan, though. Seriously. Hey, crazy idea. Maybe after all of this, you can sign my—”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

With a drive of your elbow to his side, coupled with a shove of your knee to his chest, Spidey was now the one pinned to the ground—winded limbs and spayed webbing as he stared up at the clouds. You rose to your feet with a heaving chest, the ground trembling beneath your boots as you stole a moment to breathe.

You didn't even notice the light shifting in the sky.

Your reflexes awakened a second too late, stirring only when a dark shadow swept over your head. There was no time to run. Whatever protective measure you could whip up, whatever direction your feet could carry you in a matter of seconds, the end result was clear—you wouldn't be able to make it out of there unscathed.

Or at least, you should not have been able to make it out of there unscathed—but you did.

Because Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man whose name was whispered between cautions of death and terror—had saved you.

He lunged from somewhere behind the smoke, arms wrapping around your frame before shoving you forward and down. The force of the blast rocked the ground as a small aircraft detonated a few yards away, radiating a heat so raging it licked at your back. Debris rained down all around you as Bucky’s body remained curled over yours, shielding you from the worst of it, lying like a fortress between you and the explosion's aftermath.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own ragged breathing. Your ears were still ringing when Bucky finally stood up, pulling you by your elbow to your slightly unsteady feet. He examined you from head to toe, his grounding touch remaining steadfast around your forearm, eliciting goosebumps.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, still in shock. Still breathless.

“Bucky.” Your fingers convulsed, moving up to clutch his jacket and stopping once you thought better of it. “You saved me.” 

He didn't answer at first, and when he did, his eyes evaded yours, jaw clenching as his gaze meandered somewhere distant. “It's the least I could do.”

Then, that same gaze moved, lowering until it settled on your side. You didn’t need him to spell it out to know exactly what he was thinking. The wound had been his doing once, delivered by a man with the same face but none of the same mercy. The shadow of a life that felt like his own but one he gravely wished to relinquish.

You felt the phantom sting of it then, not from the wound, but from the way Bucky was assessing it—like he was measuring his worth by the depth of that scar. Like saving you had been a down payment for a debt he could never repay.

Your mouth parted, already halfway to saying something, anything, that might severe the penance he had inflicted upon himself.

But before you could say a word, the world raged again, sending ripples of a faraway explosion that rattled the earth.

You swallowed hard, grounding yourself as you imparted, “We need to get to the jet.”

Bucky nodded once, his stature straightening as if his resolve had always been intact. The two of you broke into a sprint immediately, side by side, boots striking the tarmac in tandem as the smoke closed in all around you.

That was the first time Bucky Barnes saved your life.

And you knew, as you dashed across the airport grounds, that it wouldn't be the last.

After two years in Wakanda—two years since the disastrous battle on that infamous airport—you were finally bringing Bucky back home to New York.

Tony was not happy when he greeted the two of you at the compound, and you were even less thrilled to see him after everything that went down following his support for the Sokovia Accords—which, to your delight, had officially been nullified. Tony had promised he would play nice, and that included absolving Bucky—or at least, trying to—for all of the crimes that HYDRA forced him to do. It wasn't ideal, but it was a start; a show of good faith as Tony pledged to assist Bucky's recovery in every (financial) way possible.

Still, that didn't stop you from making sure that you walked in front of Bucky while the two of you were approaching the front gate, offering yourself as a human barrier should the philanthropist do anything untoward.

The first few weeks at the compound were dedicated towards ensuring a seamless transition for Bucky. From creating his daily schedule, vouching for a potential therapist, to showing him the nooks and crannies of his new home—you tackled every single task with purpose; convincing yourself that it was about structure, routine, and reintegration, but deep down, you knew better.

It was about keeping him close. Keeping him safe.

And maybe, that was exactly why you found yourself lashing out at Steve when he told you, a few weeks later, that Bucky would be sent on his first mission as an Avenger.

“This is bullshit,” you seethed, your fingers curling around the edge of the conference table in a death grip. “It's barely been two months and already they wanna send him back out there? After everything he's been through?”

The Captain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don't like this anymore than you do—”

“Then stop it.”

“I tried!” Steve's eyebrows creased, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It was a rare sight to see Captain America this upset. “The higher-ups were asking questions, and his therapist already told them that Buck is ready. I tried talking to him about it, but he's adamant to go. There's nothing else I can do.”

“There's always something,” you retorted. “Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough.”

Despite how much your words stung, Steve forced himself to move past it. He knew they hadn't come from a place of malice. Instead, it had come from a place of affection—perhaps even love—a protectiveness he also shared towards a certain super soldier with a metal arm.

“Look,” Steve began, shifting in his seat, “have you ever thought that maybe this is what Bucky needs?”

Your head snapped up.

Steve took your silence as a cue to continue, “We know he hasn't forgiven himself yet. Not fully. And that's understandable, isn't it? Maybe what he needs, right now, is the chance to make it right. Maybe going on a mission—one he actually chooses to partake in, where he knows something good will come out of it—could be Bucky's way of making his amends.”

The Captain trailed off, letting his words linger above the tense atmosphere of the conference room.

You hated how much it made sense.

With a drop of your shoulders, you pinned your stare on the faraway wall, biting the inside of your cheek before mumbling, “Fine.”

Steve smiled, ready to wrap up the conversation once and for all when your voice interrupted him, “But I'm going.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” You got up from your own chair and sauntered towards the door, flicking a firm glance towards Steve that left no room for objection. “I'm not gonna stop you from assigning Bucky to that mission. But if he's coming, then I'm coming, too. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

In the end, Steve had relented, and what was once supposed to be a three-person crew's mission became four as you, Bucky, Sam, and Maria Hill took off towards Panama City.

Interference hailed the four of you upon arrival, running you into more hostiles than the initial intel had suggested. Despite your time away in Wakanda, your instincts didn’t waver. The rhythm came back effortlessly, muscle memory filling in the gaps left by your mind without a sliver of hesitation. 

However, between every swift kick and  precise strike, your focus frayed. Not from fear, but from a certain super soldier who was never out of your sight for long. Your gaze strayed to his silhouette again and again, making you stumble more times than you cared to admit, trying desperately to stand your ground in your own fight while keeping an eye on him all at once.

It was reckless.

And it was precisely why, as you realized too late, you ended up failing to notice the grenade.

“Watch out!”

Two strong arms—one flesh and one vibranium—shoved you out of the explosion's radius, a flying shrapnel missing your head by inches as your shoulder crashed against the ground. Bucky got thrown immediately on impact, sent over the edge of the skyscraper as the ground started to crack, fragment, and disintegrate into nothing.

“No!”

Horror erupted in your stomach at the building's cession to gravity. You scampered forward, dropping to your hands and knees to lean over the skirt where floor was supposed to be. Your relief escaped in a stammered breath when you spotted Bucky a couple of stories down, still alive, dangling by his flesh arm around the corner of a deteriorating girder.

A window pane launched into the air.

Bucky's agonized scream ripped through the chaos the moment it rammed against his left shoulder.

Something in your guts twisted at the sight of artificial axons peeking out of the ripped seams of his tactical jacket. Blood soaked through the torn fabric, staining the silver beneath in unforgiving red. 

“Bucky!” Your pulse hammered. “Don't move, I'm coming to get you!”

“Don't.” Bucky's voice was stern. Final. “You gotta get outta here before the whole thing collapse.”

“I'm not leaving here without you!”

Inside your earpiece, noises began to crackle. 

“Guys?” Maria's voice emerged. The sound of punches and clatter reverberated from her end of the line. “I think I need some help over here.”

“Go help Maria,” Bucky commanded.

“But you—”

“Sugar.” 

The nickname halted you in place. Bucky was smiling as he looked up at you, although you knew that it was nothing more than a facade. Any other person would have been fooled by his performance, but you could easily pinpoint the shadow of a grimace he was trying to conceal, the exhaustion crippling his body as he struggled to hold himself up at an angle that wouldn't put additional strain to the already splintering steel beam.

Blue eyes softened. “I'm gonna be fine. You should go.”

Your throat constricted.

You crouched frozen on the ledge, the roar of distant gunfire echoing through the shattered high-rise. Fifty stories below, parts of the building's skeleton scattered on the ground. Your hand twitched towards Bucky, wanting to reach out, desperate to haul him back into your arms, but the chasm between you felt impossibly wide.

Meanwhile, Maria's grunts and struggle continued to echo in your ears as she seemed to wrestle a few assailants at once. You knew you should go to her aid. You knew this wasn’t the time for hesitation.

And yet… Bucky.

His lips were still curled into that easy smile—the same one he shared with you during clandestine moments around the compound, because this side of Bucky Barnes was one he reserved specifically for you. His knuckles had gone white from supporting his entire weight, the beam creaking under the slightest sway of his body, jerking slightly. 

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he said gently, as if he weren't hanging by one arm over nothing but air. “You save her.”

You could barely breathe. 

The seconds were ticking—Maria was calling for help, and Bucky was slipping.

You weren’t enough to save both of them.

“Sam,” you gasped, pressing your hand to the comms. Static was the only response, and you prayed to the heavens above that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could listen to your plea. “You’ve gotta get to Bucky. Now. He’s gonna—I can’t—just… please.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched longer than a lifetime.

Just when you began to think he wasn't going to answer, Sam's voice fizzled in, “On my way.” 

The comms fell silent again.

A violent wind tore through the air, hitting like a freight train.

The steel girder—the one remaining lifeline fastening Bucky to this world—buckled with a piercing screech.

In the blink of an eye, the girder snapped.

“BUCKY!”

A blur of silver and red swooped below him in the same breath, and before you could lunge forward to follow Bucky as he fell, Sam was there—arms locked securely around Bucky’s torso, wings flaring wide to steady the sudden addition of weight. Bucky’s head dropped against Sam’s shoulder, dazed but alive. Your whole limbs teetered towards the verge of liquefying as your lungs finally released the air you didn’t know you were holding.

“You okay, man?” Sam’s voice chirped through your earpiece. “Christ, what did they feed you in Wakanda?”

A sound escaped your chest—something between a strangled sob and a wry laugh.

Gathering yourself, you pressed another hand to the comms, rising to your feet and sprinting towards the server room as you announced, “Hang on tight, Maria. I'm on my way.”

By the time you and Maria went back to the safehouse over an hour later, Sam and Bucky were already there. Bucky was lying on the couch the moment you strode in, his metal arm detached and thrown almost haphazardly on the coffee table while Sam tinkered with Redwing on the kitchen counter.

From the bandage wrapped around Bucky's shoulder, you knew that the on-site medical android had taken a look at him already, but the anxiety in your mind still wasn't pacified. It dribbled all over the floor as you marched towards him, your body shaking partly from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but also from the anger and dread boiling in your blood.

“Why the hell did you do that?!”

Venom leaked from your voice the moment you approached the couch. Behind you, Sam and Maria fell silent, readying themselves for the imminent confrontation ahead. Bucky's face remained impassive as he rose to a seating position, a faint tug at the corner of his lips.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Don't fucking sweetheart me.”

Your chest rose and fell in a dizzying rythm, daggers flying from your eyes towards the man in front of you. The same one who had nearly, stupidly welcomed death into his arms due to some kind of foolish heroism embedded in his principles. The one who was currently looking at you with cerulean eyes so tender it almost made you forget that he was close to slipping from your fingers a mere hour earlier.

Bucky let out a sigh. “I'm okay.”

“Quit talking to me like I'm stupid, Bucky. We all can see your ripped metal arm on the table. Your bandaged shoulder.”

 “It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing!”

“It's nothing compared to what I've suffered before.”

An incredulous laugh tore from your larynx, sharp and sardonic. It was the only thing keeping the lump inside from choking you whole. “Just because you've survived worse doesn't mean you're fucking invincible, Buck! You could've died. You almost died. If Sam hadn't got there in time, you would've—”

The words wedged in your throat.

Your eyes fell shut as you expelled the images of Bucky dangling between life and death out of your mind. 

Gentle fingers encircled your wrist. You gasped at the sudden warmth surrounding you, opening your eyes to find that Bucky had tugged you closer to stand between his parted knees. Your palms automatically landed on the column of his neck, chest pounding at the unbearable softness shining out of Bucky’s eyes. 

This was new territory—Bucky had always treated closeness like something fleeting, something borrowed. His touches, his embraces, were often hesitant, as though affection was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But now, he held you like he had done it a thousand times before, like your body against his was the very thing chaining him to reality. His hand curled firmly around your waist, anchoring himself, grounding his entire existence to the certainty of your presence.

“Hey,” Bucky said, squeezing your side lightly. “I'm right here, Sugar. I'm alright.”

Your chest burned. “We almost lost you.”

“But you didn't.”

“But what if we had?!”

“Then you should take solace in the knowledge that I haven't gone in vain.”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of Bucky's shoulders, nails branding crescent moons into the skin. He didn't even flinch.

“You don't need to sacrifice your life for me, Bucky. I don't need that kind of thing on my conscience,” you spat.

“I wouldn't call it a sacrifice, sweetheart,” Bucky said firmly, resolutely. “If that's what it takes to keep you safe, then I'd gladly take the fall.”

Bucky's declaration propelled the tears you had been desperately trying to contain to the forefront. A strangled whimper shredded from your lips. You quickly tried to mask it with a scowl.

“That's the very definition of a ‘sacrifice’, you idiot.”

“Not in my book.” Bucky smiled. “Not when it's you.”

Before he could say another word, you removed the distance between you and threw yourself in his arms. The dam within you finally caved in, freeing the ragged sobs you had been trying to keep at bay. Your tears stained the collar of his undershirt, your arms locking around him tightly as though sheer willpower might fetter him to you, to life itself.

He staggered slightly under your weight, grunting from the pull on his wounded shoulder, but his hand—his only hand—immediately rose to your back, fingers splayed as they began tracing slow, calming patterns across your spine. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” you whispered hoarsely. “Don’t throw yourself in front of danger for me. I don't ever want to watch you fall like that again. I can’t—”

“I know,” Bucky murmured, pressing his cheek to your temple. “I know, Sugar.”

“Promise me,” you croaked out.

He stilled for a second. “I can't,” Bucky said breathlessly. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, sweetheart. I’ll always choose to save you.”

A fresh wave of tears surged behind your eyes. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his undershirt. You hated him for that. 

And you loved him even more because of it.

From behind you, someone cleared their throat. 

“I hate to interrupt the Notting Hill shit we’ve got going on here,” Sam said, “but is anyone else starving or is it only the guy who just saved Barnes’ ass?”

The evening wind bit your cheeks the moment you stepped out of the bar. In a chorus of jovial shrieks and mischievous laughter, your friends from the Academy all bid each other goodbye—some heading straight home, some scuttering after the next round of drinks and fun, but all equally giddy and tipsy—stumbling on the curb and crashing against unassuming lamp posts.

“Sure you're not coming?” one of your friends asked.

“No, told you I've got an early morning tomorrow,” you slurred slightly, shaking your head twice when the face in front of you began to blur around the edges.

“Okay. Text me when you get home!”

You waved them off with a lopsided smile, turning on your heel and starting the slow trek back to the station. The pavement felt oddly slanted under your feet, and you blamed the tequila for the fifth time that night. The wind swept down the empty street, nipping at your exposed skin, sending discarded wrappers tumbling aimlessly along the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gorgeous! You need a ride?” a voice called out.

You didn’t bother looking. The city was full of idiots, and you weren’t in the mood for petty confrontations when your balance already wavered like a tightrope walker with a death wish.

You were in the midst of stifling a yawn when your foot unexpectedly hit a shallow crack in the pavement, pitching your body forward, arms flailing wildly before you caught yourself mid-fall.

The voice spoke again, this time laced with a grin that lit a match in the back of your mind, “Careful, sweetheart. Steve's gonna be pissed if you break an ankle before the mission tomorrow.”

Your eyes snapped up.

Leaning against a dark motorcycle across the street, like some kind of B-list actor playing a bad boy in a trashy movie franchise, was none other than Bucky Barnes. He looked way too good for someone who just watched you nearly eat concrete—leather jacket unzipped, gloved hand resting on the handlebar, and an easy smile tugging at his lips. 

Your face broke into an instantaneous grin.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

You skipped across the street without looking. The squeal of tires resonated in the air, blaring horns and flashing headlights as you registered too late the oncoming car speeding your way. You stumbled in your haste to escape the street, to save yourself before your crushed skull and its content became the next headline for tomorrow's 6 A.M. news.

But before gravity could make a fool out of yourself, Bucky’s arms were already around you. He caught your body with ease, keeping your face from planting onto the curb, his broad frame shielding you from the splash of puddle as the honking car zipped past. 

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his metal fingers squeezing your hip, “you lookin’ to give an old man a heart attack?”

“Sorry,” you offered sheepishly, willing the percussion in your chest to assuage. “Thanks for saving me.”

“I'd save you anytime and anywhere, Sugar.” Bucky smiled, his gaze soft and genuine despite the flirtatious nature of his words. “But it'd be nice if I didn't have to do it all the time.”

You feigned a gasp. “And here I thought you were my personal hero on call, Buck.”

The man in front of you laughed—a carefree thing with his head thrown back, ocean blue glinting under the paltry luminance of streetlights. You stepped out of his embrace with great reluctance, shivering slightly in the absence of Bucky's warmth.

The motion didn't escape Bucky's notice. “Did you not bring a jacket?”

“I did.” You wrapped yourself with your own arms, stroking the goosebumps away with your palms. “I lent it to my friend and I guess… well, I forgot to ask for it back.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Because everyone knows how kind, selfless, and generous I am?” You grinned.

Bucky didn't say anything in return. Instead, he made quick work shedding the jacket off his back, revealing the outline of muscles under the gorgeous cover of dusty blue henley. Your throat went dry, every nerve ending lighting up in fireworks when Bucky stepped forward, draping the leather garment around your shoulders.

“There you go. That would have to do for now,” he muttered.

His fingertips brushed your neck as he tugged the leather collar closer around you. The scent of coffee, mint, and something indistinguishably Bucky attacked your senses, stealing your breath and leaving the taste of longing on your tongue. He looked at you in that same infuriating tenderness that made your insides spume, reduced to tiny bubbles filled with hope and yearning.

“Thanks,” you breathed out once he withdrew. “By the way, how come you're here? I thought you had that mission with Nat today.”

“I did,” Bucky replied, burying his hands in his jeans’ pockets. 

Your forehead creased. “No way. Did you bail?”

“Are you crazy? Steve would have my ass.”

“Then…” 

“Came straight from the jet,” he said casually, the impish quirk of his lips giving him away before his words even landed.

“You what?” You gawked. “Are you serious? Did you even debrief with Steve before you went here?  Did you even go to the medbay? At all?”

“It was just recon.” He shrugged, far too nonchalant for your liking. “Nat can handle the debrief. She did all the sneaking around anyway, I barely lifted a finger.”

“That’s not the point.” You groaned, massaging the headache that had started gnawing at your temple. “Who cares if it was just recon, Bucky? The procedure says you're to go to the medbay after every mission. The rule is there for a reason. What if you were injured but you didn't even notice? What if you were exposed to a dangerous substance while you were on the field? It's incredibly reckless, stupid, and—”

Your words dissolved the moment his hands cupped your cheeks.

Bucky studied your countenance in silence, his eyes delicate, his thumbs gentle as they skimmed along your jaw. He smiled at you as if your soul was scribbled in a script only he could decipher. An intimate secret shared between the meager spaces the two of you occupied in this infinite universe.

Your breath hitched.

Everything around you tilted on its axis, the world dulling into a distant hum to make room for the cosmic threads tethering you both to each other. His eyes were tired as they locked onto yours, but behind the muted blue, something else shone through—something steadfast and searing, like an eternal flame trapped in the most secluded heights of the Himalayan range.

“I’m okay,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’m right here, and I’m okay.”

You didn't blink—you couldn't.

Your chest deflated in the aftermath of worry, the relief sweeping through you like a tide pulling back after a storm. Bucky withdrew, his hands leaving your face in a parting goodbye, and you had to fight the urge to yank him back in, to stay in the fragile moment that had cracked open between the two of you.

“‘Sides,” he drawled, a teasing glint replacing the ferocity in his eyes, “if I didn't pick you up, you'd probably end up passed out in a dumpster somewhere. Can't have you jeopardizing the mission like that, can I?”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Ass.”

Bucky chuckled, rounding the bike before handing you a helmet. “C'mon, lightweight.”

You rolled your eyes, although the blooming smile on your face betrayed the faux irritation as you climbed onto the motorcycle. Bucky was warm in front of you, your arms finding purchase around his waist the second the engine roared to life, buildings and trees alike blurring past as the two of you sped through the streets of New York.

This time, you held Bucky a little tighter than usual, just in case he forgot how much it mattered that he made it home safely.

The pain was the first thing your brain registered.

Lights spilled through the all-encompassing darkness, rousing you awake, filling the gaps in your mind with an awareness of life. The ache traveled through your body in an unimaginable speed, a ravenous beast as it ate away your soul, and you could barely contain the pained whimper before it tumbled free out of your lips.

Something engulfed your hand.

Warmth.

“Sugar?”

You whimpered louder.

“Shit." There was a rustling by your side before the same voice sprouted again, “Hang on, sweetheart. I'll get the doctor.”

Time stumbled in and out of your grasp. You thought you could hear several voices conversing in the room not long after. One of them, unrecognizable in your ears but settled deeply within your chest, rose above all of them. It sounded desperate, broken, as if the person had attempted to barter with God using merely a mangled heart and a splintered spine.

“...please,” you caught him say, the end of a sentence blown by the breeze before you could curl your fingers around it.

“I understand, Barnes,” another voice spoke. “We'll take care of it. Just wait outside, will you?”

A pair of hands proceeded to roam over your body. You felt the pull of consciousness behind your eyelids, heaving you out of the void, an aimless ghost slipping violently back into flesh.

You gasped.

The world returned in a fragmented mosaic—white ceiling, antiseptic air, and a beeping monitor that echoed stubbornly beside your ear. Inside your body, a burning agony erupted. It sank into the deepest corners of your being, clutching around your lungs, turning you into nothing more than a wailing heap of muscles and bones.

“Hey, hey, easy now,” came a calm voice. 

The words arrived in the company of gentle hands, too cold for your liking, but they were a reprieve nonetheless. The face in front of you zoomed in and out of focus like moonlight dancing across shattered glass, the contours merging and sundering as they finally morphed into the features of a familiar friend. 

Dr. Helen Cho.

She pressed the back of her hand to your forehead before shining a penlight into your eyes. “Pupils reactive. That’s good. Welcome back.”

You blinked away the harsh light from your vision, wincing when the effort sent a jolt of pain through your neck and shoulder. Your lips parted in an attempt to speak, but your throat felt like it had been shoved with hot coals, shredding your voice into nothing more than a torn, fragile snivel.

“W-what… what happened?” you croaked out.

“You were shot,” Helen answered. “Do you remember?”

Just like that, the memory barreled into you like a sucker punch to the face.

Images of drab walls and ceilings, the sight of mold and moss co-existing with dead rodents’ remains filled your mind. The abandoned building once posed as the warehouse of an illegal bio-weaponry enterprise that had long ceased to operate. The Avengers’ presence on site was supposed to be a straightforward recon—gather the intel on the culpable syndicate, perhaps scour for names complicit in supplying the deadly goods in the first place—and it was implied as such on the case files given to the entire team.

No one could have predicted that the simple job would turn into an ambush.

Your mind began flipping through the pages of memory, recalling how it took you no time at all to neutralize the four agents sent your way. Under different circumstances, you might have felt offended by the measly number of hostiles assigned to you—had your thoughts, of course, not already been preoccupied with a certain super soldier. Still, any insolent disparagement your opponent once hurled at your combat abilities was indefinitely put on ice as you dashed across the site's west wing.

By the time you arrived, Bucky was already cornered.

Instinct, and something else akin to protectiveness, fueled your movements as you thundered into the room. Most of the assailants were already lying in stacks on the floor, the rest following suit with every deliberate strike you threw their way. Your chest rose and fell in erratic bursts, each breath scraping your throat as the last body hit the ground.

Across the room, Bucky rose from behind the makeshift fortress, aiming his gun before stopping dead in tracks. The corner of your mouth lifted when your gazes found each other.

“Hi, handsome. Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, his grip around the gun loosening. “Was wondering when you'd show up, sweetheart.”

He stood up and approached you in merely four strides, smiling so sweetly as though your presence in front of him had been God's own gift to mankind. You fought off a shudder and attempted nonchalance as your palm brushed the dust off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sarge. You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

The grin on Bucky's face expanded. He bumped his shoulder to yours, the two of you heading for the exit as Bucky started requesting for extraction through his comms.

A split second was all it took for everything to go sideways.

You didn't know what compelled you to turn around for one last glance. Had you heard something? Felt something? Had the hairs on the back of your neck sensed the imminent danger before your brain could even begin processing it? 

It was impossible to say, but something dragged your gaze over your shoulder, an invisible hook yanking you back just in time to catch the glint of metal under the scanty light. One of the bodies on the ground, presumed dead, had begun to stir. His arm trembled as he lifted his gun from the blood-slick floor, the barrel rising with all of the inevitability of a verdict carved in stone.

Your breathing caught.

Everything in your body told you to run. To take shelter behind the wooden crate in the corner of the room, call out a warning, anything. But you knew exactly where that gun was aimed, where that bullet would go if you dared to move even an inch.

Straight into Bucky.

The whole world narrowed. What happened next wasn't a choice—it was a decision your body made under direct instructions of your heart, born not from years of training but from the gentle fondness you harbored for the man beside you. It commanded you to hold your ground, freezing your limbs, your chest pounding as though wishing to somehow intercept the bullet before it could write the ending you weren’t ready to read.

Then, the shot rang out.

Everything else had transpired in a blur. You remembered certain bits and pieces through the fog in your mind—the pain on your neck, the retaliation shot Bucky had fired from his gun, the look of pure terror you saw on his face as he held your crumbling body before it could shatter against the concrete ground.

The confession.

“Bucky.” His name fled your lips before you could even think about it.

Helen's gaze softened. “He's outside. He's been here the whole time. Never left your side since the surgery.”

You swallowed, throat thick with the weight of half-formed questions. “H-How long…?”

“Thirty-eight hours,” she replied. “The bullet missed your artery by millimeters. We almost lost you a couple of times. You were extremely lucky this time, Agent.”

Your eyes closed momentarily. When they opened again, your gaze found Helen with an unshakable purpose. “Could you please send him in?”

The doctor gave you a single nod, landing a reassuring pat on your knee before leaving the room silently.

Not long after, the door opened with a quiet hiss.

The sight of Bucky standing in the doorway smashed your heart into a million little pieces.

His hair was unkempt, sticking to different directions as if his fingers had run through them too many times to count. Even from the distance, you could still see how bloodshot his eyes were, how hollow and agonized they were under the harsh lighting of the room. He looked like a man who had outrun hell only to realize that it had made a home right inside his chest.

“Bucky,” you called out, slowly, gently.

His shoulders tensed at the sound of your voice.

Bucky's movement was tedious, as though it was painful for him to move, as though lifting his head required more strength than Atlas needed to carry the world on his shoulders. The moment his eyes met yours, something inside him cracked and splintered. 

“You're awake,” he said hoarsely.

“I am,” you replied, offering a soft, shaky smile. “I'm okay.”

Bucky didn't move.

He looked like he didn't even breathe.

It was as if an intangible weight had shackled itself around his ankles, stopping him in place. Bucky didn't try to fight it, to break himself out of the phantom hold he had been cast under. He just kept standing there, motionless, like he was afraid that if he came any closer, the fragile image of you in front of him—alive, breathing, and speaking—would vanish.

Your throat tightened.

“Buck,” you tried again, a tremor in your voice now, too. “Come here.”

His fingers twitched.

“Please.”

It was that single word that finally did it—the plea that fell onto him like a torrent on scorched earth.

He took one step, then another, erasing the distance between him and the bed with a slowness that might convince someone he was walking barefoot on shards of glass. You watched every inch of him draw nearer, his pain thick in the atmosphere of the room, heavier than the oxygen nesting in your lungs.

The hesitation returned when he reached your bedside, keeping him a good six inches away from you. He hovered in the space around the bed, uncertain, both of his hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to hold you but were afraid you would completely dissipate like vapor under his touch.

You lifted your hand and reached out, tentatively, with the precision of someone trying to pet an easily-spooked cat. Eternity must have passed at least once or twice when your fingers finally brushed the inside of his wrist.

That was all it took.

The singular touch was all it took for Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man with the power of a collapsing star, who had faced death and catastrophe greater than anybody else on earth could ever imagine—to entirely crumble under your palms.

A sound escaped him—something torn and guttural and not meant for human ears to hear. He fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching your hand like it was the only echo of mercy in a world that had offered him none. His head bowed against your stomach, shoulders shaking violently with the aggressive sobs he could no longer contain in his chest.

Your own tears spilled out of you in a tide stronger than the Pacific current, staining your cheeks as you brought your other hand to cradle the back of Bucky's head, threading your fingers through the short tendrils.

“I’m okay. I'm okay, Bucky, I'm fine,” you whispered, over and over, each word a balm against the searing agony inside his bloodstream. “I’m right here, darling. I'm okay now.”

“But you weren’t,” he choked, the sound of his anguish slicing your nerves deeper than the sharpest dagger ever could. “You weren’t, a-and God, I thought I lost you, sweetheart. I was holding you, tried to stop the blood—there was so much blood—and you just… you just went still. Was so cold and still and I couldn't—I didn't know what to do.”

“Bucky.” Your voice quivered. “I'm here, baby. You didn’t lose me.”

“I almost did.” 

His head rose, and your breath halted in your throat at the sight or red in Bucky’s eyes. He was not someone who cried often—perhaps it was the archaic 40s’ notion of masculinity that was still embedded in his system—and the only time you had seen him cry was back in Wakanda, when you and Ayo stood by him in the vulnerable moment that confirmed the severance of HYDRA's control over his soul.

Somehow, this Bucky—the one kneeling in front of you—looked even more shattered than the one in your memory.

“Your heart stopped, Sugar,” Bucky continued, the weight of his words pressing and twisting your ribs until you were nothing but a mire. “You weren’t breathing. So cold and stiff, and I… Shit—I didn't know if you'd make it. Had to do CPR the whole flight. Everyone told me to stop. They said y-you were gone. But I couldn't, Sugar. I just—I couldn't.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “Darling.”

“I thought I was too late,” he rasped, voice fracturing under the weight of a requiem still resonating in his chest. “I kept thinking if I'd been faster—if I’d stood closer—if I had just noticed sooner, then you… you would've…”

You cupped his face, forcing him to stop his self-torment and look up at you. To remind him that whatever horror still clawing at his being was no longer real, because you were fine, you were alive, and you were here with him. His cheeks were wet, flushed with the remnants of grief and an exhaustion that had been postponed for far too long. The pain in his eyes had dimmed the blue in his irises to gray.

“I'm fine now, Bucky,” you murmured, misty eyes and traces of salt on the tip of your tongue. “You did it. You saved me.”

“I shouldn't have had to,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to reject the truth. “You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. You should've been safe. I was supposed to protect you.”

“You did, Bucky. You did protect me.”

“Not enough.”

“Baby, look at me.” Your voice is firm, a lighthouse cutting through a war-born fog. Bucky's forehead furrowed as his eyes locked with yours, as if he still struggled to believe that the you in front of him weren't simply a mirage. “You brought me back, Buck. You didn’t lose me. I'm here because of you.”

His breath hitched.

His lips quivered.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead gently to his, ignoring the strain it caused to your wound because this—the man you held inside your palms, this tender moment you shared after everything the universe had put you through—was far more important than any pain you could ever feel.

“You didn't lose me,” you repeated.

There was silence in the next breath, a sacred one commonly heard in the space between lightning and thunder. You could feel his every exhale, shallow and staggered, like a beast coaxed out of fight but still bristling with a proliferate instinct.

After a stuttered heartbeat, his metal arm slithered around your waist, his flesh one wrapping around your hand again, tighter this time.

“Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please.”

“You didn't lose me,” you uttered. “I'm here, I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He crushed you against him then—still careful, still gentle—but underneath the heedfulness, his desperation bled through. Gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered in this vast universe, like he wanted to fold you into himself and keep you some place where danger and death could never lurk over you again.

You felt Bucky's lips on your skin, grazing along your shoulder, moving up the curve of your neck, your jaw, and your cheek. Worshipping you with prayers shaped as a thousand reverent kisses, moving like he was searching for the evidence that you were real, like he was memorizing a miracle while time was still ticking.

And when his mouth finally found yours, the press of his lips wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy.

It was trembling.

He kissed you as if you were the divine being who granted him life, respiring your moans and gasps as if they were the instruments needed to mend his ruptured soul. Bucky tasted like every future you were always too scared to envision for yourself—the promise of companionship, affection, and happiness that had once been too surreal for your heart to believe in. But now, in this moment with him, they all suddenly became inevitable.

You kissed him back, slowly, cradling his face between your hands to hold together all of the fractured pieces that forged his being. Time slipped away in the hush where sorrow once lived, getting you lost in everything Bucky, until eventually, your lungs had to force you to part and come up for air.

“I love you,” Bucky confessed, holding onto your wrists to keep you tethered to him. To this moment. And to life itself.

Your thumb brushed the apple of his cheek, catching a silent tear, leaning in to steal another kiss from the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

A sound between a sob and relief escaped him, and Bucky buried his face in the unwounded crook of your neck, breathing you in like he had been suffocating for days and had finally resurfaced for air. His arms stayed enveloped around you as he murmured praises against your skin—thanking the Gods for listening to his prayers, thanking the universe, thanking you. Paying reverence for the mercy that fate had bestowed over a mangled man such as himself.

You stayed like that for a long time. His weight against your side, his heartbeats slowly steadying beneath your touch. The monitors beeped gently beside you, grounding the two of you to reality, an anchor in the otherwise stagnant room. But in that moment, the only sound that mattered—the only one you cared about—was the soft inhale and exhale of your breaths, a proof of life, shared within the modest spaces that felt more freeing than a hummingbird flying over an open field.

Gradually, the room began to fade into silence.

And in the safety of Bucky's embrace, you had never appreciated the quiet more.