D.W

The field itself was a ruin of churned mud and discarded favor ribbons, the occasional lost boot. Someone's gauntlet, bended and forgotten near a fence post. The detritus of spectacle.

Sir James Buchanan Barnes walked through it like a man who wanted very much to be somewhere else.

He was limping. A gift from the third bout, when Sir Aldric Thornwall had gotten a lucky angle with his shield and introduced it firmly to Bucky's ribs.

The impact had knocked the air from his lungs with an audible crack that he'd felt more than heard. He'd finished the match anyway. He'd finished all of them. He'd placed second, which in any reasonable accounting of the day should have felt like something.

It didn't feel like much of anything.

Just the persistent throb beneath his ribs with every breath. Just the weight of mail he hadn't bothered to shed yet, still bearing the afternoon's sweat and dust.

The banquet, he thought, scowling.

Lord Castellan Morrow had made it clear, through three separate messengers, that his presence was expected at the celebration feast. That the competitors were guests of honor. That it would reflect poorly on a man of his standing to absent himself.

Bucky's standing, such as it was, had survived worse reflections.

So he just kept walking.

The city proper closed around him as he left the tournament grounds. Cobblestones replacing mud, the noise changing from open-air echo to the compressed warmth of torchlit streets.

Wintermouth at night had a specific smell: woodsmoke and river damp. He knew these streets well enough to navigate them half-asleep, which was approximately his current condition.

A pair of knights from the eastern circuit fell into step beside him for a while, their breath wine-sweet and celebratory, clapping him on the shoulder with the camaraderie of men who hadn't taken a shield to the ribs. He felt the impact reverberate down through the bruise, sharp enough that his vision whited at the edges.

"Hell of a final bout, Barnes."

"Could've taken him," the other offered generously. "Aldric fights dirty."

"Aldric fights to win," he said, which was the only response that was both true and didn't require him to have feelings about it. His voice came out rough, abraded by thirst and the dust he'd swallowed every time he'd hit the ground.

They took the hint, or something close enough to it, and peeled off toward the sound of music spilling from an open tavern door, lute strings and off-key singing and the particular roar of men determined to enjoy themselves.

The next interruption came two streets later, in the form of two scarcely clothed women leaning against the warm stone of a bakehouse wall, still radiating the day's stored heat.

Their exposed skin gleamed amber in the torchlight, deliberate and inviting. They tracked him with the experience of people who had learned to read a man's evening prospects at a glance.

"Sir Knight," one called, with a smile that had worked on better men than him. Her voice was honey-slow, practiced. "Shame to spend a victory night alone."

"First runner-up," he said, without stopping. The mail clinked with each step, a sound he'd long stopped hearing.

"Close enough."

It wasn't, but he didn't have the energy to explain the difference. He kept walking.

The maester caught him at the corner of Chandler's Row. Plump, earnest, clutching a satchel of medicines with both hands as it might escape. His robes were too clean, his face unlined. Fresh from the Citadel, probably. Still believed healing mattered more than politics.

"Sir Barnes." He was slightly out of breath, which suggested he'd been following for a while, trying to work up the nerve to address him. "Lord Castellan Morrow sends his regards and requests that you allow me to examine your injuries before the feast-"

"I'm not going to the feast."

A pause. The maester's throat worked. "He anticipated you might say that. He asked me to convey that your attendance is-"

"How's your handwriting?" Bucky interrupted.

The man blinked. "My- adequate, ser. Why?"

"Good." Bucky stopped walking, turned just enough to face him properly. Watched the maester straighten reflexively under the attention. "Here's what happened: you found me three streets back, examined me thoroughly despite my objections, and determined I've got at least two cracked ribs and a possible concussion. You ordered me to bed with strict instructions not to drink, feast, or make any sudden movements for the next three days."

He held the maester's wide-eyed stare. "Your professional opinion is that my attendance at tonight's festivities would be, and I'm quoting you here, 'medically inadvisable and potentially dangerous to Sir Barnes's recovery.'"

The maester's mouth opened. Closed. His gaze flickered down to Bucky's left side, where he'd been favoring it, where the mail sat wrong.

"You..." The man's voice was uncertain. "You do likely have cracked ribs, ser."

"There you go. Not even a lie." Bucky's smile was brief and sharp. "You write that up for your Lord, attach your seal to it, and you've done your duty. He gets his excuse in writing, you get to have actually helped someone today, and I get to go home. Everyone wins."

He could see the man working through it, the truth of the injury versus the falseness of the examination, the political cover versus the medical accuracy.

"I... suppose that would be acceptable," the maester said slowly. Then, with a hint of spine Bucky hadn't expected: "But you should let me examine you properly. Cracked ribs can shift, puncture-"

"I've had worse."

"That's not the reassurance you think it is, ser."

Despite everything -the ache and the exhaustion- Bucky felt something in his chest. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

"Tomorrow," he offered, and meant it more than he'd meant most things today. "You can poke at me all you want tomorrow."

The maester nodded, satisfied or at least willing to accept the compromise. "I'll have the letter sent within the hour."

"Appreciated."

----

His lodgings were modest by deliberate choice. A single room above a cooper's workshop on the quieter end of the merchant quarter, rented by the week during tournament season. No servants' quarters. No one to report his comings and goings to anyone who might have opinions about them.

This had its advantages.

He catalogued the disadvantages the moment he stepped inside and faced the cold hearth, his breath still misting in the chill air.

Right.

He set the heavy tournament satchel down with a dull thump, rolled his left shoulder experimentally -the socket grinding in a way that spoke of old breaks poorly healed- and decided that feeling was overrated.

The fire wasn't going to light itself. The armor wasn't going to unlace itself. The evening was shaping up to be a prolonged exercise in doing everything the hard way, which was, at this point, so consistent as to be almost comforting.

Almost.

He got the fire started on the third attempt. The tinder was damp, -because of course it was- and then stood in its growing warmth and began the specific misery of removing plate armor without assistance.

The tabard first, then the gorget, useful as it was, he hated the damn thing; removing it felt like relief. Then the pauldrons, working the straps with fingers that were more cooperative on the right side than the left.

The scarring along his left forearm pulled when he reached a certain angle, the old tissue going taut. It always did. He'd stopped noticing it the way you stopped noticing a crack in a familiar wall; it was simply part of the room now.

The breastplate hit the floor with a sound like an argument ending, the impact reverberating through the floorboards.

There.

What remained was a man in a sweat-dampened gambeson with a bruised ribcage, a mild headache, and absolutely no interest in examining either. The padded underarmor clung to him, cold now that the mail was gone, the fabric stiff with salt and exertion.

He took off the gambeson and dragged the wooden chest from his satchel, the one the tournament steward had pressed into his hands with excessive ceremony, and set it beside the fire. The brass fittings caught the light, over-polished. Performative.

The lock was simple. Inside: coin, as expected. A satisfying weight of silver stacked in neat columns, some gold beneath. He'd need it. The estate his father had left him was four walls and a burned-out shell, courtesy of the same people who took him hostage and left their mark on his arm.

Rebuilding wasn't cheap. Timber, thatch, labor, it all required the kind of funds you didn't earn through valor or skill, just the slow accumulation of tournament prizes and some service contracts.

Glory didn't buy roofing.

He picked up a brooch set with garnets -gaudy, impractical, the kind of thing you pinned to a cloak if you wanted to be robbed- and looked at it for a moment. The stones were decent quality, at least. It would fetch a reasonable price from the right jeweler.

He set it aside with the others. A necklace of amber. A pair of silver clasps. All destined for the same fate: the jeweler's scale, melted down or pried out and reset for someone who actually wanted them.

He had no use for adornments. He wasn’t fond of them, as most of the nobility, and also, he had no one to give them to.

The war had seen to that.

He reached back into the chest, fingers brushing past velvet pouches, and found something else.

A ring. Silver, heavier than it looked. He drew it out into the firelight and turned it between his fingers. The stone was a ruby, deep red, cut into the shape of a star.

He stared at it.

Red stars on grey and black.

His colors.

He turned it slowly, watching firelight slide across the facets. The star was crude, the points uneven, the kind of work you got from a jeweler with more ambition than skill. It was, objectively, the ugliest ring he had ever seen. Garish. The sort of thing a merchant's son wore to his first banquet, desperate to prove he belonged.

Bucky, who wore his father's signet ring only on scarce occasions because selling it felt wrong, even if the man was never a paragon of paternal love, felt the particular pull of a terrible idea.

Just to see if it fits.

It was small for his right hand, so he tried the left, mostly out of stubbornness… and it slid on. The fit was perfect. Uncannily so, as though it had been sized for exactly this finger, accounting for the slight deviation where the bone had set wrong.

The ruby flared.

Not like firelight reflecting, but light from within, red and sharp and pointed, like something had woken up inside the stone and found him looking.

The ring burned. Seared against his skin, hot enough that he felt it in his teeth, a bright line of pain circling his finger.

What-

He grabbed for it with his right hand, trying to twist it off, but his fingers passed through something that wasn't air and wasn't quite resistance.

The room tilted.

No. The room disappeared.

The fire went first, snuffed like a candle, leaving no smoke, no ember-glow. Then the chest, the coins. The ceiling with its water-stained beams. The floor beneath his feet.

All of it went, between one breath and the next, and what replaced it was falling.

His stomach lurched, and the burning in his finger became the only solid thing in a world that had stopped being solid.

He tried to breathe and couldn't find air.

The darkness swallowed him whole and the last thing he registered, distant, wrong, was the smell of plants and humidity.

Then nothing.

----

She stood on the sidewalk in front of The Sweet Briar with her hand buried to the wrist in her purse, fingers closing around lipstick, a crumpled handkerchief, what felt like a receipt that she really ought to throw away, and absolutely nothing key-shaped.

The morning was grey and cool for early spring, the kind of damp that sank into your coat and stayed there. The street was quiet, too early yet for the lunch crowd, the shops on either side still dark. A truck rumbled past, leaving the smell of diesel and wet pavement in its wake.

Just when she thought she might have actually forgotten the keys -left them on the kitchen counter next to the bread box, maybe, or in yesterday's coat pocket- her fingers finally closed around the key ring at the very bottom of the purse, underneath everything else, because of course they were.

The lock stuck.

She jiggled it once, patiently, the same way she had jiggled this exact lock approximately four hundred times and had not yet called the locksmith, because she only ever remembered the lock was broken when she was standing directly in front of it, key in hand, and by the time she got inside she'd forgotten again.

The metal resisted, then gave with a sound like a small complaint. She pushed inside.

The front of the shop was an obstacle course.

Mr. Thomson from the supply house had delivered very late yesterday afternoon, because apparently a union picket line two blocks east had backed up half the city's delivery routes. By closing time, she didn’t have the energy to do anything about the results: buckets of early flowers stacked three deep against the counter, their blooms still tight-furled and smelling faintly of earth.

Two flats of fern she hadn't priced yet, the fronds already drooping from a day out of soil. A box of wire and ribbon spools that had no business being in the middle of the floor but was there anyway, and somewhere underneath all of it, allegedly, the new ceramic pots she'd ordered in February and assumed were lost.

She picked her way through it with careful steps, her heels clicking against the wood floor, and made it to the back without incident.

The stockroom was small and currently in a state that she chose to call organized chaos and not a problem she had to solve today.

More deliveries back here too: boxes stacked along the left wall, the worktable barely visible under brown paper wrapping and tissue. The air smelled like potting soil and the green, living scent of the spider plants hanging near the window, their runners brushing the top of a stack of terra cotta. She reached up and pulled the cord on the single overhead bulb.

The light swung once, twice, and settled.

She saw the legs first.

Long legs, stretched across the floor between a toppled flat of begonias and the base of the shelving unit, attached to a man who was very much present and very much not conscious, sprawled at an angle that suggested he had not chosen to be on the floor so much as arrived there.

Her breath stopped.

For one crystalline second, her brain refused to process what she was seeing -legs, boots, a body where no body should be- and then her heart kicked hard against her chest.

There was a man. In her stockroom. On the floor.

He'd taken out a good portion of the new stock on his way down. The begonias were scattered, soil spilled across the floorboards in dark trails. A ceramic pot in sage green -the one she'd specifically ordered and waited two months for- was in three neat pieces beside his left arm. The pothos she'd been propagating had been knocked from its perch; the vines lay crushed beneath his shoulder.

She stood very still for a moment, one hand still on the light cord, the other pressed flat against her chest where her heart was trying to break through.

He wasn't moving.

His chest was -she watched for a second, barely breathing herself- yes, his chest was moving. Shallow, but steady.

So. Not dead.

She still hadn't decided if that was good or bad.

Her gaze darted to the back door: still closed, the bolt still thrown from the inside. The window was latched. No broken glass. No signs of forced entry.

So how-?

Her hand moved without conscious thought, reaching back toward the worktable, fingers closing around the wooden handle of a trowel. Not much of a weapon, but the edge was solid steel, the point designed for breaking hard soil. It would do.

She took a step closer, the trowel held low at her side, ready to strike.

His clothing was strange. The shirt was wrong, off-white and loose, the kind of fabric that looked hand-woven, rough in a way she couldn’t describe. The collar was laced instead of buttoned, the ties loose and askew.

The trousers were the same, tucked into boots that had absolutely no business existing in 1955: tall, dark leather, worn in the way that took years and hard use, not a factory.

Over all of it, a belt of heavy leather, studded and wide. And attached to it, running down each thigh -she tilted her head slightly- what appeared to be straps, buckled and reinforced, holding padded cushioned sheaths flat against his legs.

Like something out of a medieval fair, except those fairs didn't come through this city, and even if they did, the participants didn't break into a flower shop in full costume and collapse on the begonias.

She took another step closer, careful to avoid the broken ceramic.

His face was-

Well.

A face that had seen better days was her first thought, and her second was that even roughed up as he was, it was a remarkable face to have stumbled into her stockroom.

Strong jaw, straight nose, the kind of bone structure you saw in magazine advertisements for razors or cologne, the ones that made you look twice even when you weren't in the market.

A bruise was already darkening along his left cheekbone, deep purple spreading toward his temple. There was a cut above his brow that had bled and dried, the blood a rust-brown line trailing toward his hairline.

The beard was a few days past deliberate.

And the hair -she paused on that- dark brown, long enough to brush his shoulders, pushed back from his face and thoroughly disordered, tangled with mud and sweat.

It was long for a man. Longer than any man she'd seen outside of a history book or painting.

She straightened up slowly, the trowel still in her hand.

Alright, she thought, forcing her breathing to steady. Think.

Option one: he was a vagrant who'd somehow gotten through a locked door -the damn lock, God help her- and passed out on her stock.

Possible. Unlikely, given the boots alone probably cost more than her monthly rent, but possible.

Option two: he was a veteran. There were men, she knew -the whole city knew, even if nobody said it plainly- who hadn't come back from the war quite right in the head.

Shell-shock, they'd called it in the first war. Combat fatigue now, as if giving it a softer name made it easier to carry.

Except that didn't explain the kind of clothes.

Option three: he'd gotten blind drunk somewhere in the vicinity, wandered in through a door she knew she'd locked, and the outfit was theatrical. A costume. There was a theatre district six blocks south. Strange things happened near the theatre districts. Actors were weird.

Except that the door had been locked. And bolted.

She looked down at him again.

At the slow rise and fall of his chest. At the ring on his left hand, silver with a red stone that caught the light strangely, still faintly warm-looking even in the dim stockroom.

At the begonias, crushed beyond saving.

The telephone was on the opposite wall. She edged past him, keeping the trowel between them out of some vague instinct that felt less vague with every step. Her heel caught on a scatter of soil, and she steadied herself against the doorframe, not taking her eyes off him.

He still wasn't moving.

She picked up the receiver with her free hand, the trowel still raised in the other, and dialed zero, the rotary clicking back into place.

The line hummed and returned a busy signal.

Dammit.

She clicked the hook and tried again, her gaze locked on the sprawled figure.

Busy. Again. It was a challenge to get to an operator these last few weeks. It was the third time this month she needed to make a call, and the lines were occupied.

She leaned her hip against the wall and tried a fourth time, watching him over her shoulder out of an abundance of caution that was starting to feel less abundant and more barely sufficient.

Okay. If she could just get through to the operator, get a squad car over here -or an ambulance, depending on what exactly was wrong with him- she could have this sorted before her first customer arrived at nine. It was a reasonable plan. It was perfectly reasonable-

The fifth attempt produced a busy signal and also, from somewhere behind her, a sound. The distinct scrape of ceramic against concrete, and then a longer drag, like weight shifting.

Her breath caught.

She turned around slowly, the receiver still pressed to her ear, the busy signal droning against her brain.

He was sitting up, propped on one hand with the other braced against the shelving unit, head bowed forward like it weighed too much to lift. The dark hair fell across his face in tangled strands. His shoulders rose and fell with breaths that looked like they hurt.

She didn't move. Her fingers tightened around the trowel handle until the wood bit into her palm.

For a moment he just sat there, motionless except for the breathing. Then his head lifted slowly, and he blinked at the stockroom with the heavy, confused expression of a man whose surroundings were not what he'd been expecting.

His gaze tracked left: shelves, boxes, the window with its spider plants. Right: more shelves, the worktable, the spilled soil.

Then his eyes found her.

A nice pair of steel blue eyes.

That was the completely irrelevant thing her brain produced, and she hated that it did, because those steel blue eyes were currently fixed on her with a frown that was more baffled than threatening, but he was large.

She could see that now, even sitting down he had the kind of shoulders that spoke of labor or violence or both- and he was between her and the back door, and she did not know him, and she was alone, and-

Her mind didn't finish the thought. She crossed the distance between them in three steps, raised the spade, and swung.

She didn't account for his reflexes.

One moment she was bringing the flat of the blade down toward his head, and the next, her wrist was caught mid-arc in a grip like iron, the world tilted sideways, and she was on her back on the stockroom floor with approximately two hundred twenty pounds of confused stranger pinning her there.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Her shoulders hit concrete, her head just barely missing the leg of the worktable. The trowel clattered away, skittering across the floor into the scattered soil.

He'd moved fast. Too fast for someone who'd been unconscious thirty seconds ago. Too fast for someone who'd struggled to sit up.

His hand was still locked around her wrist, holding it flat against the floor above her head. His other forearm was braced beside her shoulder. His knee was between hers, his weight distributed in a way that kept her pinned without crushing her, like this was something he'd done before. Many times before, in fact.

When she pulled at her wrist -once, testing, her breath coming in sharp gasps- he simply held it, not tightening, not letting go, like the question of her leaving hadn't seriously occurred to him as a variable.

Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat, behind her eyes. She could smell him: leather and sweat and something else, something like smoke and metal and old wool.

She could count his eyelashes.

The blue eyes she'd noticed before were a lot more striking at this distance, and a lot less groggy. Whatever fog had been in them when he'd first sat up had burned off fast into something sharp and assessing.

He was looking at her the way she imagined soldiers looked at enemies in the dark. His chest rose and fell against hers with each breath. She could feel the heat of him through her blouse, through his strange linen shirt.

Get off get off get off-

She opened her mouth to scream, to say something, to demand he let her go-

And then he lowered his face toward hers by one deliberate inch, eyes narrowing and demanded, low and very even:

"State your intentions, witch."     

Next Chapter

She heard him dust his boots heavily on the porch, then the door opened, and he stepped inside, bringing the cold air and the smell of pine and sweat with him. His eyes found her immediately, still standing by the stove where she'd been keeping the stew warm.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

She felt her face heat under his gaze, and her hands tightened on the wooden spoon she was holding.

"You're home," she managed, and immediately felt foolish. Of course he was home. She could see him standing right there.

But his expression softened slightly, and he set down his lunch pail by the door.

"I am," The words came out rough. Like he'd been working hard. Or thinking hard. Or both.

He shrugged out of his coat, hung it on the peg, and crossed the small space between them in a few strides.

She tensed with anticipation, expecting him to reach for her, to pull her close the way he had last night. But he stopped just in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him, and his hand came up to cup her face instead.

Gentle. Almost careful.

"Feelin’ alright?" he asked quietly.

The question caught her off guard. She'd expected... well, she wasn't sure what she'd expected. But not that.

"I'm fine," she said honestly.

His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, and something flickered in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or concern.

"Any discomfort?"

She shook her head.

He studied her face for another moment, like he was checking for signs she might be lying to spare his feelings. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead -brief, almost chaste- before stepping back.

"Smells good," he said, nodding toward the stove. "What is it?"

"Stew," she answered still processing the gentleness of that kiss. "It's been ready for a while. I was just keeping it warm."

"Sounds good." He moved past her toward the washbasin, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm starvin’."

She turned back to the stove, ladling stew into bowls, and tried to ignore the way her heart was still racing.

It was so stupid that the fact that he was careful and gentle with her still affected her, but she was still getting used to it. To matter. To have a voice. To like and dislike things and be checked on. To be cherished.

“Do you want to wash after you are done?” she heard herself ask without thinking.

He paused, his hands stilling in the basin where he'd been splashing water on his face. Then he straightened, reaching for the towel she kept hanging nearby, and turned to look at her.

"After dinner?" he repeated, like he was making sure he'd heard her right.

She nodded, focusing very hard on ladling the stew into the second bowl. "I could heat water for the tub. If you'd like."

There was a pause, just long enough that she glanced up to see if something was wrong.

He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Something between surprised and... pleased, maybe.

"Yeah," he said finally, his voice a little rougher. "That'd be good."

She nodded and carried the bowls to the table, setting them down with hands that were steadier than she felt.

Offering to heat his bathwater wasn't scandalous. It was a perfectly normal thing for a wife to do for her husband after a long day of work.

Except they both knew what had happened the last time she'd helped him bathe.

When she'd washed his back with careful hands. When he'd been sitting in the tub and she'd been close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. When the air between them had been charged with something unspoken and inevitable.

And now -after last night- there was nothing unspoken left.

She sat down across from him at the table, smoothing her skirt unnecessarily, and picked up her spoon.

He did the same, taking a bite of the stew and making a low sound of approval.

"This is good," he said. "Real good."

"Thank you."

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but weighted with awareness. Of each other. Of what had happened. Of what would happen again.

Eventually, he cleared his throat.

"Had a hell of a time concentratin' today," he said, not quite meeting her eyes.

She looked up. "Oh?"

"Yeah." He took another bite, chewed, swallowed. "Miller nearly had to pull me out of the way of a fallin' log. And Davidson caught me splittin' the same piece of wood three times without realizin' it."

Her eyebrows rose. "That doesn't sound like you."

"It ain't." He finally looked at her then, and there was something in his gaze that made her stomach flip. "Kept thinkin' about last night."

Heat flooded her face instantly.

"About you," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "About comin' home to you."

She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know if she was supposed to say anything.

But he didn't seem to expect a response. Just went back to his stew, though she could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw worked as he chewed.

Like he was holding himself back from saying -or doing- something more.

They finished the meal in that same charged silence, and when he pushed his bowl away, she stood to clear the table.

His hand slowly caught her wrist as she reached for his bowl.

She looked at him, her pulse jumping.

"I meant what I said," he said quietly. "About givin' you time. Few days, at least."

She swallowed. "I know."

"But… that ain't mean I don't wanna touch you." His thumb brushed across the inside of her wrist, a slow movement that made her skin tingle. "If that's alright."

She thought about the way he'd looked at her when he came home. The careful way he'd touched her face. The kiss to her forehead that had been almost reverent.

She thought about the fact that she'd spent the entire day thinking about him too. About last night. About the future.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His expression changed -something dark and satisfied crossing his face- and he released her wrist.

"Go on then," he said. "Heat the water. I'll clear the table."

"You just got home," she said, already moving toward the stove to check the water she'd kept simmering. " I'll handle it."

"If I help, you can get started sooner," he countered, already standing and reaching for his bowl. "And honestly, the idea of a bath sounds real good right now."

She couldn't argue with that logic.

They worked in tandem, her hauling the tub from its spot in the corner while he carried the first pot of hot water, both of them moving anticipating each other's movements.

By the time the tub was half-full, she'd settled onto the chair nearby the fire, waiting as he added the last pot of cold water to temper the heat.

He straightened, testing the temperature with his hand, then started unbuttoning his shirt.

She didn't look away.

There'd been a time when they'd given each other privacy for this. When she would've turned the chair to face the wall, or busied herself with some task on the other side of the room.

But that time had passed.

Now she watched as he shrugged out of his shirt, the firelight playing across his shoulders, highlighting the old scars she'd traced with her fingers more times than she could count. And the new ones, faint red lines down his back where her nails had raked him last night.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, catching her staring, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

"Ain't fair, you know," he said, reaching for his belt. "You gettin' to look while I can't."

"I'm not the one getting in the bath," she deadpaned.

"True." He unfastened his belt, pushed his trousers down, and stepped out of them. Then his drawers followed, and he was bare, crossing the short distance to the tub without a hint of self-consciousness.

She'd seen him naked before. Many times, especially over the past two months. But there was something different about watching him now, in the firelight, knowing what it felt like to have that body covering hers. Inside hers.

He stepped into the tub with a low groan of relief, sinking down into the water until it lapped at his chest.

"Christ, that's good," he muttered, his head falling back against the rim.

She stood, collecting his discarded clothes and adding them to the basket near the door, very aware of his eyes tracking her movements.

When she turned back, he was watching her with an expression that made her stomach flip.

"You gonna help me?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "Help you?"

"Yeah." He shifted in the tub, settling deeper. "I'm real tired. And last time you helped -when I had that cut on my hand- it was..." He paused, and she could see he was fighting a smile. "Real helpful."

She crossed her arms, trying to hide a smile. "You seem perfectly capable of washing yourself."

"Do I?" His voice had dropped lower, rougher. "Because I'm rememberin' how good it felt when you did it. Your hands in my hair. On my back."

Heat crept up her neck at the memory. At the intimacy of it, of touching him like that, tending to him.

"That was different," she said. "You were actually injured."

"I'm injured now," he said, deadpan. "Emotionally. From workin' all day thinkin' about my wife and not bein' able to do anythin' about it."

Despite herself, she felt her lips twitch.

"That's not a real injury."

"Feels real to me." He held her gaze, and the playfulness faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. More intent. "Come here."

It wasn't quite a command. More like an invitation. A request.

She crossed to the tub without hesitation and knelt beside it. His eyes tracked her movements, and when she reached for the soap, his hand caught her wrist.

Gently. Like he'd done at the dinner table.

"I promised I'd give you time," he said quietly. "And I meant it. But I want to touch you. Want you to touch me. That alright?"

She looked at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the tension in his jaw, at the way he was holding himself still despite clearly wanting more.

He was asking. Checking. Making sure she was comfortable.

Just like he had last night.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His grip on her wrist loosened, and he released her with what looked like effort.

"Good." he said, his voice rough.

----

She worked the soap between her hands until it lathered, then pressed her palms to his back. He made a low sound -half groan, half sigh- and let his head fall forward, giving her access.

She started at his shoulders, working the soap across the muscles, feeling the tension there start to ease under her touch. Then down his spine, she let her thumbs press on either side, the way she'd discovered he liked weeks ago and felt him exhale slowly, deeply.

Her hands knew this body now. Knew the old scars, the puckered one on his left shoulder blade, the long raised line that ran from shoulder to spine. Knew the new marks too, the faint red scratches she'd left last night, already fading but still visible in the firelight.

Evidence of what they'd done. What they'd become to each other.

"Lean forward," she said quietly.

He did, bracing his forearms on his knees, and she reached for the cup sitting beside the tub.

She poured water over his head slowly, watching it darken his hair from brown to almost black, watching it run in rivulets down his neck and shoulders. Then she set the cup aside and worked the soap through the wet strands.

Her fingers found his scalp, and she began to massage in slow, deliberate circles.

The sound he made was involuntary. Deep and rough and so unguarded that it sent a flutter through her stomach.

"That's..." He trailed off, seeming to lose the words.

"Good?" she offered, her fingers still working, applying gentle pressure as she moved across his scalp.

"Yeah." His voice had gone thick. "Real good."

She took her time with it. Working the soap through every strand, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made his breathing deepen. She'd done this once before when he'd injured his hand, but that had been different. An assistance.

This was something else.

When she was satisfied, she rinsed his hair carefully, filling the cup again and again, pouring the water slowly so the soap wouldn't run into his eyes. Making sure to get every bit of lather out, combing through the strands with her fingers.

She set the cup aside and sat back slightly, her hands stilling.

He started to reach for the soap, but she picked it up first.

His hand stilled in mid-air, suspended between them.

"I can-" he started, his voice careful.

"I know you can," she said simply.

She dampened and worked more soap in her hands until they had a lot of lather, and waited.

For a moment, he just looked at her. She could see him processing what she was offering. What she was saying without words.

That she wasn't finished. That she wanted to keep touching him.

Then, slowly, like he was afraid sudden movement might break whatever spell this was, he settled back against the tub. His arms came to rest along the rim, palms up, open.

Giving her access.

She brought the cloth to his chest, and his breathing changed immediately, deeper, more controlled, as she began to work the soap across his skin.

She started at his collarbone, tracing the hard line of it from shoulder to shoulder. Then down, over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. She could feel his heartbeat under her hand, strong and steady but faster than normal.

He was affected by this. By her touch.

She moved her hand in slow, careful circles. Across to his left side, feeling his ribs expand and contract with each breath. Then back to center and across to the right. Thorough. Methodical.

But not impersonal.

She was hyperaware of every point of contact. Of the way his skin felt warm and slick from the water. The way his muscles tensed slightly when she touched certain spots. Of the way he was watching her through half-lidded eyes, his jaw tight.

His eyes had closed at some point, but she could see his hands gripping the edge of the tub, knuckles pale. He was holding himself very still. Letting her work. Not reaching for her even though she could see he wanted to.

She moved lower.

Over his stomach, feeling the muscle shift under her touch. Her hand traced the line where his torso met his hips, where the hair grew thicker, and she felt him tense.

His eyes opened.

She met his gaze -steady, deliberate- and brought her hand beneath the water.

Down, over his hip. Along his thigh.

And then, because there was no reason not to, because this was part of washing him, just like everything else, she brought it between his legs.

His breath caught audibly when her fingers made contact.

She worked carefully, the same way she'd washed the rest of him. Trying to be practical about it, though there was nothing clinical about the way her own heart was racing now. About the way her face felt warm despite the cool air in the cabin.

She felt him harden under her touch, the change immediate and undeniable, but kept her movements steady. Thorough. Washing him the way he'd need to be washed, trying not to think about the fact that she was touching him there.

When she shifted slightly to reach more thoroughly, his hips shifted forward involuntarily,  a sharp, sudden movement that made the water slosh slightly in the tub.

Chasing the contact.

He caught himself immediately, forced his hips back down, and she heard him exhale through clenched teeth.

"Can't help it, sweetheart," he said, his voice wrecked. Strained. "You touch me like that, I-"

He cut himself off, gripping the tub harder, his whole body gone rigid with the effort of not moving. Of not reaching for her. Of not asking for more than she was offering.

"I know," she said quietly, and meant it.

She could see what this was doing to him. Could see it written in every line of his body, the tension, the restraint, the way he was barely holding himself together.

But he wasn't asking her to stop, or to do more. He was just letting her touch him, letting her explore. Letting her learn him at her own pace.

She finished washing him, moving the cloth down his thighs, along his calves, even taking each foot in turn and working the soap carefully between his toes.

When she was done, she rinsed her hands and rested it in her thighs, very aware that her sleeves were damp from the water. That her face was heated. That her breathing wasn't entirely steady.

And he was sitting there in the cooling water, his eyes on her, his chest rising and falling with breaths that were deeper than they should be.

Then he exhaled slowly and opened his eyes fully.

"Thank you," he said.

She nodded, not trusting her own voice, and stood.

"I'll get you a towel," she managed.

She crossed to the chest where they kept the linens, taking perhaps a moment longer than necessary to find one. Using the time to steady herself. To slow her breathing.

Behind her, she heard him shift in the water. Heard the quiet splash and the sound of water streaming off his body as he stood.

When she turned back, towel in hand, he was standing in the tub, water sluicing off his skin in rivulets that caught the firelight.

She could see all of him.

His broad shoulders. His chest. His stomach. The dark hair that trailed down from his navel. His thighs, thick with muscle.

And between them, the evidence of exactly how much her touch had affected him.

Still hard. Still wanting.

She felt her face heat again, felt that now-familiar flutter low in her belly, but she didn't look away, didn't drop her gaze or pretend she hadn't seen.

Just held out the towel.

He stepped out of the tub carefully, water dripping onto the floor, and reached for it.

But instead of taking the towel immediately, his hand caught hers.

Gently. The way he'd done at the dinner table earlier.

He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Slowly. His lips were warm and soft against her skin.

His eyes held hers the entire time.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he said quietly, his voice still rough with want. With restraint. "You know that?"

She didn't know what to say to that.

Didn't know if there was anything she could say that would adequately express what she was feeling, the strange mix of power and vulnerability, of curiosity and nervousness, of wanting to touch him more and being afraid of what might happen if she did.

So she just stood there, her hand still caught in his, her heart pounding.

Then he released her and took the towel, wrapping it around his waist with movements that were just slightly less controlled than usual and walked to the bed.

"Come here," he said quietly.

She complied, and he reached for her hand, pulling her down to sit beside him. For a moment, they just sat there. Close but not touching beyond where his hand still held hers.

Then he brought their joined hands to his lap and traced his thumb across her knuckles.

"You didn't have to do that," he said quietly. "Wash me like that."

"I know."

"But you did anyway."

She nodded.

"Why?"

The question was gentle, curious. Not demanding. She considered it for a moment, then chose to be honest.

"Because I wanted to," she said finally. Simply. “Wanted to help you, and… wanted to touch you.”

His thumb stilled on her hand.

"You wanted to," he repeated, like he was testing the words.

"Yes."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You tell me, sweetheart. Am I pushin' too hard? Askin' for too much?"

She looked at him, at the genuine concern in his eyes, the way he was watching her like her answer actually mattered, and felt something warm settle in her chest.

"No," she said firmly. "You're not."

"You'd tell me if I was?"

"I would."

He studied her face for another moment, then nodded, seeming satisfied.

"Good," he said. "Because the last thing I want is for you to feel like you have to... like any of this is somethin' you're doin' out of duty."

"It's not," she said quietly. "I promise."

He swallowed, and she watched his throat work with the motion. Then he shifted slightly on the bed, his thighs separating just enough that the towel around his waist loosened, falling open slightly.

The evidence of his arousal was impossible to miss.

His hand tightened on hers for a moment, then released.

"Then," he said, his voice rough. "Would you be willin' to... help me with my situation?"

Her eyes flicked down, then back to his face.

She'd done this before. Multiple times, actually, in the weeks leading up to last night. He'd touched her, and both had discovered what she liked, what made her gasp and arch into his hand. And she'd explored him in return, learned the weight of him in her palm, the rhythm he preferred, the signs that told her he was close.

It had been part of learning each other. Part of him making sure she was comfortable with intimacy before they took that final step.

But somehow this time felt different. Maybe because now she knew what it felt like to have him inside her. Knew what he sounded like when he lost control completely.

"Alright," she said quietly.

His eyes darkened, and she saw relief and want on them.

She moved to stand between his knees, and he reached for the towel, pulling it away completely and tossing it aside. Then his hands came to rest lightly on her hips.

"You don't have to," he said, even though she'd already agreed. "If you're too tired, or if-"

"Bucky," she interrupted gently. "I said alright."

He exhaled slowly, and his grip on her hips tightened slightly.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, okay."

She started to reach for him, but the angle was awkward; she'd have to bend forward, lean down, and her back would start protesting within minutes.

He seemed to realize it at the same time she did.

"Here," he said, releasing her hips. "Get the stool. You'll be more comfortable."

She retrieved the small wooden stool they kept by a corner and positioned it between his knees. When she sat, his hands settled on her thighs this time, palms warm even through her skirts.

She wrapped her hand around him, and he made a sound -low and rough- that sent heat pooling down her belly.

"Christ," he muttered, his head falling back slightly. "Your hand’s so warm..."

She knew what he liked. Had learned it over the course of multiple evenings spent exploring each other, his patient instructions guiding her until she understood the pressure he needed, the rhythm that worked.

So she started the way she always did, slow and firm, her hand moving from base to tip and back again in long, steady strokes.

His hips shifted forward slightly, following the movement, and his hands tightened on her thighs.

"That's good," he said, his voice strained. "That's real good, sweetheart."

She kept the rhythm steady, watching his face. Watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his breathing went ragged, the way his eyes drifted closed.

His hands slid higher on her thighs, gripping through her skirts like he needed something to hold onto.

"Tighter," he said after a moment. "Can you- yeah, like that."

She adjusted her grip, and he groaned.

"Faster?"

"Not yet," he said, his voice tight. "Want it to last."

So she kept the pace slow. Deliberate. Let him feel every stroke.

One of his hands left her thigh and came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone in a gesture that was tender despite the explicit nature of what she was doing to him.

"You're so good to me," he said quietly, his eyes opening to meet hers. "So damn good."

She felt her face heat at the words, at the sincerity in them.

His hand slid from her face down to her neck, then lower, curving around her waist. His other hand stayed on her thigh, grounding, possessive in a way that made her stomach flutter.

"Okay," he said after another minute, his breathing harsher now. "Okay, faster now."

She increased the pace, her wrist working in the rhythm she knew he needed, and felt him tense beneath her touch.

"God, yes," he muttered. "Just like that, sweet girl. Don't stop."

His hips started moving in small thrusts, matching her rhythm, and she could feel him getting closer. Could see it in the way his whole body tensed, in the way his fingers dug into her waist, in the way his breathing had turned ragged and uneven.

"Darlin’," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I'm gonna-”

He was trying to warn her. Trying to give her time to move her hand and let him take over, grab the towel, to do whatever she needed to do.

But she didn't pull away.

Just kept moving her hand, moving, steady and sure, the way he needed.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His eyes locked on hers, and something in his expression shifted. Went dark, intense and full of want.

"Fuck," he breathed, and then his whole body went rigid.

She felt him pulse in her hand, felt the warmth spill over her fingers as he spent, his hips jerking forward with each wave. He made a sound -low and broken- and his hand came up to cover hers, holding her in place while he rode it out.

When it was over, he slumped forward slightly, his forehead pressing against her shoulder, his breathing ragged against her neck.

They stayed like that for a moment, her hand still wrapped around him, his face buried in the curve of her neck, both of them catching their breath.

Then he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes still dark but softer now.

"Sorry," he said, his voice rough. "Should've grabbed the towel, I just-"

"It's fine," she said.

He reached for the towel anyway, gently taking her hand and cleaning it carefully. When he was done, he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her. Slow and deep and grateful.

When he pulled back, he was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"You should get into your nightgown," he said finally. "Get comfortable."

She nodded and stood, retrieving her nightgown from beneath her pillow where she'd tucked it that morning. She crossed to the corner near the dresser where a small peg rack hung on the wall, beginning to unbutton her dress.

----

Behind her, she heard him move, the creak of the bed as he stood, his footsteps crossing to the water bucket. The sound of him drinking deeply, then setting the dipper back with a soft clatter.

Then she heard him chewing biscuits.

She rolled her eyes. They'd just eaten. The man had put away two full bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread less than an hour ago.

More drinking. Another swallow. Then silence.

She'd worked her dress off and draped it over the peg, then the petticoat, the corset. Her fingers moved to the ties of her drawers when she heard his footsteps again.

But they weren't heading back to the bed.

They were coming toward her.

She stilled, her hands on the waistband of her drawers, and then she felt him behind her. Close. Not touching yet, but close enough that she could feel his body heat.

His hands settled on her bare skin, one at the small of her back, the other at her shoulder blade, and began to stroke her naked skin in slow strokes. She shivered despite the warmth of the cabin.

"Wanna touch you now," he said quietly, his voice rough and low near her ear. "Is that alright?"

She almost chuckled. So that's why he'd told her to change.

She finished pushing her drawers down her hips and stepped out of them, straightening fully. His hands were still on her back, waiting for her answer.

"More than alright," she said.

She heard the shift in his breathing. Felt one hand slide around to her hip, holding her in place.

"Yeah?" His other hand moved up to her shoulder, his thumb stroking along her collarbone. "You sure?"

She hesitated, feeling heat creep up her neck. Then, because he'd been honest with her earlier about being distracted at work, she made herself say it.

"You're not the only one who spent today thinking about last night, Bucky," she admitted quietly. "I was... distracted too."

His hand on her hip tightened, and she felt him step closer. Close enough that his chest was nearly pressed against her back.

"That right?" he said, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice.

She nodded.

His hand slid from her hip upward, gliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. His palm was warm and calloused against her soft skin, and when his thumb found her nipple and began circling the areola in slow, deliberate strokes, she couldn't quite suppress the small sound that escaped her lips.

"What were you thinkin' about?" he asked, his mouth close to her ear now. "Specifically."

His thumb continued its maddening circles, not quite touching where she was starting to want him to touch, just tracing around and around until she felt her nipple tighten in response.

She swallowed, trying to find words while his hands were on her like this.

"About..." She paused, her breath catching when his thumb finally brushed directly over the peaked bud. "About how it felt. What you did."

"What I did," he repeated, his voice a low rumble against her back. His thumb rolled over her nipple again, more deliberately this time, and his other hand slid from her shoulder down to join the first, cupping her other breast. "Gonna need you to be more specific than that, sweetheart."

Both hands now, both thumbs working in tandem, and she had to brace one hand against the wall to steady herself.

"When you..." She took a shaky breath. "When you touched me. Before. And during."

"Durin’," he said, and there was something almost predatory in his tone now. Pleased. "You mean when I was inside you?"

"Yes," she managed.

His hands stilled for a moment, and then he turned her around to face him.

She found herself looking up at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the focus written across every line of his face.

"And what exactly were you thinkin' about that?" he asked, one hand coming up to cup her face while the other settled at her waist. "That… you wanted me to do it again?"

The directness of the question should have embarrassed her. Would have embarrassed her, even just yesterday.

But there was something about the way he was looking at her. The way his thumb was stroking along her cheekbone. The way he was asking instead of assuming.

"Eventually," she said honestly. "When... when it doesn't hurt anymore."

Something flickered in his expression, that guilt again, brief but unmistakable.

"It's gonna be a lot better next time," he said quietly.

"I know."

"When we do it again," he continued, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer, "it's gonna feel good. Real good. I'm gonna make sure of it."

She believed him. Because he'd already shown her what good felt like, with his hands, with his mouth, with the patient way he'd learned what made her gasp and arch into his touch.

"But right now," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I just wanna make you feel good. Can I do that?"

"Yes," she said.

His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Good," he said. "Now come here."

He guided her backward toward the bed, and she went willingly, her heart already racing in anticipation of what came next.

He stood in front of her for a moment, just looking. His eyes traced over her, bare and exposed in the firelight, and she fought the urge to cover herself.

She'd been naked in front of him many times before. But it still made her feel vulnerable in a way she couldn't quite explain.

"Lie back," he said quietly.

She did, scooting further onto the bed and settling against the pillows. He followed, moving onto the bed with her, bracing himself on one arm beside her while his other hand came to rest on her stomach.

"You're tense," he observed, his palm warm against her skin.

"I'm not-"

"You are." His hand moved in a slow circle, soothing. "Relax, sweetheart. I'm just gonna make you feel good. That's all."

She took a breath and tried to let the tension ease out of her shoulders.

His hand moved from her stomach upward, sliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. The touch was gentle at first, exploratory, almost.

"I didn't pay enough attention to these last night," he said, almost to himself. His thumb brushed across her nipple, and she felt it tighten in response. "Was too focused on gettin' inside you."

His hand shifted, and he cupped her other breast, giving it the same careful attention, testing its weight.

"But I got time now," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "And I'm gonna take it."

He lowered his head, and she felt his breath ghost across her skin a moment before his mouth closed over her nipple. The sensation made her gasp, wet heat and gentle suction that sent a jolt of feeling straight between her thighs.

His tongue slowly circled the peaked bud, and then he sucked again, harder this time, and her hands flew to his shoulders without conscious thought.

"Bucky-"

He hummed against her skin, and his hand came up to tend to her other breast while his mouth stayed busy.

His fingers found her nipple and pressed firmly under it, making her arch slightly into the touch. Then he pulled gently, tugging just enough that the sensation rode the line between pleasure and something more intense.

She whined  -helpless and uncontrolled- and felt him smile against her breast. He switched sides then, his mouth moving to the breast his hand had been tending while his fingers took over where his mouth had been.

The pattern repeated, his tongue circling and flicking, his lips suckling, his teeth grazing so lightly she barely felt it. And his hand, always his hand, pressing and tugging and coaxing her body to respond.

She could feel herself getting restless beneath him. Could feel heat building low in her belly, her thighs shifting against each other, seeking friction that wasn't there.

"Easy," he murmured against her skin. "Not rushin' this."

His mouth stayed on her breast, working her nipple with single-minded focus until it was hard and sensitive and slick from his attention. Then he moved to the other side again, giving it the same thorough treatment until both peaks were tight and aching and she was breathing harder than she meant to.

When he finally pulled back, she looked down to find him watching her with dark, intent eyes. Her breasts felt hot from his attention, her nipples darker and visibly wet, and she felt heat flood her face at the sight.

"Look at you," he said quietly, his hand coming up to cup one breast again, his thumb brushing over the sensitized peak and making her shiver. "So responsive. My wife."

He leaned down and pressed one more kiss to each nipple -soft, almost reverent- and then his hand began to move lower.

Down her stomach. Over her hip. Along her inner thigh.

"Now," he said, his voice rough with want, "let me take care of the rest of you."

His hand moved higher on her thigh, and she felt her legs part without him having to ask.

"That's it," he murmured, his palm warm against her inner thigh. "Just like that, sweetheart."

But then his other hand joined the first, and he pressed gently, urging her to open wider, spread more. She expected him to lower his head. To put his mouth on her the way he'd done before, the way that had made her forget her own name.

But he didn't.

Instead, he just... looked.

His thumbs traced along her soft curls, and then he gently parted her. Spreading her open. Exposing her completely to his gaze.

She felt her whole body tense with something that went beyond nervousness into outright mortification. It was one thing to let him touch her. To let him use his mouth on her. She'd gotten used to that over the past weeks, had learned to relax into the pleasure of it.

But this was different.

This was him looking at the most intimate part of her body with the focus he usually reserved for checking a piece of wood for flaws.

"Bucky," she managed, her voice thin. "What are you-"

She tried to close her legs, instinct taking over, but his hands stayed firm on her thighs.

"Wanna look at my wife proper," he said quietly, his eyes still fixed between her legs. "Wanna see if… if you're hurt. From last night."

The admission made her relax a little. He was just checking on her, making sure he hadn't done more damage than he'd realized.

"What's bothering me is inside," she said quietly. "I don't think you can see it."

He looked up at her then, and she saw something flicker across his face. Maybe the realization that he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for.

"Right," he said after a moment. "Yeah, that makes sense."

He seemed almost sheepish about it, and despite her discomfort, she felt a small flicker of affection.

Then his thumbs moved again, stroking gently along either side of her entrance.

"I'm not gonna use my fingers today," he said, lowering his head. "Just want to make you feel good. That alright?"

"Yes," she managed.

And then his mouth was on her.

The first touch of his tongue made her gasp, a broad, flat stroke that started low and dragged upward with deliberate slowness.

He did it again. And again. Long, slow licks that covered every inch of her, and made her remember with what made her twitch, what made her breathing hitch, what made her hands fly to his hair without meaning to.

His tongue circled her entrance gently, and she tensed slightly at the sensation.

He must have felt it, because he moved away immediately. Shifted his focus higher, to the small bundle of nerves that made her fall apart when he paid it the right kind of attention.

He settled there now, his tongue working in slow, deliberate circles while his hands held her thighs open. Keeping her spread for him. Keeping her exactly where he wanted her.

"Bucky," she breathed, and she felt him hum against her in response.

His hands moved from her thighs to her hips, holding her down. Not rough, but firm, keeping her still while he worked.

His tongue flicked faster now, more focused, and she felt that familiar tension start to build low in her belly. The sensation coiled tighter and tighter with each pass of his tongue.

She was dimly aware that her fingers had tightened in his hair. That she was making sounds she couldn't quite control. And he just kept going. Patiently. Thoroughly.

Like he had all the time in the world and was determined to use every second of it, making her feel good.

She gasped hard when he started to suck gently, his lips closing around that sensitive spot and creating pressure that made her vision blur, her hips grinding shamelessly against his mouth.

"Let go, sweetheart. I got you." He murmured against her skin.

His tongue returned to its work -circling, flicking, pressing- and she felt the tension reach a breaking point.

And then it snapped.

The pleasure hit her in waves, rolling through her body in pulses that made her arch off the bed despite his hands holding her hips. Made her cry out -his name, maybe, or just an incoherent sound- while he kept his mouth on her, working her through it with gentle, steady strokes.

When the waves finally subsided, she collapsed back against the pillows, boneless and breathing hard. He pressed one last soft kiss to her entrance, then another to her inner thigh, before pulling back.

She looked down to find him watching her with an expression of deep satisfaction.

"Good?" he asked, his voice rough.

She could only nod, still trying to catch her breath.

He moved up the bed, settling beside her and pulling her against his chest. His hand stroked lazily up and down her back while her breathing slowly returned to normal.

"You did good," he murmured into her hair. "Real good for me."

She made a sound that might have been agreement or just exhaustion, and felt him chuckle quietly. They lay like that for a while, the cabin quiet except for the crackling fire and their breathing.

Eventually, he stirred.

"Should get you into that nightgown," he said. "Before you fall asleep like this and wake up freezing."

She made a noise of protest, but he was already moving, retrieving the nightgown from where it had fallen to the floor and helping her sit up enough to pull it over her head.

Once she was covered, he settled back down beside her, pulling the blankets up over both of them and tucking her against his side. She felt his fingers trace idle patterns on her shoulder, his breathing deep and even. The warmth of his body, the weight of the quilts, the dying fire, it all started to pull her toward sleep.

She was just beginning to drift when his voice rumbled quietly through his chest.

.

"Been thinkin'," he murmured against her hair. "Tomorrow's Sunday. We could head into town if you want."

She stirred slightly, her hand settling on his chest. "Oh. Is the reverend coming?"

He let out a quiet laugh.

"He ain’t. That's exactly why we're goin'."

She lifted her head enough to swat his arm lightly. He didn't even flinch, just kept that amused expression on his face.

"The boys at camp were sayin' that with winter comin' on, a lot of the commercial traffic's gonna die off," he explained. "So the shopkeepers and folks in town decided to open on Sundays for the next few weeks. Give the logging crews and the miners from up the mountain a chance to stock up on what they need before things get real bad."

"That's very convenient," she said.

"It is," he agreed. "They're clearly doin' it to make money, not charity, but it works out for us."

She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Is there something you need?"

"Few things," he said. "Root cellar could be fuller."

She tensed slightly against him, and he felt it immediately.

"Ain’t your fault," he said before she could apologize. "You came from the city. You got no idea what winter's like out here. How much we need to have stored up."

His hand stroked along her back, soothing.

"Plus," he added, "I've been eatin' more since you got here. Means we're goin' through supplies faster."

She relaxed slightly at that, settling back against him.

"So, provisions," he continued. "Anything that'll keep. And..." He paused. "You're gonna need warmer clothes."

"I have-"

"Not warm enough," he interrupted gently. "What you brought from back East ain't gonna cut it when it really starts snowin'. We're gonna be inside most of the time, sure, but there'll be moments we need to go out. Tendin' to the horse, clearin' snow, fetchin' firewood. And even inside..." He pulled her a little closer. "There's gonna be times when the fire alone ain't enough. You're gonna need layers. Real warm ones."

She was quiet for a moment, processing that.

"I feel silly. Didn't realize it would be that cold," she said finally.

"It gets real cold," he confirmed. "We'll keep the fire goin' day and night, but the cabin’s living space ain’t precisely small. Heat doesn't reach everywhere equally."

He felt her shiver slightly at the thought, and he tightened his arm around her.

"We'll manage," he said. "Just need to be prepared. That's all."

"Alright," she said quietly. "Then we'll go to town tomorrow."

"Also," he added, and she could hear the smile in his voice, "wanna show you off a little before we get snowed in."

She snorted against his chest. "Show me off?"

"It's true," he said, unrepentant. His hand slid from her back down to her hip, then lower, giving her rear a gentle squeeze through the nightgown. "We haven't been able to go into town together much. Just that first time, and Thanksgiving. Want folks to see us together proper."

"Oh, Bucky…"

"Want 'em to see you on my arm," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "Want 'em to see that you're mine and I'm yours."

She felt giddy at the quiet possessiveness in his voice. The pride.

"And," he added, "thought I might take you for a drink at the saloon. If you're amenable."

She lifted her head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "Are you planning to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?"

His eyes gleamed in the low firelight, and his mouth curved into something wicked.

"Hm, are you concerned?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "Or are you askin' me to?"

She felt heat flood through her body, -embarrassment and something else entirely- and she buried her face back in his chest.

"That's not- I didn't mean-"

She could feel him laughing, the vibrations rumbling through his chest beneath her cheek.

"If that's what you want," he said, clearly enjoying himself, "I'll let you drink all you want. That way you can tell me again how handsome I am and how you can't stop lookin' at me."

She made a strangled sound and covered her face with her hands, even though he couldn't see her anyway with her face pressed against his chest.

"Oh my god," she mumbled into her palms.

His laughter softened, and she felt his hand come up to gently pull her hands away from her face.

"Hey," he said, his voice losing that teasing edge. "Look at me."

She lifted her head reluctantly, expecting to see him still grinning at her expense.

But his expression had changed. Still warm, but serious now.

"I was glad to hear that, darling," he said quietly. "Real glad. It’s nice to know it ain’t only me who's smitten with you. That you feel somethin' for me too."

"You made it easy," she maintained his gaze. "To care about you. You are patient with me. Kind. You never made me feel like I was a burden or an obligation, even though that's exactly what I was at first."

His hand cupped her face more fully. "You were never a burden."

"I was," she insisted. "I showed up unannounced, caused a scandal, forced you into a marriage you didn't want-"

He huffed.

“I put a sign, woman. I was pretty much interested in gettin’ married”

“But we didn’t get to court properly, you didn’t know where you were getting into-”

“I think things turned out pretty well.” he interrupted gently, his thumb stroking along her jaw.

She huffed. "You can't possibly have known that when you agreed to marry me. I could have been awful. Lazy, or mean, or-"

"You ain't."

"But you didn't know that."

“No," he said finally. "I didn't know. But I had a feelin'."

She waited, feeling the warmth of his palm on her skin, grounding her.

"When you were standin' there in that room," he continued, his voice low and thoughtful, "lookin' terrified and tryin' so hard not to show it... and then you looked at me with those eyes of yours and said yes anyway." He paused, his thumb brushing the apple of her cheek. "I thought, this woman's got courage and sense. And I liked that."

She felt something flutter in her chest, but forced herself to speak.

"That's not much to base a marriage on," she mumbled.

"Maybe not," he agreed. "But then you didn't flinch when I was sick. Didn't complain when you had to live in a place that ain't nowhere near what you deserved.” His hand pressed against her heart. "And every day, you gave me more reasons. The way you hum when you're concentratin'. Mendin' my shirts even though you hate sewin'. How you look at me like..." He trailed off, and she saw something flicker in his expression, raw and unguarded.

"Like what?" she whispered.

His jaw worked for a moment, and she could see him gathering courage for whatever he was about to say.

"Like I'm worth somethin'," he said finally, his voice rough. "Like I'm more than just a logger with a cabin and a horse. Like you see me.”

She pushed herself up slightly, needing him to see her face, to understand that she meant every word.

"You are worth something," she said firmly, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. "You're worth everything, Bucky. You're the most attentive, kindest man I've ever known. You're honest, and hardworking, and you-" Her voice caught slightly. "You made me feel safe when I had nowhere to go. You made me feel wanted when my whole life I'd been treated like a burden."

His expression had gone very still, his eyes locked on hers.

"You took care of me when you were sick yourself," she continued, her thumb stroking over his heart. "You taught me things without making me feel stupid for not knowing them. You listen to me. You make me laugh. You-"

"And good lookin'?" he interjected, and she could see the corner of his mouth twitching even as his eyes remained suspiciously bright.

She huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half sob, and swatted his chest lightly.

"Yes, damn you," she said, "And ridiculously handsome. Unfairly so. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

His grin was crooked and devastating. "Just checkin’."

But then his hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb catching the tear that had slipped down her cheek, and his expression turned serious again.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For seein' all that. For sayin' it."

She leaned into his touch. "It's the truth."

"I gambled followin' my gut," he said quietly, his eyes holding her gaze. "And every single day since, you've proven me right. You're everythin' I didn't know I needed, darlin’. And-" He paused, and she saw his throat work. "And I'm in love with you."

She couldn't speak for a moment, couldn't do anything but stare at him as the words hugged her, warm and solid and real.

And then it hit her, not like something new, but like something she'd known all along and only now had a name for. The way her heart lifted when she heard his footsteps on the porch. The way she'd started thinking of this cabin as home not because of the place, but because he was in it. The way even now, with her body still tender and her heart wide open and vulnerable, she felt safe.

"I love you too," she replied, and her voice came out steadier than she expected, considering her emotion. "I think- I think I have for a while now.”

His eyes searched hers for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face, the kind that made her stomach flip.

"Do you, now?" he murmured, his voice dropping lower.

She nodded, unable to look away from him.

He kissed her then, slow and deep and thorough, his hand still pressed over her heart like he could feel it beating just for him. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing a little harder.

He shifted slightly, just enough to tilt his head, and she felt him smile against her temple before he pressed a kiss there, soft and lingering. Then another at her cheekbone. Her jaw. Like he was mapping her with his mouth, taking his time, savoring.

She closed her eyes and just felt it -felt him- until her breathing evened out and matched his.

"So," he said after a moment, his voice warm with contentment. "Tomorrow. Town, supplies, that drink at the saloon, and whatever else you want."

"Just… being together sounds perfect," she said softly.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his arms coming around her securely.

The fire had burned down to embers, and outside, she could hear the wind moving through the pines and the distant call of an owl. But inside, wrapped in Bucky's warmth with his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, everything felt exactly as it should be.

She let her eyes drift closed, a smile on her lips, and let herself fall into sleep knowing that tomorrow -and every day after- she'd wake up exactly where she belonged.

His tongue slid against hers, tasting her, and she felt her body respond despite the nervousness. Felt herself lean into him, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders.

This was happening.

He guided her backward until her legs hit the edge of the mattress, and he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against her lips, "Lie down."

She did, sinking back onto the quilt, and the coolness of the fabric against her overheated skin made her shiver.

Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at her, and she saw his throat work as he swallowed. Then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his drawers and pushed them down.

She'd seen him before. Had touched him, learned what made him groan and shudder and come undone in her hand.

But this was different.

This was knowing what came next.

He was hard. Fully hard. And she felt a flutter of something between nerves and anticipation as her eyes traced his length.

He climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and settled between her legs. His hands pushed her thighs wider -gently, but with clear intent- and then his weight was braced on one forearm beside her head.

Close. So close she could see the firelight reflected in his eyes, could count his eyelashes if she wanted to.

Could feel the heat of his… manhood, against her inner thigh.

"If you feel discomfort," he said, his voice low and serious, "you tell me. Don't keep it to yourself."

She hesitated.

Her mother's voice echoed in her head, the brief, cold explanation. It will hurt, but don't make a fuss. Men don't like fussing.

He must have seen something in her face, because his expression changed.

"You understand?" he said, firmer now. Almost a command. "You feel somethin’ wrong, you tell me."

She managed to nod.

"Say it."

Her throat felt tight. "If I need you to stop, I'll tell you."

Something in his expression eased, and he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. Then her mouth, softer this time.

"Good girl," he murmured against her lips. "Now breathe, sweetheart."

His hand slid down her body, between her breasts, over her stomach, lower still. His fingers found her, sliding through the wetness there, and she gasped at the sudden contact.

"Still wet for me," he said quietly, almost to himself. "That's good. That's gonna help."

He circled that bundle of nerves between her legs with his thumb -just a few slow passes- and she felt her hips shift involuntarily, her body already conditioned to respond to that touch.

Then his finger slid inside her.

Just one. Familiar. Something her body knew. He worked it slowly, curling and stroking, and she felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease. Then he added a second finger, stretching her slightly, and she tensed again.

"Relax," he murmured, his mouth moving to her neck, pressing kisses along the column of her throat. "Just gettin’ you ready. Ain’t wanna hurt you more than necessary."

His fingers moved inside her, slow and deliberate, while his thumb stayed on the nub above her entrance. The dual sensation made her breathing quicken, made heat start to pool low in her belly despite her nerves.

After a moment, when her breathing had evened out slightly, when she'd stopped tensing every time his fingers moved, he withdrew them.

His free hand moved between them, and she felt him wrap it around himself.

She couldn't see from this angle, but she felt it when he dragged the head of his member through her folds. Slow. Deliberate. Coating himself in her wetness.

The blunt pressure against her entrance made her tense all over again.

"Look at me," he said quietly.

She did. Met his eyes. Saw the hunger there, but also something else. Care. Intent. Focus.

"Now you're gonna be my wife proper," he said, his voice rough but steady.

She nodded, her throat too tight for words.

This was it. The final step. The consummation that would make their marriage real in every sense.

"Breathe," he reminded her.

She tried. Drew in a shaky breath. Let it out.

Then he started to push in.

Slowly. So slowly.

And…

It burned.

Not pleasurably. Not the building heat she was used to from his fingers, his mouth.

Just a sharp, foreign pressure that felt wrong. Too much. Too big.

Her body wanted to reject it, to tense up and push him out. Her hands flew to his shoulders, her nails digging in instinctively.

He stopped immediately. Didn't push further. Just held still, barely inside her, giving her time to adjust.

"Bucky-" Her voice came out thin.

"I know, sweet girl," he said quietly, his forehead resting against hers. "I know it hurts."

She could feel him trembling slightly with the effort of holding still. Could feel the tension in his shoulders under her hands.

"We can stop," he continued, his voice strained. "But if we try again tomorrow, or next week, it'll hurt just the same. Has to happen at some point."

She knew that. Had known that.

Had known this was coming since the moment she'd said "I do" in the church two months ago.

She nodded, trying to breathe through the burn.

"You're doin’ so good," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. Then her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth. "So good for me. Just breathe. This is gonna hurt," he added quietly, his forehead against hers again. "Just for a second. But if I go slow here, it'll hurt longer. You understand?"

“Y-yes”

"Breathe in," he said.

She did.

"Now out."

And as she exhaled, he pushed through in one firm thrust.

The pain was sharp and immediate. A tearing, burning sensation that made her cry out. Her nails raked down his shoulders, leaving marks she'd feel guilty about later, but right now all she could process was the sudden, overwhelming hurt.

He didn't pull back. Didn't stop.

Just stayed buried deep inside her, holding completely still as her body seized around him.

"It's done, sweetheart," he said quietly, his voice strained but steady. "Worst part's over.

She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.

Just lay there beneath him, trying to process the sharp, tearing pain that was already starting to fade, but in its wake was a deep, burning ache. And the overwhelming sensation of being filled. Stretched.

Her body struggled to accommodate something it had never held before.

"I know," he murmured, and she realized tears had leaked from the corners of her eyes when he kissed them. "I promise it's gonna feel good later. Just needs time."

She nodded, the movement jerky, not trusting her voice.

He stayed perfectly still above her, buried deep inside her, his muscles tense with the effort of not moving, giving her body time to adjust.

"That's my girl," he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. "Just like that. You're doin’ so good."

Slowly- so slowly- the sharp edge of pain started to dull.

She became aware of other things. The weight of his body above her. The heat of his skin against hers. The way his breath came harsh and uneven against her neck.

The way he was trembling with the effort of holding still for her.

"Bucky," she whispered.

"Yeah?" His voice was rough.

"I'm... I'm okay."

It wasn't entirely true. But she could breathe now. Could think past the initial shock. Could feel something beyond just the pain.

His hand slid to cradle her head. "You sure?"

She nodded.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. Just... tell me if it gets worse. Promise me."

"I promise."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Then her temple, slow and sweet and careful.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a minute or two, she felt him shift slightly above her.

His breathing had gone ragged. Harsh. She could feel the tension in his entire body, the way his muscles were locked with the effort of staying still.

He'd been so patient. So careful.

"I need to-" he started, his voice rough and strained. "I'm gonna move now."

She nodded, bracing herself, her hands tightening on his shoulders.

"Tell me if it's too much," he said. Then, quieter, almost like a plea, "But I need to move, sweetheart. I can't- I need-"

"It's okay," she managed, her voice thin. "I know."

He pressed his forehead against the side of her throat, exhaled shakily, and then pulled back.

Slowly. Just an inch, maybe two.

The drag of him against her inner walls made her wince. It wasn't the sharp pain of before, but a dull, burning ache that made her want to tense up even though she knew that would make it worse.

He pushed back in -slow, controlled- and she felt her nails dig into his shoulders.

"Shh," he murmured. "You're alright. Just breathe."

He set a cadence. Slow, careful thrusts that were clearly meant to let her adjust rather than chase his own pleasure.

But she could see the strain in his face. The tightness in his jaw. The way a muscle jumped in his neck with each measured movement.

He was holding back. For her.

"That's it," he said quietly, his voice still controlled but rougher now. "That's good. You're doin’ so good for me."

The praise settled somewhere warm in her chest, even as her body struggled to accommodate him.

He kept moving. Slow. Steady. His hips rolled in a careful rhythm that was clearly taking every ounce of his self-control to maintain. And gradually -so gradually she almost didn't notice- the sharp edge of pain started to dull further.

Still uncomfortable. Still a stretch that made her acutely aware of every inch of him. But it was bearable. Her body was learning, adjusting.

His hand slid up her side -a slow, deliberate caress- and cupped her breast.

The touch made her gasp, not from pain but from surprise.

His thumb brushed over her nipple, and sensation sparked through her body, familiar and welcome after the unfamiliar burning below.

"There," he murmured, his voice dropping lower. "Focus on that."

He did it again, rolling her nipple between his thumb and finger while his hips kept that slow, steady rhythm.

And she felt it, a flash of something that wasn't pain. Wasn't discomfort.

Something warm. Almost pleasant.

"Good girl," he said, and there was satisfaction in his voice now.

His rhythm stuttered slightly. Just a fraction. Like his control had slipped for a moment before he caught it.

She felt him thrust a little harder -once- and then he seemed to force himself back to that careful, measured pace.

But his breathing was getting harsher. His movements less smooth.

"So tight," he muttered, almost to himself. "Christ, you're so tight around me."

The words sent an unexpected flutter through her belly.

He'd never talked like this before, during the times they'd touched each other in the dark.

Was this... was this part of it? Part of what happened?

"Takin’ me so well," he continued, his voice rough and low. "My sweet girl. My wife."

My wife.

The possessiveness in his tone made something clench deep inside her. Made her hyperaware of exactly what was happening, that he was inside her, claiming his right as a husband, making her his in the most fundamental way possible.

His hand tightened on her breast, and his rhythm faltered again.

She felt him drive in harder this time -deeper- and a sound escaped her lips. Not quite pain, not quite pleasure. Something between.

"Sorry," he gritted out. "Tryin’ to- tryin’ to go slow- "

But his control was fraying. She could feel it. Could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes had gone dark and unfocused.

"You feel so-" He thrust again, harder still, and groaned. "So good."

His hand left her breast and slid down between them.

She felt his thumb find that sensitive bundle of nerves he'd learned so well over the past two months and press down in a slow circle.

The sensation cut through the discomfort like light through fog.

She gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily, and heard him make a rough sound of approval.

"That's it," he said, his thumb moving in deliberate circles while his hips kept moving. "Feel that? Feel how good it can be?"

And she could. Beneath the ache, beneath the burning stretch, there was pleasure building.

"Gonna make you feel good," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "Gonna make my wife feel good while I- while I-"

His rhythm was breaking down. Getting faster. Less controlled.

His thumb worked her clit with more pressure, and she felt her body respond despite everything. Felt heat pooling, felt that familiar tightening that meant she was getting close to-

"Mine," he said roughly, and thrust harder. "You're my wife. Mine to- to fill-"

The words should have scandalized her. Should have made her gasp.

Instead, they sent a spike of heat straight between her thighs.

"Bucky-" His name came out breathy.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice harsh now, his hips snapping forward with less and less restraint. "Say you're mine. Made to fit me."

"I'm-" She could barely speak. "I'm yours-"

"That's right," he groaned. "And I’m gonna- gonna spend inside you. Gonna-"

She felt herself clench again at the words, flustered and aroused in equal measure. He was losing it. She could feel it in the way his movements had gone erratic, the way his whole body had gone taut.

"Gonna put a baby in you," he muttered, his voice wrecked.

His thumb pressed hard against her clit, and she cried out as pleasure spiked through her. Not an orgasm, not quite, but close enough that her body clenched around him.

And that was it.

His control shattered completely.

"Fuck-" The word tore out of him -rough, desperate- and he drove into her hard. Once. Twice. Three times.

No more careful restraint. No more measured thrusts.

Just need. Raw and overwhelming.

She felt him swell inside her, and then he was coming with a low, broken groan, his hips jerking as he spilled deep inside her in a hot rush.

He collapsed slightly, catching himself on his forearms so he didn't crush her, his breathing ragged and harsh against her neck.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Just lay there, connected, both trying to catch their breath.

She could feel his heart pounding against her chest, or maybe that was her own heart, she couldn't tell anymore. With his weight on top, she could feel the heat of his body, the way he was still buried inside her.

Still part of her.

After a moment, he shifted slightly, bracing more of his weight on his forearms, and lifted his head to look at her.

His pupils were blown wide, dark, and unfocused. His cheeks were flushed, color high across his cheekbones in a way she'd never seen before. His hair was disheveled from her hands, and his breathing was still ragged.

He looked... undone.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

His hand came up to brush her hair back from her face, his touch gentle despite the roughness of his breathing.

"Did so good," he murmured. "So good for me, sweetheart."

She felt him start to soften inside her, and when he finally did withdraw, he did it slowly. Carefully. The slide made her wince.

He settled back on his knees between her spread thighs, and she felt the immediate loss of his body heat. The cool air hit her sweat-dampened skin, raising goosebumps.

But then she felt something else. Something warm and wet sliding between her thighs.

His spend leaking out of her, she realized with a jolt of mortification. Her legs started to close instinctively, wanting to hide, but his hands caught her knees and held them apart.

Gently. Firmly.

Her hands flew to cover her face as heat flooded her cheeks.

She felt exposed. Obscene. She needed to-

"Not yet," he said, his voice still rough but with an edge of something else now.

Satisfaction, maybe.

She kept her hands over her face, unable to look at him. Unable to face whatever expression he was wearing while he looked at… at that.

"Sweetheart," he said, and there was amusement in his voice now. "Look at me."

She shook her head, her face burning.

"No?" She heard the smile in his voice. "Shy now? After everythin’ we just did?"

"Bucky, please-" Her voice came out muffled behind her hands.

"Please what?" His thumbs traced small circles on the inside of her knees. "You're givin’ me such a view right now. Hate to waste it."

"Bucky!" She wanted to die. Wanted to sink through the mattress and disappear.

She heard him chuckle- low and warm- and then felt the bed shift as he moved.

A moment later, she heard his footsteps crossing the cabin -the soft thud of bare feet on wooden floor- then the sound of water being poured.

She finally lowered her hands from her face, just enough to peek through her fingers.

He was at the washbasin, his back to her, still completely naked.

The firelight played across the muscles of his shoulders, the breadth of his back, highlighting old scars she'd traced with her fingers countless times. And there, standing out in faint red lines against his skin, were the marks her nails had left.

She heard the wet sound of fabric being wrung out and realized he was dampening a cloth.

Then he turned back toward the bed, and she immediately tried to sit up, close her legs, but he was there before she could move, one hand settling on her knee.

Keeping her open.

Keeping her exposed.

"Stay," he said simply.

"I can- I should-" She could do this herself. Should do this herself. It wasn't proper-

But he shook his head, already settling back between her thighs with the damp cloth in hand.

"Let me," he said, and there was something in his voice that made it not quite a request.

She lay back against the pillow, her whole body burning with embarrassment as he began to clean her.

The cloth was warm against her oversensitized skin. His touch was gentle as he wiped away the evidence of what they'd done.

His spend. Her blood.

The proof of her virginity, now gone.

It should have been mortifying.

It was mortifying.

But his touch was so matter-of-fact, so unashamed, that some of her embarrassment began to fade into something else.

Intimacy, maybe. The kind that came from letting someone tend to you like this. From being vulnerable and having that vulnerability treated with care.

When the cloth passed over a particularly tender spot, she winced involuntarily.

He paused immediately, his eyes flicking up to her face.

"Hurt?"

"A little," she admitted, her voice small.

His expression softened, and he gentled his touch even more, barely any pressure at all as he finished cleaning her.

When he was done, he set the cloth aside and looked at her, his hand still resting warm on her thigh.

"I'll leave you be for a few days," he said quietly. "Let you heal up."

She felt a confusing mix of relief and something else. Disappointment, maybe? Which was absurd, given that the idea of doing that again right now made her want to wince.

"And next time," he continued, his thumb tracing a small circle on her thigh, "it ain’t gonna hurt like that. I promise."

She searched his face, looking for certainty she wasn't sure he could have.

"How do you know?"

His mouth quirked slightly. "Can't say from personal experience," he admitted. "But that's what I've heard. First time's the worst. Gets easier after."

----

He watched her process that information, saw the way her eyes searched his face like she was looking for certainty he didn't have to give.

He'd tried to be careful. Had gone slower than his body had wanted, had prepared her as best he knew how.

But he'd still hurt her.

Had heard her cry out. Had felt her nails rake down his back. Had seen tears slip from the corners of her eyes.

And he'd kept going anyway, because he had to. That's what men did, what husbands did.

But he felt guilty anyway.

"Get under the covers," he said, standing from the bed. "You'll get cold."

She nodded and shifted, wincing slightly as she moved, and he felt that guilt twist tighter.

He turned away before she could see it on his face and crossed to the washbasin, dampening the cloth again, wringing it, and began wiping his thighs, his cock.

There was blood on him. Not much, but enough.

Proof that she'd been untouched until tonight. That he'd been the first. The only.

And, beneath the guilt and the concern about having hurt her… he couldn't help the satisfaction that came with it.

No one before him. No one else would ever know her this way.

He rinsed the cloth, wrung it out, and hung it to dry. Then he crossed back to the bed.

She'd already burrowed under the quilts, turned on her side, facing away from him. He could see the curve of her shoulder, the way her hair spilled across the pillow.

He climbed in beside her, and the mattress dipped under his weight.

Immediately, he felt her start to shift, beginning to turn toward him out of politeness, probably.

"Hey," he said quietly, his hand settling on her hip to still her. "You more comfortable like this?"

She paused. "Yes," she admitted after a moment, her voice soft.

"Then stay." He shifted closer, fitting himself against her back, his arm coming around her waist. "This is how we'll sleep."

She didn't protest. Just let him pull her in, let him curl around her like he could shield her from everything beyond these four walls.

He pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in, then brushed his nose against the curve of her neck.

"Good night, sweet girl," he murmured against her skin.

Then, quieter, like a benediction:

"My wife."

----

She sat at the table with her second cup of coffee, the cabin quiet now that Bucky had left for work, letting the warmth seep into her palms as she stared at the table's wooden surface.

Heat flooded her face as the memory hit her with startling clarity, sitting on this exact spot, Bucky kneeling between her thighs, his mouth on her while she gripped the edge and tried not to fall apart.

We eat here, she'd said.

And I'm about to, he'd replied.

She set her cup down with a slightly unsteady hand, her face still burning.

It wasn't as if she'd been so sheltered that she didn't know people had relations outside of bedrooms. There were stories, whispered scandals about couples caught in barns, in carriages, behind locked parlor doors.

But the kitchen table. Where they ate breakfast every morning.

That hadn't been something she'd imagined.

She wondered if this sort of thing happened in proper households, or maybe Bucky was just... different. A little blasphemous, perhaps.

Though even as the thought crossed her mind, she couldn't quite bring herself to be scandalized by it. Because if she was being honest with herself, truly honest, she couldn't deny that she'd do it again.

All of it.

She took another sip of coffee, trying to focus on the mundane tasks that awaited her today. Laundry. Mending. The usual chores.

But her mind kept circling back.

She'd fulfilled her obligation as a wife. Finally. Properly.

And it had been... nothing like what her mother had described: He'll get on top of you and put his... thing inside you. You stay on your back, let him do, and it will be over quickly.

But last night hadn't been quick. Hadn't been something she'd simply endured while staring at the ceiling.

And Bucky-

Her face heated again, this time for an entirely different reason.

Bucky, who was always so direct with her but respectful, had said things when he was inside her, when he was close to finishing.

Mine to fill.

Gonna spend inside you.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks, feeling the heat of her skin.

Those words, crude and explicit and nothing like what a husband should say to his wife, shouldn't have affected her the way they had.

Shouldn't affect her now, sitting alone at the kitchen table hours later.

But they did.

She couldn't stop thinking about it. About his weight pressing her into the mattress. The heat of his skin against hers. The way his voice had gone rough and raw when he'd lost control.

And beneath the embarrassment, beneath the shock of hearing such words from her husband's mouth, there was something else.

Curiosity.

He'd said it wouldn't hurt like that again. That it would get easier.

She knew how good his fingers felt inside her. The stretch, the curl, the way he could find spots that made her see stars. And last night, even through the pain, she'd felt the difference. The fullness. The way he filled her completely in a way his fingers never could.

If it didn't hurt next time, if her body didn't seize up in pain the way it had…

It would feel better.

So much better.

Her face burned hotter.

She set her cup down and stood abruptly, needing to move. Needing to do something with her hands before her thoughts spiraled any further.

Laundry. She had laundry to do.

And she absolutely, resolutely, was not going to think about her husband anymore this morning.

At least, she was going to try.

----

The axe bit into the wood with a satisfying thunk, and Bucky pulled it free, reset his stance, and swung again.

Thunk.

Again.

Thunk.

The rhythm should have been automatic by now, muscle memory built over two years of doing this exact thing, six days a week, dawn to dusk. Except today, his mind wasn't on the work.

It was back in the cabin. On last night.

He swung again, and the blade landed slightly off-center. Not enough to matter, but enough that Miller, working near him, glanced up.

"You alright over there, Barnes?"

"Fine," Bucky said, resetting his grip.

Miller raised an eyebrow but didn't push it. Just went back to stripping bark with his drawknife, the scraping filling the silence between axe blows.

Bucky tried to focus, to think about the angle of the cut, the grain of the wood, whether this section would split clean or need wedging. But his brain had other ideas.

He kept seeing her face.

The way she'd looked up at him when he'd first pushed inside her, eyes wide and startled, like her body hadn't been ready for the reality of it, even though she'd known it was coming.

The way her hands had flown to his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks he could still feel under his shirt.

The sound she'd made, small and pained and trying so damn hard not to make a fuss about it.

He'd hated that sound. Hated that he'd caused it, even though there was no way around it. No secret trick that would've made it painless. First times hurt. That's just how it was.

But knowing that didn't make it easier to hear her cry out. Didn't make it easier to feel her tense up around him like her body was trying to reject what he was doing.

Thunk.

The axe sank deep, and he had to wrench it free with more force than necessary.

Miller looked up again. "You sure you're alright?"

"Yeah," Bucky said, not meeting his eyes. "Just didn't sleep much."

It wasn't a lie.

He'd lain awake for a long time after, listening to her breathing even out into sleep, wondering if she was sore. If he'd been too rough at the end when his control had finally snapped, and he'd lost himself in her completely.

He shook his head sharply and focused on the log in front of him. Work. He needed to focus on the work.

----

Except he couldn't.

Because underneath the guilt and the worry that he'd hurt her more than necessary, there was something else.

Satisfaction. Deep, primal, undeniable satisfaction.

She was his now. Fully. Completely. No ambiguity left. No waiting, no careful restraint. He'd claimed her the way a husband was meant to claim his wife, and she'd lain beneath him and taken what he gave her, even when it hurt.

Even when he'd lost control at the end and said things he probably shouldn't have said.

Mine to fill.

Gonna spend inside you.

Gonna put a baby in you.

His hands tightened on the axe handle. Christ, he'd said that last part out loud. He remembered it now, clear as day.

Remembered the words tearing out of him when he'd been too far gone to think, too close to finishing to care about propriety or what she might think.

And instead of showing surprise or scruples, she just clenched around him -tight and hot and perfect- and he'd buried himself deep and spent inside her like he'd been wanting to do for two months.

The memory alone made his body start to react in a way that was absolutely not appropriate for the middle of a workday. He shifted his stance, adjusting himself discreetly in his pants, and focused very hard on the next swing.

Thunk.

"Barnes."

He looked up. Davidson was standing a few feet away, hands on his hips, looking at him with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

"You just split that log three times," the man said. "It's done. Move on to the next one."

Bucky looked down. Sure enough, the log in front of him was already split clean through, the two halves lying on either side of the chopping block. He had no memory of finishing it.

"Right," he muttered, stepping back.

Davidson's mouth twitched. "Rough night?"

"Somethin’ like that."

"Uh-huh." Davidson's grin widened. "Well, try to keep your head attached today, yeah? Don't need you losing a foot because you're too busy daydreaming."

Bucky shot him a look, but there was no real heat in it, because he wasn't wrong. He was distracted. Badly.

And it wasn't just the memories of last night.

For two years, he'd come home to an empty cabin. Cold. Silent. Nothing waiting for him except whatever scraps he could throw together for dinner and a bed that was too big for one person.

Now? Now he came home to her. To the smell of something cooking when he walked through the door at the end of the day. To a bed that was warm because she was in it.

To a wife who let him touch her. Who responded when he kissed her. Who'd let him inside her body last night and would -God willing- let him do it again. And again. And again. Because that's what marriage was. That's what husbands and wives did.

The thought sent another wave of heat to his groin, and he had to stop and take a breath before he embarrassed himself in front of the entire crew.

He moved to the next log, setting up the cut, trying to get his head back in the game.

But his mind was already racing ahead.

Tonight, when he got home, she'd be there. She'd probably have dinner ready. Would move around the cabin in that way she did now, like she belonged there, because she did.

And after dinner...

He'd told her he'd leave her alone for a few days, give her time to heal. And he would.

He wasn't some rutting animal who couldn't control himself. But Christ, the idea of waiting even a few days felt impossible now that he'd had her once.

His jaw clenched.

Three days. Maybe four-

"Barnes!"

Miller's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and urgent. Bucky's head snapped up just in time to realize his next swing was aimed wrong, too close to his own leg, the blade already descending. He jerked back instinctively, and the axe bit into the chopping block inches from where his boot had been.

Miller was staring at him, eyes wide. "Jesus. You trying to chop your foot off?"

"No," Bucky said, his heart pounding. "Just... wasn't payin’ attention."

"Oh really." Miller shook his head. "What the hell's got into you today?"

Bucky bent to reset the log, avoiding Miller's eyes.

He couldn't exactly say, I can't stop thinking about my wife. About being inside her. About doing it again.

That wasn't the kind of thing a decent man shared with his coworkers. Even if it was the truth.

"Just tired," he said instead.

Miller snorted. "Yeah. I bet you are."

----

By lunch, he had nearly taken his own thumb off with a slipped blade, tripped over a root he should've seen coming, and earned himself a lecture from the foreman about keeping his head in the game.

He sat on a stump during the break, eating the lunch she'd packed for him, and tried to get his thoughts in order.

This was ridiculous. He was a grown man. He'd had women before. This shouldn't be affecting him like some green kid who'd just gotten his first taste.

But it was different with her, because she wasn't just some woman. And he'd spent two months wanting her, two months holding himself back, two months being careful and patient and waiting for the right time.

And now that he'd finally had her... now he wanted her again.

Wanted to come home tonight and pull her into his arms and kiss her until she made those little sounds in the back of her throat.

Wanted to get her out of that dress and feel her skin against his.

Wanted to be inside her again. To make her feel what he'd started to show her last night, that it could be good for her too.

Wanted to hear her gasp his name the way she did when his mouth was on her.

Wanted to feel her clench around him because she was close, not because she was hurting.

Wanted-

"Barnes, you gonna eat that or just stare at it?"

He blinked. Davidson was standing in front of him, grinning.

"You've been holding that same piece of pie for five minutes without taking a bite," the man said. "Either eat it or put it down before you drop it."

Bucky looked down at his hand. Sure enough, he'd been holding a piece of pie halfway to his mouth, completely frozen.

"Christ," he muttered, shoving it into his mouth. Davidson laughed and walked away, shaking his head.

----

The rest of the day dragged.

Every swing of the axe felt like it took twice as long as usual. Every log felt heavier. Every minute stretched out like an hour.

He kept catching himself glancing at the sky, trying to gauge how much daylight was left, trying to calculate how much longer until he could go home. Until he could see her again.

It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic, but he couldn't help it.

By the time the foreman finally called it for the day, Bucky was already moving, grabbing his coat, his lunch pail, heading for the trail before anyone else had even started packing up.

"Someone's in a hurry," Miller called after him, laughing.

Bucky didn't respond. Just kept walking. Because yeah, he was in a hurry.

He had a wife waiting at home.

And he'd been thinking about her all damn day.

Next Chapter

"Figures?" she repeated.

"Moves. Dosido, allemande, swing… You ain’t need to worry about the names. Just watch what everyone else does and follow my lead when we're together."

They reached the lines, and he positioned her across from him in the women's row. The space between them was maybe six feet, close enough that she could see the way his eyes tracked her, the slight curve of his mouth.

Around them, other couples were settling into place. She recognized Nell and Tom a few positions down, Sarah and her husband closer to the front. Even some of the older couples had joined, Carl and Agnes Hayes among them.

A man with a fiddle stood near the corner. Someone else, one of the loggers she didn't know by name, called out, "Everyone ready?"

A chorus of affirmatives rose from the group.

"Alright then," the caller said, raising his voice to carry over the chatter. "We'll start with an easy one for the newcomers. 'Petronella'. Everyone knows it?"

Most people nodded or called out agreement. She stayed quiet, her heart beating faster.

The fiddle started, a lively, bouncing tune that made her want to tap her foot even before anyone moved.

"Forward and back!" the caller shouted.

The lines surged toward each other, then retreated. She followed a half-beat late, watching the women around her.

"Forward and back again!"

This time she moved with them, stepping forward until she was close enough to see the amusement in Bucky's eyes, then back again.

"Dosido your partner!"

She hesitated -what the hell was a dosido?- but Bucky was already moving toward her. He circled around her right side, his shoulder passing close to hers, then around her back. She turned instinctively, following the motion, and ended up facing him again from the same spot.

"Good," he said, just loud enough for her to hear over the music.

"Right-hand star!" the caller shouted.

The couples moved into groups of four, her and Bucky with the pair beside them. Everyone extended their right hands to the center, forming a star shape, and began walking in a circle.

She focused on keeping her footing, on not stepping on anyone's skirts or boots, on trying to anticipate what came next.

The figures kept coming: swing your partner, promenade, ladies chain. She stumbled more than once, turned the wrong direction during an allemande, and completely missed a move she didn't catch the name of.

But Bucky was always there. Guiding her with a hand at her waist, a look, a subtle gesture. And when she got it wrong, he just grinned and pulled her back into position.

Around them, people were laughing. Not at her, she realized, but just... enjoying themselves. The music, the movement, the chaos of so many bodies trying to stay in sync.

And she was laughing too.

Eventually, the caller shouted, "Swing your neighbor!"

Before she could process what that meant, Tom Johnson was there, catching her hand and spinning her in a quick circle. She caught a glimpse of Nell being spun by the man on her other side, laughing at something he'd said.

And then she was back in line, slightly breathless, and Tom was grinning at her before returning to his own partner.

The music kept going, relentless and cheerful.

"Down the line!"

The top couple -the pair at the head of the formation- joined hands and skipped down between the two rows while everyone else clapped. When they reached the bottom, they formed an arch with their arms, and the next couple ducked under and repeated the pattern.

She watched, trying to memorize the sequence, and realized with growing certainty that eventually, it would be her and Bucky's turn.

"Progression!" the caller shouted.

The lines changed. She moved up one position, and suddenly the couple she was facing wasn't Bucky anymore; it was a man she didn't know, one of the other loggers, with a weathered face and a friendly gap-toothed smile.

Her stomach dropped.

It was irrational. She knew it was irrational.

"Forward and back!"

She moved automatically, but her eyes searched for Bucky. Found him one position down, now facing a woman she recognized from the food tables. Younger, maybe her age, with dark hair and a bright smile.

He caught her gaze for a brief second and gave her a small nod.

You're fine. Keep going.

She forced herself to look away, to focus on her own partner.

"Dosido your partner!"

She circled the stranger, keeping her expression neutral, trying not to think about how different it felt to move around someone who wasn't Bucky.

The man was polite. His hands, when they touched hers during the star, were dry and work-roughened, impersonal. He smelled like tobacco and woodsmoke.

Not Bucky.

The figures continued, right hand star, left hand star, swing your partner.

When the stranger's hand settled at her waist for the swing, it felt all wrong. Too light. Too careful. As if she were made of glass instead of flesh and bone.

The stranger spun her competently, released her right on time, and she ended up back in her spot in line.

She counted the steps in her head, willing the progression to come faster.

Around her, people were laughing, enjoying themselves. The music played on, relentless and cheerful.

She didn't look down the line. Didn't want to see Bucky's hands on that woman's waist, even in something as innocent as contradance.

One more figure, she told herself. Maybe two.

"Dosido your corner!"

She circled the woman beside her -Sarah, she realized- and Sarah gave her a quick, sympathetic smile. Did it show on her face? How much she wanted to be back across from her own husband?

"Progression!"

The lines shifted again, and she was back across from Bucky.

His eyes found hers instantly, and something in his expression, maybe the flatness of his stare, suggested he hadn't enjoyed the last progression any more than she had.

"Miss me?" he asked, just loud enough for her to hear as they stepped forward and back.

"Terribly," she said, and she meant it more than he probably realized.

His expression changed, something possessive and serious flickered across his face before smoothing into a grin. But she'd seen it. That flash of... what? Satisfaction? Relief?

"Good," he said, and there was an edge to his voice that made her stomach flip.

"Swing your partner!"

He caught her around the waist and spun her, and the difference was immediate.

Faster than the stranger had moved her. Closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body through all the layers of fabric between them. His hand at her waist was firm and sure, pulling her into the turn with confidence that made her head spin.

She laughed as the room blurred around them.

This. This was right.

His hand, and the way he moved her, like he knew exactly how her body would respond. When they stopped, she was dizzy. Not from the spinning… or not just from the spinning.

She wanted to say something, but the music was already moving into the next figure, and the caller's voice rose above the noise.

"Down the line!"

Bucky squeezed her hand once before they separated to let the top couple skip through.

But she felt that squeeze all the way through the rest of the dance.

----

The contradance ran several more rounds until the fiddle player finally lowered his instrument with a flourish as the last notes faded. The room erupted in applause and laughter, people fanning themselves, reaching for water, catching their breath.

She was breathing hard, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cold outside. Her face felt warm. From the exertion, from the punch still in her system, from the way Bucky had been looking at her every time they'd come back together in the line.

"Well done," he said, appearing at her elbow with a cup of water. "For someone who ain't know what a dosido was an hour ago."

She took the water gratefully, drinking half of it in one go. "I stepped on at least three people's feet."

"Maybe four," he corrected, grinning. "But who's countin’?"

She swatted his arm lightly, and he caught her hand, holding it for just a moment longer than necessary before letting go.

She felt that small touch like a spark.

Around them, people were milling about, some heading outside for air, others clustering near the drink table. The fiddle player was conferring with someone about the next set.

Then a voice rose from near the front of the room. Clear, refined, and just a touch condescending.

"Perhaps we might try something a bit more... refined? A waltz, maybe?"

She turned to see the mayor's wife standing with the banker's wife, both of them looking perfectly composed despite the heat of the room. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in their fine dresses.

There was a beat of silence.

Then someone -one of the loggers- let out a low whistle. "Ooh, fancy."

Laughter rippled through the crowd, but it wasn't mean-spirited. More like amusement at the incongruity of it, waltzing in a frontier town hall after contradance.

"I think that's a fine idea," Agnes Hayes said, her tone diplomatic but with a hint of mischief. "If the fiddle player knows one."

The fiddle player shrugged. "I know a few."

"Well then," Carl Hayes said, offering his arm to Agnes with exaggerated formality. "Shall we, my dear?"

More laughter. But people were starting to pair off, couples moving back toward the cleared space. The atmosphere had changed, less raucous, more curious. Like they were all in on the joke but willing to play along.

Bucky turned to her. "You know how to waltz?"

"I do," she said. "Do you?"

"Enough to get by." He held out his hand. "Come on."

She took it, and he led her back onto the floor.

The space felt different now. More intimate, even with all the other couples gathering around them.

The fiddle started a slower, lilting melody.

Bucky's hand pressed at her waist, and she placed hers on his shoulder. Their other hands joined, held at a proper height.

Appropriate. Exactly the way she'd been taught.

But it didn't feel proper.

Not when it was him.

"Ready?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, and then they were moving.

It was completely different from the contradance.

No shouted instructions. No changing partners every few bars. No chaos of bodies moving in patterns around them.

Just the two of them, turning in slow circles, her skirts brushing against his legs with each step. She'd forgotten what this felt like. The waltz. One-two-three, one-two-three, the rhythm so ingrained she didn't have to think about it.

But she'd never done it like this.

Back home, the few times she'd danced at all with instructors, they had kept her at arm's length. Maintained the proper distance. Looked over her shoulder or past her, never quite meeting her gaze.

Because looking at her meant seeing her eyes. Meant acknowledging the girl with the devil's mark.

But Bucky was looking right at her.

His hand at her waist was warm and solid. Not tentative or careful like the lessons. Not performatively correct like the rare partner who'd been obligated to dance with her.

The room moved around them. Other couples turning, the fiddle playing, voices low, and occasional laughter.

But it all felt distant. Muffled, like there was a bubble around just the two of them.

"You've done this a lot?" she asked quietly.

"Once or twice." His hand at her waist pressed slightly more firmly, guiding her through a turn. "You're good at this."

"I had lessons," she admitted. "My parents thought it was important."

"For findin’ a husband?" There was no judgment in his voice, just curiosity.

She felt something twist in her chest.

"For being... acceptable. Refined." She met his eyes, saw him watching her carefully. "They thought if I could dance well enough, carry myself properly, be accomplished in all the right ways, maybe someone would overlook... the rest."

She didn't need to specify what "the rest" was.

"Not that it mattered much in the end," she added, trying to keep her voice light.

His expression changed, a shadow passing over his face. His hand tightened almost imperceptibly at her waist.

"Their loss," he said, and there was an edge to his voice.

Like she was something worth having. Worth wanting.

"Hey," he said quietly, and she realized she'd missed a step.

She forced herself to focus. One-two-three. Follow his lead. Don't think about-

"You alright?" he asked.

"Yes," she managed. "Just... thank you. For saying that."

"It's true," he said simply. "Anyone who couldn't see that you were worth knowin’ was a damn fool."

She blinked hard, once, and concentrated very carefully on the next turn.

Around them, other couples were dancing. Some with skill, others fumbling through the steps. Carl and Agnes were surprisingly graceful. Tom and Nell were arguing quietly about whose fault it was that they kept going off-count, but both were smiling.

And somewhere in the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Mary Collins watching them with a certain assessment that made her want to stand up straighter. Made her hyperaware of every imperfection, the way her hair was probably coming loose from its pins, the fact that her dress, while nice, was nothing compared to what some of the wealthier women wore.

Her shoulders tensed.

"Don't," Bucky said quietly.

She looked up at him. "Don't what?"

"Worry about what she thinks."

His thumb brushed against her waist. Just once, barely perceptible through all the layers of fabric and boning. But she felt it. Felt the deliberate pressure of it, the casual possessiveness.

"You're doin’ fine," he continued, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"I wasn't-"

"You were." He turned them smoothly, and she had to focus to keep the count, to not stumble when her heart had just kicked up for reasons that had nothing to do with the dance. "And for the record, you look better in that dress than she does in hers. Even with the torture device underneath."

A surprised laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "Bucky."

"What? It's true." His eyes held hers, steady and warm. "You think I ain’t noticed you could barely breathe at lunch?"

"It's not that bad."

"It's ridiculous," he said flatly. "But you look beautiful anyway."

Beautiful.

He'd said it out loud, where anyone could hear.

Her foot faltered -just barely- and she felt herself lose the rhythm.

His hand at her waist tightened, pulling her back into the count without missing a beat.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

She forced herself to keep moving, to keep her feet following the pattern even though her mind had gone completely blank.

When was the last time someone had called her that? Had anyone ever called her that?

Her mother had called her ‘handsome’ once. A diplomatic word. A word that meant ‘presentable enough.’

Her brother had never commented on her appearance at all, except to remind her to keep her hair neat, her posture straight, her expression neutral. "Don't draw attention," he'd said.

And the men back home -the few who'd been forced into her company at social gatherings- had looked everywhere but at her face.

But Bucky was looking.

And he'd called her beautiful.

"Thank you," she managed.

The music swelled, and he turned them again, the movement bringing her marginally closer. Still proper, still acceptable by any standard.

But it felt intimate anyway.

"You're welcome," he said, his voice low, meant only for her.

Then, after a pause, quieter still: "Though if I'm bein’ honest, watchin’ you dance with others earlier made me want to end the whole damn thing."

Her eyes snapped to his.

He was watching her with a mix of amusement and frustration and something darker.

"Jealous?" she asked, testing the word.

His jaw worked for a moment, like he was deciding whether to admit it.

"Concerned," he said finally. Then, with a slight grimace, "And yeah. Maybe a little jealous."

The admission chased away the last remnants of nervousness about being here, about being watched, about what people thought.

"It's just contradance," she said, but she was smiling now. "Everyone dances with everyone."

"I know that." His hand flexed slightly at her waist. "Didn't make it easier to watch."

She wanted to say something. What, she wasn't sure. Something about how wrong it had felt to dance with anyone else. How she'd counted every second until the progression brought her back to him.

But the words stuck in her throat.

The music began to wind down, and when it ended, they stood there for a moment, still holding each other, neither quite ready to let go.

His hand was still at her waist. Hers still on his shoulder.

She could feel his breath, see the rise and fall of his chest, and the way he was looking at her.

Then someone started clapping, and the spell broke.

He stepped back, releasing her waist but keeping hold of her hand as they moved off the floor with the other couples.

But his thumb traced a small circle against her palm before he let go.

"Ready to head home?" he asked quietly.

She glanced around the room, at the people still laughing and talking, at the fiddle player tuning up for another set, at the warmth and noise and life of it all.

Then she looked back at him.

"Yes," she said. "I'm ready."

----

They made their way toward the door, weaving through clusters of people still talking, laughing, showing no signs of slowing down. The fiddle had started up again -another contradance by the sound of it- and she could hear the caller's voice rising over the music.

Near the food tables, she spotted Nell and Sarah gathering their empty dishes. They didn’t waltz, it seemed.

"We're heading out," she said, catching Nell's attention.

"Already?" Nell glanced toward the dance floor, then back at her with a knowing look. "Party's still going."

"Bucky has work tomorrow," she said. "He could use the extra rest."

Nell's eyebrow rose slightly, but she didn't push. "Of course."

"Actually," Sarah said, "we were just saying we should all meet up in town sometime. Make a day of it, errands and such."

"That sounds lovely," she said, genuinely pleased at the idea. "When were you thinking?"

"Maybe Thursday?" Nell suggested. "We could do our shopping, then grab something at the ‘hotel’ dining room. They've got decent coffee."

"Thursday works," she agreed. "I'll be there."

"Good." Nell squeezed her arm briefly. "It was nice having you here today. Really."

"Thank you," she said. "For everything."

Nell just smiled, and the meaning was clear: don't mention it.

They said their goodbyes, collected their now-empty crate and clothes from where they'd left them, and headed outside.

The afternoon air was cold, the sun already low on the horizon. Late November meant the days were short, and they'd be racing the sunset to get home before full dark.

She pulled her winter cloak around herself while Bucky shrugged into his coat.

The street was quieter now than it'd been at midday, most people still inside the hall. A few men stood outside the saloon, smoking and talking in low voices.

Bucky helped her up onto the wagon seat, his hand steady at her elbow even though she didn't really need the assistance. Her legs were tired from dancing, but she was steady enough.

He swung up beside her and gathered the reins, clicking his tongue to get the horse moving.

----

The sun was low, maybe two hours of good light left. They'd make it home before full dark if they kept a decent pace. No reason to rush…

Except he wanted to.

Had wanted to since the moment she'd pinned that brooch to her dress this morning and smiled at him like he'd given her something precious instead of a piece of cheap white copper from a camp peddler.

Maybe since before that. Since she'd stood in their cabin in nothing but her chemise and asked him to lace up that damned corset, and he'd had to keep his hands steady and impersonal when all he'd wanted was to do something else.

Two months. He'd waited two months.

He could wait another hour.

The road stretched ahead, familiar and rutted. He kept his attention on it, on the horse, on anything other than the woman sitting beside him.

She was quiet. Watching the landscape, her hands folded in her lap. The brooch caught the late afternoon light every time she shifted.

He'd been watching her all day. Couldn't seem to help it.

Watching her navigate the food tables with the other women, her shoulders straight and her chin up, even though he knew she'd been nervous. Watching her laugh with Nell Johnson and Sarah Calhoun like she'd known them for years instead of hours. Watching her move through the contradance, stumbling sometimes but trying, always trying.

Watching her dance with Tom Johnson during that partner swap, and feeling something ugly and possessive in his gut.

She was his wife. His.

And some rational part of his brain knew that was the whole point of contradance: everyone danced with everyone, it didn't mean anything.

But the irrational part, the part that had spent two months sleeping next to her and touching her and learning what made her gasp and arch against him, that part had wanted to walk across the floor and pull her back to his side of the line where she belonged.

He'd managed not to.

And then the waltz.

He'd danced before, enough to know the steps, enough to not embarrass himself. But he'd never danced with her. Had never had to reconcile the woman in his arms in public with the woman who came apart under his hands in private.

The way she'd looked up at him when he'd called her beautiful…

He shifted on the seat, adjusting his grip on the reins.

Focus. Road. Horse. Home.

Behind the seat, the wool blanket was folded where he'd stashed it that morning. The temperature had dropped since they'd left town, and it would only get colder as the sun set.

He glanced at her. She'd pulled her cloak tighter, but her hands were hidden under the fabric. Cold, probably.

"Hold these a second," he said, passing her the reins.

She took them without question, and he twisted around to grab the blanket. Shook it out and put it over both their laps, securing it around her legs.

His hand lingered on her thigh.

He told himself it was to make sure the blanket was firm. That the weight of his palm pressing through her skirt and petticoat was purely practical.

He let his hand rest there for a moment before he took the reins back and focused on the road again.

But he'd felt her reaction. The way she'd gone very still. The slight hitch in her breathing.

He didn't examine why he'd done it. Didn't want to admit, that every time she looked at him today with those mismatched eyes, it got a little harder to remember why he was waiting.

The wagon hit a rut, jostling them both.

She winced, her hand going to her side.

He glanced at her. "You alright?"

"Fine," she said. "Just this damned corset."

Damned corset was right.

He'd watched her struggle with it all day. The way she'd shifted in her seat during lunch, trying to find a position that didn't dig the boning into her more than necessary. The way she'd taken shallow breaths during the waltz, the tight lacing restricting her.

"That thing's coming off the second we get home," he said.

It was a practical statement. She'd been uncomfortable all day, and he'd get her out of it as soon as they were through the door. Help her unlace, let her breathe properly again.

That was all he meant.

But then, in a voice carefully neutral, she murmured, "I thought you were tired."

He turned to look at her and blinked.

Her expression was composed. Almost innocent. But her eyes…

She knew exactly what she was saying, knew exactly what she was implying.

And she wasn't drunk. He'd made sure of that back at the hall, which meant this wasn't the punch talking, this was her.

That something in him that had been held carefully in check all this time finally snapped.

"I ain’t tired."

He saw her swallow. Saw the way her fingers tightened slightly in the folds of her skirt under the blanket.

"Oh," she said, and it came out breathier than she probably meant.

He turned his attention back to the road, but his hands were tight on the reins.

The cabin was still twenty minutes away. Maybe less if he pushed the horse a bit.

Twenty minutes.

He could manage that.

----

The cabin came into view as the last light faded from the sky.

Bucky brought the wagon to a stop near the door, setting the brake before climbing down. He moved around to her side and offered his hand.

She took it, letting him help her down. Her legs were stiff from sitting, and she was acutely aware of how quiet everything was out here compared to the noise and warmth of the town hall.

Just the two of them now.

No music. No voices. No crowd to buffer the tension that had been building between them since they'd left town.

"I'll get the horse settled," he said, his voice low. "Get the fire goin’."

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and headed for the door.

Inside, the cabin was cold and dark. They'd put out the fire before leaving that morning, and now the chill was everywhere.

She moved by memory more than sight, finding the tinderbox on the mantle and kneeling by the hearth. Her hands were steady as she arranged the kindling and struck the flint.

Steady hands. That was good. That was important.

Even if the rest of her felt like it was vibrating with nervousness.

The spark caught. A small flame, then growing, casting light across the room.

She added larger pieces of wood, watching the fire build, feeling the first hints of warmth beginning to push back the cold.

I thought you were tired.

I ain’t tired.

The words replayed in her mind, his voice rough and certain in a way that had made her stomach drop and heat pool low in her belly all at once.

She'd started this. On the wagon. With that comment about the corset, maybe earlier in the hall. And now-

Behind her, she heard the door open and close. Bucky's footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossed the floor.

She didn't turn around.

Just stayed there, kneeling by the fire, watching the flames, very aware that her heart was beating faster than it should. That her palms were damp despite the cold. That every nerve in her body seemed to be standing at attention, waiting.

The warmth she felt on her back wasn't from the fire. Then, his hand was on her shoulder.

The touch was light, almost gentle. But she felt the weight of intent behind it.

"Stand up," he said quietly.

She rose slowly, brushing her hands against her skirt, and turned to face him.

The firelight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his stubbled jaw, the way his gaze held hers.

Not like he'd looked at her during the waltz, warm and admiring.

This was different, darker. Hungrier.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. She could hear her own breathing. Could hear his.

Then his hands came up to the clasp of her cloak.

His fingers worked the fastening, and she realized her hands were hanging uselessly at her sides. Should she be helping? Doing something?

But before she could move, he pushed the heavy fabric off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind her with a soft whump.

One layer gone.

His eyes tracked down her body -taking in the dress, the brooch still pinned at her collar, the way the firelight played across the dark fabric- before coming back to her face.

"Turn around," he said, his voice rough, and she complied slowly.

She felt him step closer still, close enough that when he exhaled, she felt it against the back of her neck.

Then his hands came around her from behind, reaching for the front of her bodice.

She stood very still.

The brooch came first. His fingers found the clasp, worked it open with surprising gentleness. She heard it, the soft sound of metal on wood as he set it on the shelf above the fireplace. Then his fingers returned to the top button, and she felt him work it free carefully.

Then the next button.

And the next.

He moved down her bodice slowly, each button releasing with a soft pop of fabric. She could feel his fingers brushing against her chest through the dress with each one, could feel the way his breath warmed the exposed skin at the back of her neck.

The dress began to loosen, falling open down the front.

She wanted to say something. Do something. But her voice had abandoned her, and all she could do was stand there and feel.

Feel his hands, his proximity. The way her body was already responding to nothing more than his fingers working buttons.

When he reached the last one at her waist, his hands went to her shoulders, and he pushed the dress down her arms in one smooth motion.

The fabric slid away, catching briefly at her elbows before falling past her wrists. It pooled at her waist where the skirt was still fastened, leaving her upper body in nothing but the corset and her chemise beneath it.

The cool air hit her bare arms, raising goosebumps.

Or maybe that was just him.

His hands moved to the ties at her waist, and she felt the skirt loosen, felt its weight slide down her hips, and then the whole thing was falling to the floor in a heap of dark fabric around her feet.

She stepped out of it instinctively, and he kicked it aside without ceremony.

Now she was standing in her corset, chemise, petticoat, and stockings.

Still mostly covered.

But it felt like being naked.

His hands came to rest on her waist, and she felt his thumbs press against the boning through the fabric.

"This thing," he said, his voice low and rough near her ear, "has been drivin’ me mad all day."

She didn't know what to say to that.

Then his hands moved to the laces at her back.

They loosened with swift, deliberate tugs, so different from the careful tightening she'd asked him to do that morning. Each pull released more pressure, let her body expand a little more, let air flow a little easier.

She felt the exact moment the corset went from "tight" to "loose."

Felt herself able to draw a full breath for the first time since dawn.

The relief was immediate and overwhelming.

"Better?" he asked, his voice close to her ear, his hands still working the laces.

"Yes," she managed.

The laces went slack, and his hands slid to her waist, and he pulled the corset away from her body entirely.

She heard it hit the floor somewhere behind them.

Now there was just the thin cotton of her chemise between his hands and her skin.

Just one layer.

She could feel the heat of his palms through it. Could feel the way his fingers spread across her sides, spanning her waist.

"All day," he said quietly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, "I've been watchin’ you in that thing."

His hands tightened slightly.

"Watchin’ you barely able to breathe. Watchin’ you try to hide how uncomfortable you were." His thumbs traced upward along her sides, a slow, deliberate path. "Watchin’ other men lookin’ at you."

Oh.

"And all I could think about," he continued, his voice dropping lower, rougher, "was getting you home and gettin’ you out of it."

His hands slid higher, brushing the underside of her breasts through the chemise.

"Gettin’ you under me."

Heat flooded through her, sharp and overwhelming and so intense she felt dizzy with it.

Her hands came up instinctively, gripping his forearms where they crossed in front of her. Needing something to hold onto. Needing to ground herself.

She felt the muscle shift beneath her fingers. Felt the strength in him, barely leashed.

"Bucky-" Her voice came out thin.

She tried to turn in his arms -wanted to see his face, needed to- but he held her still, keeping her facing away from him.

"Not yet," he murmured against her ear. "I'm not done."

His hands left her sides, and she heard the rustle of fabric behind her.

Then she felt his fingers at the ties of her petticoat.

The knot came free easily, and the weight of the fabric loosened around her hips. He pushed it down, letting it fall to pool around her feet.

She stepped out of it, and he kicked that aside too.

Now she was down to her chemise, drawers, and stockings.

His hands came back to her waist, but this time they didn't stop there.

They slid upward, slowly, deliberately.

Her pulse was pounding now. In her throat. In her wrists. Between her legs.

His hands cupped her breasts through the chemise, and a sound escaped her lips. Small, involuntary.

Evidence that she was still breathing. Still present. Still capable of response.

"You know what you did to me today?" he asked, his voice rough against her ear.

She couldn't answer. Couldn't form words.

His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and they hardened instantly against the fabric, sensitive and aching.

"Tellin’ me I look good," he continued, his hands working her slowly, deliberately. "Askin’ if I'm uncomfortable with the unexpected."

Another brush of his thumbs, circling, more deliberate this time, and she felt her knees go weak.

"Dancin’ with me like that." His mouth moved to her neck, pressing a kiss just below her ear that made her shiver. "Lookin’ at me like you wanted me to drag you out of there and take you home right then."

Had she looked at him like that?

Yes, she had.

"And then," his voice dropped even lower, "you went and taunted me on the way back."

I thought you were tired.

She'd known what she was doing when she said it. Had seen his reaction. Had felt the change in the air between them.

Had wanted it.

"I told you," he said, his mouth moving along the curve of her neck, his hands still working her breasts with maddening slowness, "that if you kept sayin’ things like that, I'd stop bein’ patient."

He turned her then -finally- spinning her to face him with his hands on her shoulders.

The firelight caught in his eyes, and what she saw there made her stomach drop and heat spike through her all at once.

Want. Raw and undisguised, and so intense it was almost frightening.

"I'm done bein’ patient," he said quietly.

Then he kissed her.

Nothing like they'd shared in the dark over the past two months. The slow and deep ones where he'd let her set the pace, let her pull back when she needed to.

This was different.

This was him unleashing everything he'd been holding back.

His hand came up to cup the back of her head, probably dislodging what few pins had survived the dancing, and he angled her where he wanted her.

His mouth moved against hers with a hunger that made her knees genuinely weak. His tongue slid past her lips, tasting her, claiming her, and she felt the full force of two months of restraint finally breaking.

She grabbed onto his shoulders -partly for balance, partly because she needed something solid to hold onto- and felt the muscle shift beneath his shirt.

He was still fully dressed.

Coat, shirt, suspenders, trousers, boots.

Every layer intact.

While she stood there in nothing but her chemise and drawers.

The disparity should have made her self-conscious. Should have made her want to cover herself, to hide.

Instead, it made her feel... like he couldn't wait long enough to undress himself. Like getting his hands on her was more important than anything else.

He assaulted her with deep, demanding kisses that left no room for thought. Just sensation. Just the slide of his tongue against hers, the press of his body, the way his hand tightened in her hair when she made a small sound against his mouth.

She felt him move, felt his other hand slide to her hip, and then he was walking her backward.

She went willingly, blindly, trusting him to guide her even though she had no idea where they were going.

Her rear hit something solid.

The kitchen table.

His hands went to her waist, and then he lifted her and set her on the surface.

The height brought them closer to level, and he stepped between her legs without breaking the kiss, his hands resting on her thighs.

The chemise rode up slightly. She could feel the rough fabric of his trousers against the inside of her knees, could feel how close he was, how little separated them now.

He finally pulled back, but only far enough to drag his mouth down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat.

She tilted her head back, giving him access, and tried to catch her breath.

Failed.

"Bucky-" His name came out ragged.

"Still too many damn clothes," he muttered against her skin, his hands finding the hem of her chemise and pulling it up.

She lifted her arms automatically, and the thin cotton slid up her body, and he tossed it aside without looking.

The cool air hit her bare skin, and suddenly she was acutely, overwhelmingly aware that she was sitting on their kitchen table.

Topless.

In nothing but her drawers and stockings.

His hands came up to cup her breasts, palms warm, slightly rough, achingly gentle despite the hunger in his eyes.

Her hands fell to grip the edge of the table, needing something to hold onto.

His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and the sensation shot straight through her. They were sensitive. Had been sensitive since he'd touched them through the chemise, but now with nothing between his hands and her skin, it was almost overwhelming.

She made a sound -small, desperate- and his eyes flicked up to her face.

"That's it," he said quietly. "I wanna hear you."

Then his head dipped, and his mouth closed over one nipple.

The heat, the wet slide of his tongue, the firm suckles, made her back arch involuntarily. Her hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands.

He'd done this before. Many times over the past two months. Had learned exactly how she liked to be touched, how much pressure to use, what made her gasp, and what made her squirm.

But it felt different now.

More urgent. Less restrained.

Like he'd finally stopped measuring every touch. Stopped holding himself back.

His mouth worked her deliberately, while his hand cupped her other breast. Then he switched, giving the same attention to the other side, and she felt her head fall back, felt her eyes close.

Felt herself stop thinking entirely.

His mouth moved lower.

When he reached her stomach, she felt a flash of self-consciousness cut through the haze of sensation.

Her belly wasn’t perfect.

But he didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't care.

Just kept kissing his way down, his hands sliding to her thighs, spreading them wider.

Wait.

Wait.

"Bucky," she managed, her voice shaky. "We- we eat here."

He lifted his head just enough to look at her. The heat in his eyes made her clench between her legs.

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough and dark and full of promise. "And I'm about to."

Before she could process that, his hands were hooking into the waistband of her drawers.

"Lift up," he said.

She did, automatically, and he pulled the fabric down and off, taking her stockings with them in one motion. And then she was completely bare.

Sitting on their kitchen table.

It wasn’t the first time he'd done this, not even close. But always before it had been in bed, almost in the dark or the early morning light. Horizontal.

This was different.

She was exposed. The firelight played across every inch of her skin, and she could see everything: his hands on her thighs, his shoulders between her legs, the intent in his eyes as he looked up at her.

"Bucky, this is-"

"Relax," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. "Let me."

One hand stayed on her thigh, warm and grounding. The other moved upward, and she felt his thumb brush through the soft curls between her legs. A slow, deliberate touch. Not quite where she ached for it, but close enough to make her tense.

He did it again, then his thumb pressed lower, parting her, opening her to his gaze. She made a sound -half protest, half something else entirely- but he was already leaning in, and any coherent thought became impossible.

The angle was different like this. Better. He didn't have to hunch or strain the way he did in bed. Could kneel there comfortably, with better access to every part of her.

And he was taking full advantage of it.

His tongue worked against her deliberately, finding all the places he'd learned over the time together. The spots that made her gasp. Made her hips try to shift closer even though there was nowhere closer to go.

"Stay still," he murmured against her, and she felt the vibration of his voice as much as heard it.

She tried. She really did.

But then his fingers joined his mouth -one sliding inside her, then another- and she couldn't help the way her body arched. Couldn't help the way her hand flew to his hair, gripping tight.

"Easy," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Need you ready for me."

The words cut through the haze.

Ready for me.

Not just for this. Not just his mouth and hands.

Something more.

His fingers moved inside her in a slow, maddening rhythm, curling, stroking, finding spots that made her whole body tighten. His mouth stayed focused on that bundle of nerves that made her see stars.

She was already close. Could feel the pressure building, that familiar tightening low in her belly.

But he pulled back.

Not completely. Just enough to look up at her, his eyes dark and intent, his mouth wet.

"This time," he said, his fingers still moving inside her in that slow, devastating way, "I'm not stoppin’ here."

Her brain struggled to process the words through the haze of sensation.

Not stopping here.

"You understand?" he asked, curling his fingers inside her in a way that made her whole body jolt.

She understood. She'd known, really. Since the wagon. Since he'd said I'm not tired in that rough, certain voice.

This was it.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

"Say you understand," he repeated, and there was something almost gentle in his voice despite the hunger in his eyes.

Like he needed to hear her say it. Needed to know she knew what was happening.

That she wanted this.

"I-" Her voice came out thin. She swallowed and tried again. "Yes. I understand."

Something changed in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or satisfaction.

"Good," he murmured.

Then his mouth was back on her, lips closing around her sensitive bud, tongue working deliberately while his fingers moved deeper, faster inside her.

She tried to hold still as he'd told her. Tried to keep quiet even though sounds kept escaping her, small gasps and broken moans that she couldn't suppress.

Her thighs were shaking. Her whole body tensed, balanced on the edge of something overwhelming.

"Let go," he said against her.

As if she had a choice.

As if she could do anything else.

One last suckle and it hit her like a wave, sudden and complete and so intense she forgot where she was. Forgot everything except the sensation crashing through her, the way her body clenched around his fingers, the sound that tore from her throat.

He worked her through it, his mouth gentling but not stopping until the aftershocks faded and she was left trembling, boneless, utterly undone.

Then he pulled back, pressing a kiss on her mound before rising to his feet.

She was still trying to remember how to breathe when his hands came to her waist.

"Come on," he said quietly, helping her down from the table.

Her legs were unsteady -actually unsteady, not just weak-kneed- and she had to grip his arms for balance.

He held her steady, patiently, waiting until she found her footing.

Then his hand slid down to take hers, and he turned toward the bed.

"Go on," he said, his voice low and rough. "I'll be right there."

She went, crossing the short distance on shaky legs, hyperaware of her nakedness. Of the cool air on her skin.

Behind her, she heard the thud of his boots hitting the floor.

One. Then the other.

The sound of his coat hitting the floor. The slide of suspenders being pushed off his shoulders.

The rustle of fabric as he pulled his shirt over his head.

She reached the bed and turned around, unable to help herself. Needing to see.

He was down to just his trousers now, the firelight playing across his bare chest, his shoulders, his stomach.

All that "more" of him she'd complimented that morning.

And the way he was looking at her made her forget everything except the fact that she wanted this.

Wanted him.

Next Chapter

She'd learned that her breasts weren't just functional. They could be touched, kissed, and sucked, and the sensation of his mouth on them could make her arch off the mattress and forget her own name.

She'd learned that he liked to look at her. That he'd coax her out of her nightgown in the lamplight and just... look, as his hands mapped her body appreciatively.

She'd learned the sounds he made when her hand wrapped around him, the way his breath hitched when her lips brushed his throat.

They hadn't- not completely. Not yet.

But something happened every night. Sometimes slow and deliberate, sometimes urgent and desperate. And she'd stopped feeling embarrassed about it after.

----

The rain had started before dawn, a steady drumming on the roof that showed no signs of letting up.

Bucky hadn't gotten out of bed.

She'd woken to find him with one arm slung across her waist, his face relaxed in sleep. It had taken her a moment to understand: no work today. The rain made the logging too dangerous, the slopes too slick. She wasn’t going to complain, really. Took one more look at his features and decided to snuggle against him and go back to sleep.

Way later, they both lie awake, buried under the quilts with the gray morning light filtering through the window. Warm and lazy in a way that felt almost decadent. She should probably get up. Start the fire, make coffee, and begin breakfast. But he showed no signs of moving, and his arm was still draped over her waist, heavy and warm.

"It's been raining more often lately." She said quietly.

"Mm." His hand moved absently along her side, tracing lazy patterns through her nightgown. "Always does this time of the year. Few more weeks and it'll turn to snow."

"Snow," she repeated, trying to imagine it. She'd seen snow back home, but something told her Montana snow would be different. Heavier. More unforgiving.

"Gets deep out here," he said. "Three, four feet some winters. Work slows down considerably until it really sets in, and then we stop."

She processed that. "So you'll be home more?"

"Yeah." There was something in his voice. Satisfaction, maybe. Relief. His hand stilled on her waist, and she felt him shift slightly behind her, drawing her closer. "A lot more."

The thought of having him here, in the cabin, day after day through the winter months, made her… happy. Though she supposed they'd have to figure out how to occupy themselves without driving each other mad.

"That a problem?" he asked, and there was a carefulness in the question that made her turn her head to look at him.

"Why would it be a problem?"

He shrugged, the movement jostling her slightly. "I've… barely been here. Gone before dawn most days, back after dark. You've been alone more than not." His thumb resumed its slow path along her side. "Winter means I'll be underfoot. Constantly."

She studied his face. He was watching her, and she realized he was actually asking. Wondering if she'd find his presence -his constant presence- burdensome.

"I think," she said carefully, "that I'd like that."

Something in his expression shifted. Eased.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She felt bold suddenly, the warmth of the bed and his body against hers making her brave. "The days you're here feel different. Better."

His hand tightened on her waist. "Sundays."

"And rainy days," she added. Like today. Days when she woke up to find him still there, his arm around her, his breath warm against her hair.

"Not enough of those," he said quietly.

"No," she agreed. "Not enough."

He was quiet for a moment, his hand resuming its lazy movement along her side. Then: "You know what winter means, though? Besides me bein’ here?"

"What?"

"Means we'll be snowed in. Just us. No trips to town when the drifts get high. No visitors." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Nowhere to go. Nothin’ to do but keep warm."

Heat crept up her neck at the implication in his tone.

"That so?" she managed.

"Mm-hm." His lips brushed the back of her neck, casual and deliberate. "Might get borin’ for you. Same four walls, same face across the table every day."

She knew what he was doing. Fishing, in that way, he did sometimes. Testing.

"I think I'll manage," she said.

"Think so?"

"I know so."

He made a low sound of approval, and she felt him smile against her skin. "Good."

They lay there in comfortable silence for a while, the rain continuing its steady drumming overhead. She was nearly drifting off again when he spoke.

"Speakin’ of time off," he said, his voice still rough with sleep. "Thanksgivin's comin’ up soon."

"Mm," she said, noncommittal.

"It's a non-work day here. In the territory."

That made her turn her head to look at him. She hadn't thought much about it, just assumed it would be observed out here the way it had been back home.

"I thought it wasn't an official holiday?"

"It ain’t. But out here..." He shrugged, the movement jostling her slightly. "Place like this, people take any excuse they can get to celebrate somethin’. Break up the monotony."

"So what happens?"

"There's a gatherin’. In the town hall. It's bigger than the saloon, fits more people. Everyone brings food, there's drinkin’, dancin’ if someone brings a fiddle."

"Have you gone? These past years?"

"Yeah." He shifted slightly, settling deeper into the pillow. "Ain’t much else to do here anyway, and it's a good chance to fill up on decent food." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then, casual and affectionate. "Though I ain't thinkin' about the food as much now. You keep me fed well enough. Still, people put out a good spread."

"Then I assume we're going."

"Mm-hm."

A town gathering. Everyone would be there. All the families, the other loggers, the shopkeepers, and their wives. People she'd seen in passing during her trips to town but hadn't really met. People who would be watching, judging, and forming opinions about Bucky Barnes' new wife.

Her first real introduction to the community as Mrs. Barnes.

The thought made her stomach tighten slightly.

"How do people organize it? What are you supposed to bring?"

"Whatever you want, really. Most of the loggers bring game, deer, and turkey if they're lucky. Hunt it a few days before so it can be hung and butchered in town. Then folks organize the cookin’. Other families bake things, bring preserves, whatever they've got." He paused, glancing down at her. "Why?"

"Because I need to contribute something," she said. "As your wife."

It wasn't vanity, precisely. People would notice what she brought -or didn't bring-, and would form opinions based on whether her contribution measured up. And while she couldn't control what they thought about her eyes or the circumstances of her marriage, she could control whether her cooking was good.

That, at least, was something she knew how to do.

He was quiet for a moment.

"You ain't gotta prove anythin' to anyone," he said finally.

"Maybe not," she said. "But I'd like to make a good impression anyway."

"Your cookin’'s good. They'll see that."

She appreciated the confidence in his voice, even if it didn't entirely settle the nervousness in her stomach. "What do people usually bring? For baking, I mean."

"Pies, mostly. Bread. Cakes if they're feelin’ ambitious." He paused. "Martha Crews brought a spice cake last year that people are still talkin’ about."

She filed that away. Martha Crews. A standard to measure against, apparently.

"And you're sure people just... bring whatever they want? There's no list or assignment?"

"No list. Just show up with food, and it all works out." His hand stilled on her side. "You're overthinkin’ this."

"I'm planning," she corrected. "There's a difference."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Alright. What are you plannin’, then?"

"Pumpkin pie," she said. "Apple pie. And a braided bread, maybe with herbs."

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest where her head rested. "Ain’t that too much?"

"I'd rather bring too much than too little."

"Fair enough." His hand resumed its lazy movement along her side. "Good thing Larson's comin’ to install the kitchen soon. You'll have room to show off properly."

She felt her lips curve slightly at that. "I wasn't planning to show off."

"No?" There was amusement in his voice. "Three dishes say otherwise."

"Pies are expected. The bread is something extra," she said. "Besides, I don't know why you're concerned. You're going to eat every test batch I make until I get used to the temperature of this stove for baking properly."

"You bake fine already," he said. "Better than fine, I'd say. But I'm not gonna complain if that means I get to stuff myself like a turkey until the day of the gatherin’."

----

The days leading up to Thanksgiving passed in a flurry of activity.

She tested recipes, adjusting for the temperamental stove until she could reliably produce pies with evenly browned crusts and fillings that set properly. Bucky ate every failed attempt without complaint, and most of the successful ones too.

When she wasn't in the kitchen, she was mending. Her traveling dress, the nicest one she owned, needed the hem repaired and a few small tears patched. It wasn't fancy, but it was the closest thing she had to something suitable for a social gathering.

She also took stock of Bucky's clothes and realized his formal options were limited. He had work pants, work shirts, and one set that might charitably be called "not for work." She pulled those out, shook out the dust, and told him to try them on.

He emerged from behind the curtain a few minutes later, tugging at the waistband of the trousers.

"These fit differently," he said, frowning down at himself.

She looked him over. The pants were snug. Not obscenely so, but tighter than they probably had been. The shirt pulled slightly across his shoulders and chest.

"When's the last time you wore them?"

"Way before we married, I reckon." He tried to button the shirt and grimaced when the fabric strained. "Guess I've put on weight."

"You're not fat," she said, moving closer to examine the fit. "Maybe a bit bigger. You work hard, and now that you're eating properly, your body's just... catching up."

She reached for the shirt, fingers measuring to adjust the buttons, needle ready. "I can move these over slightly. Give you more room."

"Hm." He watched her work, then asked, tone casual but with something underneath it, "What do you think? About me being bigger?"

She glanced up at him, needle paused mid-stitch.

He was looking at her with that expression he got sometimes. Testing, maybe. Wanting to know what she thought, but trying not to seem like he cared about the answer.

She considered for a moment, then said simply, "Well. There's more of you. That can't be bad."

His hand came up to catch her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes.

"That so?" he asked, his voice dropping lower.

She felt heat creep up her neck. "Yes."

"Why's that?" He was enjoying this, she could tell. The slight curve of his mouth, the way his thumb brushed along her jaw.

She squirmed slightly, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing. "Because... you're healthy. It's- it's good."

"Healthy," he repeated, like he was testing the word. His other hand settled on her waist, fingers splaying across her side. "That the only reason?"

She could feel her face burning now. "You're fishing for compliments."

"Maybe." He didn't look remotely ashamed of it. "Is it workin’?"

She huffed, trying to look annoyed and failing. "I like that you're... solid. It feels-" She stopped, biting her lip.

"Feels what?"

"Good," she admitted quietly. "When you're... when we're..."

She didn't finish, but she didn't need to. His expression changed, something warm and possessive crossing his face.

"Good," he said, and she saw the intent in his eyes a second before he moved.

"The needle-" she managed.

He plucked it from her fingers without looking, stuck it into the pincushion on the table, and then he was kissing her. One hand cupped her face while the other pulled her flush against him, against all that 'more' of him she'd just been complimenting.

----

The morning of Thanksgiving arrived cold and clear, the kind of chilly November day that promised frost by nightfall.

She'd been awake since before dawn, checking on the pies one last time, wrapping them carefully in cloth to keep them protected for the trip into town. The braided herb bread sat cooling on the counter, golden and perfect. Everything was ready.

Almost everything.

She stood in front of the small mirror they'd finally hung by the washbasin, dressed in her chemise and petticoat, holding the corset she hadn't worn since she'd arrived in Montana.

The proper one. The one with the boning that dug uncomfortably into her and the laces that required another person to tighten properly.

Bucky was already dressed. Clean trousers, the shirt she'd altered for him, suspenders in place. He looked more put-together than- well, ever, and the effect was... distracting.

But right now, she needed his hands, not his face.

"Can you help me with this?" she asked, holding up the corset.

He looked at it, then at her, his expression skeptical. "You ain't worn that thing since you got here."

"I know."

"You've been wearin’ the other one. The... shorter one."

"Yes… the underbust corset," she confirmed. "But I need this one today."

He crossed to her, taking the contraption and helping her position it around her torso. She held it in place while he started working the laces at the back, his fingers surprisingly deft.

"Tighter," she said after a moment.

He pulled, but just a little. "That's tight enough."

"More."

He tugged harder, and she felt the boning dig against her sides. "This is ridiculous. Why can't you just use the one you've been wearin’?"

She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. "Because the dress won't fit otherwise. It's as simple as that."

His jaw worked, clearly unhappy with that answer, but he pulled the laces tighter anyway, and she felt the breath press out of her lungs.

"That's-" she started, but then his hands slid around to her waist, testing the new shape of her, and she felt his lips brush against the back of her neck.

Her breath caught, an involuntary sound that she couldn't quite suppress.

"Bucky," she said, trying for stern but landing somewhere closer to breathless. "We're going to be late."

"Mm." His hands stayed where they were, fingers splaying possessively over the constricted curve of her waist. His thumb traced the edge of the boning through the fabric. "Hate this thing."

"I know." She did. She could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way his hands tightened slightly, like he wanted to undo what he'd just done.

His lips moved from her neck to just behind her ear, and despite herself -despite the clock ticking, despite knowing they needed to leave- she felt herself lean back into him.

Just slightly.

Just enough that he noticed.

"You're not helping," she managed, even as her eyes drifted closed.

"Neither are you." His voice was rough, accusatory, but his mouth was doing that thing where he kissed the spot just below her ear that made her knees weak.

She forced her eyes open, forced herself to step forward, breaking the contact. The cool air hit her neck where his mouth had been, and she felt the loss of it immediately.

"Help me with the dress," she said, reaching for where it lay across the bed. Her voice was steadier now, but only just. "It'll be faster with two people."

He made a sound that might've been agreement or protest, but he helped anyway. His hands were less careful than they'd been with the corset, tugging the fabric into place with barely restrained frustration.

She could feel it, the tension in him, the same tension coiling tight in her own belly.

When they finished, she smoothed her hands down the skirt, swinging a little to make the fabric move. "How do I look?"

He took a step back, his gaze traveling over her slowly. The dress wasn't fancy -simple cut, dark fabric that wouldn't show stains- but it fit properly now, the waist cinched tight, the skirt falling in neat lines.

His eyes lingered on her waist. On what his hands had just shaped.

"You look good," he said finally, his voice carrying an edge that made her stomach flip. Then, with a slight quirk of his mouth that didn't quite reach his eyes, "But I prefer the ones that let me touch more."

Heat crept up her neck. The corset suddenly felt even tighter. "Bucky."

"Just sayin'." He reached for his coat, shrugging it on with more force than necessary. Then he paused, looking at her again, and something in his expression shifted. Softened just slightly. "You really do look good, though."

She touched the fabric at her waist, hyperaware now of how restricted she was, how different it felt from the easy movement she'd grown used to. "Thank you."

"Come on," he said, offering his hand. "Let's get this over with so I can get you out of that thing later."

She nodded, moving to get her winter coat, the heavy one she'd brought from back east. The shawl would be fine for now, but by the time they headed home in the late afternoon, she'd need something warmer.

Outside, Bucky had already hitched the horse to the wagon. He'd set a wooden crate in the bed, packed with straw to keep things from sliding around during the trip.

She handed him the pies one at a time, watching as he nestled them carefully into the straw, making sure they wouldn't tip. The bread went in last, wrapped in cloth and wedged securely between the pies.

"That should hold," he said, checking the arrangement one more time.

She climbed up onto the wagon seat, arranging her skirts as best she could while he swung up beside her. The morning air was cold enough to sting, and she was grateful for the coat.

He clicked his tongue, and the horse started forward, the wagon creaking as they rolled down the path toward the main road.

Toward town.

----

They were about halfway to town when she turned in her seat for the fifth time, craning her neck to check on the crate in the wagon bed.

"If you keep lookin’ back there, you're gonna jinx it," Bucky said, not taking his eyes off the road.

"We just went through a rut," she said, settling back into her seat. "The whole wagon shifted."

"The food's fine. It's secured."

She nodded, but her hands twisted together in her lap, restless.

He sighed, slowed the horse slightly, and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small cloth pouch and held it out to her.

"Here."

She looked at the pouch, then at him. "What is it?"

"Was gonna give it to you before we went into town, but maybe it'll give you somethin’ else to think about right now."

She took the pouch, the fabric soft and worn against her fingers. When she loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents into her palm, a brooch slid out.

White copper, beautifully made. Oval-shaped with a scalloped edge, the surface etched with delicate flowers and leaves that caught the light.

"Bucky," she breathed, and her voice came out smaller than she intended.

It wasn't particularly expensive, you could tell that much. But that wasn't- that didn't-

Her throat closed.

"Peddler came through the camp last week," he said, his tone casual but his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. "Saw you workin’ so hard on the food, fixin’ up our clothes. Figured you ought to have somethin’ nice to wear too."

Something nice to wear.

She turned the brooch over in her hand, her fingers tracing the delicate etched pattern. Flowers. Careful details that someone had taken time to craft.

Her mother had owned a brooch. She'd worn it to church, to formal gatherings. When her parents died, her brother had packed away most of their mother's jewelry. "For safekeeping," he'd said. She'd been allowed to keep a plain locket and her mother's wedding band, both too worn to be worth much.

And now-

Bucky had bought her this.

Had seen the peddler and thought of her and spent money -money he worked ten-hour days in dangerous conditions to earn- on something pretty. Something just for her.

"Hey." His voice cut through the tightness in her throat. "You alright?"

She realized her vision had blurred slightly. She blinked hard, once, twice.

"Yes," she managed. Then, because that wasn't enough: "It's beautiful."

"It's alright," he said, still not looking at her. "Matches the dress well enough."

She wanted to tell him it was more than alright. That no one had given her something like this in… years. Maybe ever. Not something chosen specifically for her, not something meant to make her feel-

Pretty. Valued. Thought of.

But the words stuck in her throat, too big and clumsy to force out.

Instead, she reached over and placed her hand on his arm, squeezing gently. Her fingers tightened, holding on perhaps longer than necessary.

"Thank you," she said quietly, and hoped he could hear everything else she couldn't say in those two words.

He glanced at her then, just briefly, and something in his expression softened when he saw her face.

"You're welcome," he said, and his hand came up to cover hers where it rested on his arm. He squeezed back, just once, before returning his attention to the road.

She pinned the brooch to the bodice of her dress, just below her collar, her fingers careful with the clasp. When she was done, she touched it lightly, feeling the raised pattern of the flowers under her fingertips.

"Better?" he asked. There was warmth in his voice.

She smiled. "Better."

----

Bucky left the wagon and horse at the livery stable near the edge of town. He lifted the crate from the wagon bed, settling it carefully in his arms, and she walked beside him toward the town hall, her hand resting lightly on his elbow when the width of the path allowed it.

The streets were busier than she'd seen them on her usual trips to the general store, families making their way toward the gathering, children running ahead, voices carrying in the cold air.

She was grateful not to be walking up to the entrance alone. Grateful for his solid presence beside her, even as her stomach tightened with nerves.

They were nearly to the town hall when a voice called out.

"Barnes! Mrs. Barnes!"

She turned to see Carl Hayes, the butcher, and his wife approaching. Agnes Hayes was a sturdy woman in her early fifties, with graying hair tucked neatly under her bonnet and a warm, practical demeanor that had put her at ease during her trips to the shop.

"Mornin’, Hayes," Bucky said, nodding. "Agnes."

"Good morning," Agnes said, smiling at her. "Well, your first Thanksgiving here in White Creek. You must be excited."

"I am," she said, returning the smile. "Looking forward to it."

"You've picked a good year for it. The weather's holding, and I heard Martha Crews is bringing her spice cake again." Agnes leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "Though between you and me, I think mine's better. Don't tell her I said that."

She felt some of the tension in her chest ease. "Your secret's safe with me."

"What did you bring?" Agnes asked, glancing at the crate in Bucky's arms.

"Apple pie, pumpkin pie, and a braided herb bread."

"Three dishes!" Agnes's eyebrows rose, impressed. "Well, aren't you ambitious. I only managed two this year, Carl was laid up for a few days, so I had to mind the shop."

Agnes then smiled at Bucky and nodded with her head toward his wife. "Well, let's go put our things out together, then."

Bucky shifted the crate, holding it out to her. She took it, the weight manageable but requiring both hands.

Carl moved ahead to open the door to the town hall, holding it as the women passed through first. Bucky followed just long enough to see where she was headed, then peeled off with Carl toward a cluster of men gathered near the far wall, where someone had set up a barrel and cups.

Inside, the town hall had been transformed. Long tables lined one side of the room, already laden with dishes: roasted meats, casseroles, bowls of vegetables, baskets of bread. The air was warm from the stove in the corner and thick with the mingled scents of food and woodsmoke and too many people in one space.

Women moved between the tables, arranging platters, making space, chatting as they worked.

Agnes led her toward an open spot on one of the tables. "Here, this should do. Let's see what you've brought."

She set the crate down carefully and began unwrapping the pies, setting them out one at a time. The apple first, then the pumpkin, and finally the braided herb bread, golden and still faintly warm.

"Oh, those look lovely," Agnes said, genuine warmth in her voice. "You've got a good hand for baking."

"Thank you," she said quietly, putting the cloth back into the crate.

Agnes glanced around the room, then back at her. "You've probably seen some of these ladies in passing when you're in town, but let me introduce you properly to a few. Come on."

She followed Agnes toward a small group of women standing near the stove, their conversation pausing as they approached.

"Ladies," Agnes said. "This is Mrs. Barnes, Bucky Barnes' wife. Just had been two months or so out here, haven't you, dear?"

She nodded. "About that, yes."

"Mrs. Barnes, this is Josephine Garrett. Her husband runs the gun shop. And this is Nell Johnson and Sarah Calhoun. Their husbands work the lumber camps with yours."

Josephine was a tall, lean woman in her thirties with work-roughened hands and a direct gaze. "Pleased to meet you properly, Mrs. Barnes. I've seen you at the street a few times."

"Likewise," she said.

Nell, younger and rounder-faced, smiled shyly. "It's nice to have another woman out at the camps. We're a bit outnumbered, if you haven't noticed."

"Oh, I had noticed," she said, returning the smile. "Though I suppose that's why they put up the sign in the first place."

Sarah laughed at that. "Well, Barnes got the pick of the lot, I'd say. Welcome to White Creek."

The warmth in their voices, the lack of staring or awkward questions about her eyes, made her feel more at ease.

"Thank you," she said. "I appreciate that."

Agnes patted her arm. "You'll fit in just fine."

Across the room, she caught sight of another cluster of women. Mary Collins, who stood with two other women, their heads bent together in conversation. One was elegantly dressed in a way that suggested means, and the other wore a neat, practical dress with a careful posture.

Mary glanced up, caught her eye, and offered a polite smile. Nothing warm, but nothing openly hostile either. Just... aware.

She nodded back, equally polite.

Near the far corner, another pair of women stood apart from the general bustle. One wore a dress of fine wool with a lace collar that would've cost more than most of the room made in a month. The other, similarly dressed, held herself with a particular confidence of being better positioned.

They didn't look her way.

Agnes followed her gaze and said quietly, "Don't mind them. The Mayor’s wife and the Banker’s wife. They keep to themselves mostly. Different world, you know."

She did know. The line wasn't drawn with rope or paint, but it was there all the same. Loggers' wives, shopkeepers' wives, and then... everyone else.

"Come on," Agnes said, steering her gently back toward the food tables. "Let's make sure your pies don't get lost in the shuffle."

They spent the next few minutes adjusting platters, making room for latecomers still arriving with their contributions. The tables were nearly groaning under the weight of it all.

A voice rose above the general chatter. Mayor Richards, standing near the center of the room, had his hands raised for attention.

"Alright, folks, if I could have your attention for just a moment!"

The room quieted, conversations tapering off as people turned toward him.

"I'll keep this brief," the Mayor said, his voice carrying easily. "We're gathered here today to give thanks for our health, for this community we've built together in White Creek. It's been a hard year, as most years are out here, but we've endured. We've thrived. And for that, we're grateful."

He paused, glancing around the room. "Reverend, would you lead us in a word of thanks?"

The man stepped forward, a lean man in his sixties with wire-rimmed glasses and a voice that had married her and Bucky not so long ago.

"Let us bow our heads," he said.

She lowered her gaze, feeling the warmth of bodies pressed close around her.

The prayer was brief and practical, thanks for food, for safety, for the work that sustained them. No flowery language, no theatrics. Just a man acknowledging what they had and asking for continued provision.

"Amen," the room echoed.

"Alright then," Mayor Richards said, smiling. "Let's eat. Help yourselves, folks."

The room erupted into motion, people moving toward the tables, reaching for plates, voices rising again in conversation and laughter.

She felt a hand at her elbow and turned to find Bucky beside her.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded, and they moved toward the food together.

----

They found seats at one of the long tables with a group of loggers and their wives, men Bucky worked alongside. Nell and Sarah were already there with their husbands, and they made room, shifting down the bench to let them sit.

The food was good, better than good, honestly. Roasted venison that fell apart under her fork, potatoes creamy with butter, herb bread, spongy and still a little warm. She'd been too nervous to eat much that morning, and now her stomach reminded her of that fact.

Conversation flowed easily around the table. Work talk, mostly, how the cutting had gone this season, which sections of forest they'd move to next, and whether the snow would come early this year.

Then one of the men, Nell's husband, leaned back in his chair and grinned at Bucky.

"So, Barnes," he said, his tone light and teasing. "Married life treating you well? Got to say, with the shortage of women up here, I'd imagine you are making up for lost time."

Nell smacked his arm immediately. "Tom!"

"What?" He laughed, clearly unbothered. "I'm just saying-"

Bucky didn't miss a beat. "Seems to me you're spendin’ a lot of time thinkin’ about my bedroom, Johnson. Ain't you busy enough?"

Laughter erupted around the table, including from Tom himself, who raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Fair enough, fair enough," he said, grinning.

Nell smacked his arm again. "Serves you right." Then to her, "I apologize for my husband. He forgets his manners when he's had a drink."

"It's alright," she said, forcing a small smile.

But her stomach clenched. The comment had been good-natured, just the kind of ribbing newlyweds probably got all the time.

Of course, everyone would assume. Almost two months into marriage? They'd think it had been consummated the first night. That was what happened. That was expected.

Except it hadn't.

She reached for her water, taking a sip to cover the awkwardness she felt crawling over her skin. Bucky's hand found hers under the table, his fingers lacing through hers briefly -a quick, grounding squeeze- before he let go and reached for his fork.

----

After they'd eaten, Nell caught her eye and nodded toward the far side of the room where someone had set up a table with drinks.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get something to wash all that food down."

She followed Nell and Sarah through the crowd. The drink table had cider -the hard kind, judging by the smell- and a large bowl of punch that was clearly spiked with something stronger.

Nell ladled punch into three tin cups and handed them out.

She took a sip. Sweet, spiced, with a burn underneath that made her throat tighten. Stronger than she was used to, but not unpleasant.

"Good, isn't it?" Sarah said, taking a healthy drink from her own cup.

"It's... warming," she managed.

Nell laughed. "That's one word for it."

They settled into easy conversation. Nothing serious, just the kind of talk that filled time pleasantly. Sarah's complaints about her mother-in-law's opinions on everything. Nell's story about a fox that had gotten into their chicken coop last week. Her own observations about how different Montana was from back east.

At some point, she realized she was on her third cup.

The nervousness from earlier had faded, smoothed over by the punch or maybe just by the company. It was hard to say. They'd moved on to talking about the coming winter, how to pass the long days trapped inside when the snow made travel impossible.

"I swear, by February I'm ready to throw Tom out the door just to have some peace," Nell said, refilling her cup. "Love the man, but three months of him underfoot is a trial."

Sarah laughed. "At least you've got space to get away from him. Our cabin's so small I can hear him breathing from across the room."

"You'll have to get creative," Nell said, grinning. "Find ways to keep yourselves occupied."

The comment was pointed enough to make Sarah blush, and she hid a smile behind her cup. A commotion of short limbs and decorations interrupted them, and Nell sighed. "Excuse me. I need to separate my son from the Morrison boy before someone loses a tooth."

She handed her cup to Sarah and headed off into the crowd.

Sarah grinned. "Those two have been at it all afternoon."

"Boys," she said, shaking her head.

"Exactly."

They were in comfortable silence when a voice spoke from behind them.

"Mrs. Barnes. How lovely to see you."

She turned to find Mary Collins standing there, another woman beside her. Mary's smile was polite, perfectly pleasant, and somehow still felt like a trap.

"Mary," she said, nodding.

"I don't believe you've been properly introduced to Mrs. Crews," Mary said, gesturing to the woman beside her. "Her husband runs the apothecary. Martha, this is Mrs. Barnes, Bucky Barnes' wife."

Martha Crews was a neat, carefully put-together woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a measured smile. "A pleasure, Mrs. Barnes."

"Likewise," she said.

"I was just telling Martha earlier," Mary continued, her tone light and conversational, "how wonderful it is that you and Mr. Barnes found each other so quickly after you arrived. Such serendipitous timing, really. Most brides have months to prepare for marriage, but you managed beautifully with only… what was it? A day?"

The words were sweet. The smile was warm.

But the implication wasn’t.

Martha’s eyebrow arched slightly.

Sarah's eyes went wide, and she took a long drink from her cup, suddenly very interested in the bottom of it.

She felt heat crawl up her neck, but kept her voice steady. "Sometimes circumstances require quick decisions. I'm fortunate Mr. Barnes is a man of integrity."

"Oh, of course," Mary said, her smile never wavering. "No one's suggesting otherwise. It's just so... romantic, isn't it? Like something out of a novel."

Before she could formulate a response, Nell reappeared at her elbow, slightly out of breath from dealing with her son. She nodded at Mary and Martha in greeting.

"What did I miss?" she asked, her tone pleasant.

She managed a tight smile. "Mary was just telling me how wonderful she finds the serendipity of my marriage."

"Mm." Nell took a sip from her cup, her expression thoughtful. "Well, I suppose that's way better than a long courtship that looks proper on the surface but ends with a husband visiting the saloon on weeknights. And not just for the drinking, if you take my meaning." She glanced at Mary with perfect innocence. "Isn't that right, Mary?"

Mary's smile froze on her face, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

Martha Crews's lips twitched, whether in amusement or surprise, it was hard to say.

Sarah suddenly found something fascinating about the ceiling.

"Of course," Mary said after a beat, her voice clipped. "Every marriage has its... challenges."

"Indeed," Nell said mildly, refilling her cup from the punch bowl. "Though I'd say Mrs. Barnes here seems to be managing hers quite well. Wouldn't you agree?"

The question hung in the air, pointed and unavoidable.

Mary's smile remained fixed, but there was a coolness in her eyes now. "Naturally. I'm sure she and Mr. Barnes are very... happy."

"We are," she said quietly, finding her voice again. "Thank you for your concern."

"Well," Mary said, recovering her composure with visible effort. "I should check on my husband. Martha, shall we?"

Martha inclined her head politely. "Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. Johnson. Mrs. Calhoun."

They moved off into the crowd, and the moment they were out of earshot, Sarah let out a breath.

"Oh my God, Nell," she said, half-laughing, half-shocked. "You didn't."

"I did," Nell said calmly, taking another drink. "And I'd do it again. Woman's got no business throwing stones when she lives in a glass house."

She stared at Nell, something warm and grateful blooming in her chest. "Thank you."

Nell waved a hand dismissively. "Don't mention it. Mary Collins has needed to be taken down a peg for years. About time someone did it."

Sarah was still processing, shaking her head in disbelief. "I can't believe you said that."

"I can," Nell said mildly. "And I meant every word."

The punch in her cup was nearly gone. Its warmth had spread into her limbs, making everything feel pleasantly loose. But she could feel it now, the slight spin in her head when she turned too quickly.

Enough.

She excused herself and made her way back toward the tables where they'd eaten earlier. Someone had left a pitcher of water there, and she poured herself a cup, drinking it down quickly before pouring another.

She was halfway through her second cup when she felt a hand settle at the small of her back.

She didn't need to turn to know it was Bucky. She'd gotten used to the way he touched her, to the weight of his palm on her.

"You alright?" he asked quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"Yes," she said, glancing up at him. "Why?"

"Saw Mary talkin’ to you earlier," he said. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were watchful. "Didn't see your face, but I saw the others. Wanna to know if somethin’ happened."

She shook her head. "Nothing important."

It wasn't worth mentioning. Not when Nell had handled it so perfectly. And honestly, the whole thing had been more amusing than upsetting by the end. Besides, standing here with him now, with the alcohol making her bolder than usual, she found herself studying him instead of dwelling on Mary.

He really did look good. The shirt she'd altered fit him well, the suspenders framing his shoulders in a way that made her want to-

"Sweetheart, you have-" he started, clearly about to press the issue.

"You look very good," she said, cutting him off.

He blinked. "What?"

"You look good," she repeated, a small smile blooming at her lips. "Handsome."

For a moment, he just stared at her. Then, to her surprise, color crept up his neck.

He was blushing.

Bucky Barnes, who could pin her to a mattress and make her forget her own name, who touched her with absolute confidence in the dark, was blushing because she'd called him handsome in public.

"Where's that comin’ from?" he asked, his voice slightly rougher than usual.

She tilted her head, enjoying this more than she probably should. "Can't I tell my husband he's handsome?"

His jaw worked, and the flush deepened slightly. He looked almost... flustered.

It was fascinating.

In their cabin, in the dark or the early morning light, he was sure of himself. Knew exactly what to do, how to touch her, what to say to make her melt.

But here? With her initiating and complimenting him where others might overhear?

He didn't know what to do with it.

"You've been drinking," he said finally, though his hand hadn't moved from her back.

"A little," she admitted. "What, does that make my words less true?"

"No," he said, his voice quiet. "Just... unexpected."

She stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him properly. "Mm. Does the unexpected make you uncomfortable?"

His eyes darkened, and she heard him mutter under his breath, "Dammit, woman."

She laughed and watched the way his expression changed at the sound. Like he couldn't decide if he was frustrated or charmed.

He opened his mouth, clearly about to say something, when voices rose from across the room.

"Alright, folks! Let's clear some space here!"

"Someone's got a fiddle!"

"Move the tables back! Come on, make room!"

The hall erupted into motion as people began shifting tables and chairs toward the walls, clearing the center of the floor. Children darted between adults, excited at the prospect of music and dancing.

Bucky's hand stayed on her back, but his attention had shifted slightly, tracking the movement around them.

She looked up at him, still feeling that warm boldness from the punch. "Are you going to dance with me?"

His gaze snapped back to her, and for a moment, he looked genuinely caught off guard.

"You wanna dance?" he asked.

"Maybe," she said, smiling. "If you ask nicely."

She was enjoying this. Enjoying the way he seemed uncertain, the flush still visible on his neck, the way his hand had tightened slightly on her back.

"I've been watching you for a while," she added, the words spilling out before she could think better of them. "Did you know that?"

His expression schooled just a little.

"Have you now?" His voice had dropped lower, and the uncertain flush was fading, replaced by something far more dangerous.

"Mm-hm." She should probably stop talking. The punch was making her too honest. "You look very-"

His hand slid from her back to her waist, fingers splaying possessively over the corseted curve. The same way he'd touched her in the morning, testing her shape.

The words died in her throat.

"Very what?" he prompted, and there was no uncertainty in him now. Just focus. Intent.

She swallowed. "Distracting."

"Distractin’," he repeated, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice. He leaned in slightly, just enough that his next words were for her alone. "You've had enough punch to be honest, but not enough to forget this conversation tomorrow. Is that about right?"

Her face burned. Because yes. That was exactly right.

"I thought so." His thumb traced the edge of the boning through her dress. "Let me be clear: you can look all you want. I like it when you look."

Her breath caught.

"But if you keep sayin’ things like that where anyone can hear..." He paused, his eyes holding hers. "Well. We're gonna have a problem."

"What kind of problem?" The question came out before she could stop it.

His smile was slow, almost predatory. "The kind where I stop bein’ patient."

The air between them felt thick, charged. She was acutely aware of every point where his body almost touched hers, of the way his hand sat heavy and possessive on her waist.

Around them, people were still clearing space, laughing, calling out to each other. But it all felt distant, muffled.

"Have you ever done contradance?" he asked, and his voice was still that low, rough tone that made her stomach flip.

"I don't even know what that is," she admitted.

Back home, the dancing had been waltzes at formal gatherings, or polka in less refined settings. Had watched enough reunions to understand how things worked, but she'd never actually danced them. No one had ever asked her. No one had wanted to be seen partnered with the girl with devil's eyes, no matter how well she knew the choreographies.

This -whatever it was- sounded like something entirely different.

But with the punch warming her blood and Bucky's hand still steady at her back, she found she didn't care that she had no idea what she was doing.

She wanted to dance.

With him.

"But I'm sure I can learn," she added.

He leaned in then, just enough that his breath warmed her ear. His hand tightened on her waist, almost imperceptibly. "Well, I know how quick a learner you are," he murmured, and the way he said it made it clear he wasn't just talking about dancing anymore. “Just follow my lead," he added, his voice rough and low. "And try not to look at me like that in front of everyone."

She opened her mouth -to say what, she wasn't sure- but he was already moving, his hand sliding to the small of her back as he guided her toward the cleared space where couples were beginning to form lines.

Her heart was still racing, and it had nothing to do with the prospect of dancing.

Next Chapter

Bucky was waking up.

She kept her eyes closed for another moment, letting herself surface slowly. The cabin was still dark, just the faintest hint of gray light beginning to filter through the windows. Early. Too early.

But he had to leave for work.

She heard him take a deeper breath, felt him stretch slightly beside her, and knew he was awake now.

Time to get up.

She opened her eyes and carefully extracted herself from his arm -still draped loosely over her waist- and started to maneuver toward the edge of the bed.

She'd done this enough times now that it should have been routine. Swing one leg over, plant her knee carefully beside his hip, shift her weight, bring the other leg around-

His arms came up before she'd fully cleared him.

Sleepy. Unhurried. Wrapping around her waist and pulling her back down against his chest.

"Mornin’," he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep, his eyes still closed.

The word was barely intelligible, muffled against her shoulder.

She felt warmth flood through her. Not embarrassment, exactly, but something softer.

"Morning," she said quietly.

He held her there for just a moment longer, his arms loose around her, his breathing still slow and even like he might drift back to sleep if she let him.

Then he sighed and released her, his hands sliding away.

"Go on," he murmured. "Before I keep you here."

She climbed off the bed carefully, her bare feet hitting the cold floor, and turned back to look at him.

He still hadn't opened his eyes. Was lying there with one arm flung above his head, the quilt pooled around his waist, his chest bare in the dim pre-dawn light. She allowed herself to look for just a moment -at the shape of his body, relaxed and unguarded- before turning toward the stove to start the fire.

Behind her, she heard the bed’s wood creak as he sat up. Heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of him stretching, that low, satisfied groan he always made when his back cracked.

She focused on the kindling, on getting the fire started, very aware that she was still in her nightgown. It was starting to get light outside. That everything they'd done last night had happened almost in darkness, and now-

Now it was morning.

She could feel him looking at her.

Didn't need to turn around to know his eyes were on her. Could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing.

Heat crept up the back of her neck.

She didn't know how to act now. What the appropriate rules were. Did he expect her to behave differently? To be bolder, maybe? Or was she supposed to pretend nothing had happened until tonight, when the sun went down and…

She heard him stand -the soft pad of bare feet on the wooden floor- and then he was there. Right behind her.

Close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"You alright?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," she said, not turning around. "Just getting the fire started."

"Mm."

He didn't move away. Just stood there, close enough that if she leaned back even slightly, she'd be pressed against his chest.

She concentrated very hard on arranging the kindling just right.

Then she felt his hand -warm, calloused-brush against her lower back. Just a light touch, barely there, but deliberate.

Testing.

She went very still.

His hand settled more firmly at the small of her back, his palm warm through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

"Look at me," he said quietly.

She took a breath and turned.

He was right there, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Still in just his underwear, his hair mussed from sleep, the shadow of a beard already darkening his jaw.

And he was looking at her with an expression that was gentle but firm.

"We ain't gonna pretend last night didn't happen," he said.

"I wasn't-" she started.

"You're squirmin’," he said, and there was the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "You won't look at me. And you're actin’ like if you just focus hard enough on that fire, maybe I'll forget what you looked like with your hand wrapped around my-"

"Bucky!" she said quickly, her face flaming.

She couldn't believe he'd just said that. Out loud. In the plain light of morning.

The smile widened slightly. "See? That's what I'm talkin’ about."

She wanted to be annoyed with him. Wanted to tell him he was being inappropriate, that it was too early for this, that she needed coffee before she could handle whatever this conversation was going to be.

But she couldn't quite manage it. Not when he was looking at her like that. Not when his hand was still resting warm and steady against her back.

"I ain't ashamed of what we did," he said, his voice softer now. "And you shouldn't be either."

"I'm not ashamed," she said quietly. "I'm just... adjusting."

"To what?"

"To this. To-" She gestured vaguely between them. "Everything being different now."

He studied her face for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"Alright," he said. "You can adjust. But you ain't gonna pull away from me while you do it. Understand?"

She nodded.

"Say it."

"I understand."

"Good." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead -brief, affectionate-then stepped back. "Now finish with that fire so I can have some coffee before I leave."

----

By the time he'd finished dressing -work pants, shirt, suspenders back in place- she'd already set breakfast on the table. Biscuits left over from yesterday, warmed on the stove. Coffee, strong and hot. A bit of the bacon from the butcher, fried up quickly.

Simple, but more than he used to have before her.

They sat down across from each other, and she watched him take that first long drink of coffee with the same satisfaction he always showed. Like it was the best thing he'd tasted.

"I might see Larson today," he said, tearing off a piece of biscuit. "At the camp. He works intermittently, a few days loggin', a few days in his workshop doin' carpentry. If he's there, I'm gonna ask him to come by on Sunday."

She looked up. "Sunday?"

"For the kitchen," he said. "To take measurements, figure out what we need. Of all the things we talked about doin’ to the place, that seems the most urgent. You're in there every day, workin’ with basically nothin’."

She glanced toward the makeshift kitchen area: the rough shelves, the basin sitting on the counter -a large plank, really- the pantry that was just open shelving with no doors.

"What would you want?" he asked. "If you could have it set up however makes sense to you?"

She hesitated, hating how hard it still was to ask for things. Even practical things. Even from him, who'd never once made her feel foolish for needing something. But a lifetime of being told she was a burden didn't just disappear because she had a husband now. She made herself speak, "A cupboard. For dishes and cups. And… if we make a pantry, it would need doors. Some things do better in the dark, and it would keep the dust out."

He nodded. "Makes sense. What else?"

----

"A… proper work surface," she said. "Something I can use for rolling dough or cutting vegetables without everything crowding together."

"Alright."

She stopped there, and he could see her holding back.

"That's not everythin’," he said. "What else?"

"That's the most important," she said quickly.

"Didn't ask for the most important. I asked what else you need."

She looked down at her plate. "I don't want to... I know it's expensive, and-"

"Stop," he said gently but firmly. "This is about makin’ the kitchen work properly. Not some fancy whim. So tell me."

She took a breath. "Hooks. For pots and pans. And a shelf near the stove for things I use often."

"Done. What else?"

She bit her lip. "The basin is small. A larger one would really help, but-"

"But what?"

"There's no plumbing," she said. "So even with a bigger basin, I'd still have to carry the water out to empty it."

"Not necessarily," he said. "I saw somethin’ in town, a drainage pipe that runs through the wall. Empties outside into a gravel pit. Ain’t fancy, but it works."

Her eyes widened slightly. "That's... that would make things much easier."

"Then that's what we'll do." He took another drink of coffee. "Anythin’ else?"

She shook her head. "That's more than enough."

"Alright then." He finished the last of his biscuit. "So Sunday. Larson comes, takes measurements, and we tell him what you need.

She nodded, and he could see the mix of emotions on her face. Gratitude, excitement, and still that lingering guilt about asking for things.

She still didn't understand that she wasn't asking for charity. That making the kitchen functional wasn't some extravagance, it was basic sense. If she was going to be cooking every day or making preserves, she needed proper tools to do that. But she looked at every request like it might be the one that pushed him too far, made him regret taking her on.

He'd work on that.

----

He stood when he finished, draining the last of his coffee and setting the cup down.

"I should get goin’," he said, moving toward where his coat hung by the door.

She stood as well, crossing to the counter where she'd left his lunch pail ready. Her hand closed around the handle, and she turned to bring it to him, but his hand covered hers on the handle before she could lift it.

"So dutiful," he murmured close to her ear, and there was warmth in his voice. Affection mixed with something else.

Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to the spot just behind her ear.

The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a shiver down her spine.

She turned toward him instinctively -or maybe he turned her, his free hand coming to rest at her waist- and when she looked up to meet his eyes, his mouth was already descending on hers.

Not tentative, or asking permission.

His hand at her waist tightened, pulling her closer, and she felt the solid warmth of his body against hers. Felt the way he touched her differently now -more freely, more confidently- because there was almost nothing between them.

Just the thin cotton of her nightgown. No corset, no layers of propriety.

And he knew it. Could feel it in the way his hand moved over her, possessive and sure. Like the thin cotton was permission instead of a barrier. Like morning light didn't change what he'd claimed in the darkness.

His other hand left the lunch pail handle -she heard it thud softly as it hit the counter- and came up to cup the back of her head, angling her exactly as he wanted her.

The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that was already becoming familiar. Already something her body recognized and responded to.

Then she felt his hand slide from her waist lower -past her hip, past any pretense of propriety- and close firmly over her rear.

The shock of it made her gasp against his mouth.

Not because it hurt. Not because she wanted him to stop.

Because it was so direct. So possessive. His palm cupping her through the thin fabric, his fingers gripping her flesh as he pulled her flush against him.

She could feel him -hard against her stomach even through his work pants- and the knowledge of what that meant made heat flood through her. His hand on her bottom flexed, holding her in place against him, and she felt that same desperate wanting from last night start to build low in her belly.

Then, reluctantly, he pulled back.

Not far. Just enough to break the kiss, his temple brushed against hers while they both caught their breath.

"I really do have to go," he said, his voice rough.

"I know," she managed.

His hand on her rear flexed once more -a final possessive squeeze- then released. He stepped back, putting proper distance between them, and reached for the lunch pail.

"I'll be back after dark," he said, settling his coat over his shoulders. "Don't wait up if you're tired."

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

He looked at her for another moment -standing there in her nightgown, her lips swollen from his kiss, her hair still loose from sleep- and something hungry flickered across his face before he forced himself to look away.

Then he turned and walked out the door.

----

Sunday morning came, and she was nervous.

He'd noticed it the moment he'd woken up, the way she'd been quieter than usual over breakfast, the way her hands had moved restlessly while she tidied the cabin even though it was already spotless.

Now she was smoothing down her apron for the third time in as many minutes, her eyes flicking toward the door like Larson might burst through it at any second.

He crossed to her and caught her hand mid-smooth.

"Hey," he said quietly. "It's just Larson. He's seen worse than a logger’s cabin."

"I know," she said, but her voice was tight.

He studied her face. "You worried about your eyes? About what he'll think?"

She blinked, seeming surprised by the question. "What? No, I-"

She stopped, took a breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was different. Lower.

"I need to ask you something. And I know we just talked about the kitchen, and that's already so much, but-"

"What is it?"

She gestured toward her trunk in the corner. "My books. They're still in my carpetbag. I've been keeping them there because I don't have anywhere else to put them, but they're going to get damaged if they stay like that. The fabric doesn't protect them properly and-"

She stopped, clearly struggling, and he could see it, the way she was trying to make herself smaller.

"I was wondering if... if it wouldn't be too much trouble... maybe a shelf? Or even just a board with some supports? Somewhere I could set them so they're not-"

"Christ," he muttered, cutting her off.

The word came out harsher than he'd meant. He watched her flinch and felt like an ass immediately. She thought he was annoyed at her -at the request- when the truth was he was pissed at himself for not noticing sooner.

"No, I-," he said quickly. "I ain't... I'm cursin' myself, not you." He ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't even think about your books. You've had them stuffed in a bag this whole time and didn't say anythin'."

Books weren't cheap. He knew that much. And hers weren't just any books; they were teaching books, the tools of a trade she'd trained for. The things that proved she was educated. Worth something beyond what her eyes might suggest to small-minded folks.

And she'd been keeping them in a goddamn carpetbag because she didn't think she could ask for a shelf.

"I didn't want to be-"

"Don't." He caught her chin gently, making her look at him. "Don't say you don't wanna be a burden. Your books are important to you. And you should have told me weeks ago."

How many other things was she not telling him? How many needs was she swallowing down because she'd spent her whole life being told she was already taking up too much space?

"I'm telling you now," she said quietly.

"Yeah, you are." He released her chin and stepped back. "And yes, we're gettin’ you a shelf. A proper one. Not just a board."

A smile bloomed on her lips. "Thank you."

And there it was again, that look like he'd just given her the moon instead of agreeing to basic furniture. It made something twist in his chest. Made him want to find his bastard of a brother -again- and have a very direct conversation with him about making her feel like she had to earn the right to take up space.

"Stop thankin’ me for basic things," he mumbled, but there was no heat in it.

A knock at the door made them both turn.

Right. Larson.

Bucky crossed to the door and opened it.

The man standing on the porch was in his late forties, solid build, with the kind of hands that spoke of years working with wood. He had his hat in his hands and a leather satchel slung over one shoulder.

"Morning, Barnes," he said, nodding.

"Larson. Thanks for comin’ out." Bucky stepped aside. "Come in."

The carpenter entered, his eyes doing a quick sweep of the cabin -professional assessment, not judgment- before landing on her.

Bucky saw the moment Larson registered her eyes. The brief pause, the slight widening of his gaze. But to the man's credit, his expression smoothed out immediately and he just nodded politely.

"Ma'am," he said. "Pleasure to meet you."

She dipped her head in a small curtsy, her hands clasped in front of her. "Mr. Larson."

"Larson, this is my wife," Bucky said. "Sweetheart, this is Joseph Larson. Best carpenter in White Creek."

"One of the few carpenters in White Creek," Larson corrected with a slight smile. He set his hat on the table and swung the satchel off his shoulder. "So, Barnes. You mentioned needing work done on the kitchen?"

"Yeah." Bucky gestured toward the makeshift kitchen area. "The whole setup needs to be redone. Proper storage, work surface, the works."

Larson pulled out a measuring tape, a stubby pencil, and a small notebook from his satchel. He moved to the kitchen area and started looking around, taking in the rough shelves, the old basin, and the ‘pantry’.

"Alright," he said, flipping open the notebook. "Let's start with what you need. Storage first, cupboard for dishes?"

"Yes," Bucky said. "And the new pantry needs doors. Keeps things dark, keeps the dust out."

Larson made a note. "Solid doors or with some ventilation?"

Bucky looked at her, and she stepped forward hesitantly.

"Solid would be better," she said quietly. "For flour and sugar. And potatoes and onions last longer in the dark."

Larson nodded, writing that down. "Makes sense. Shelves inside?"

"Yes, please. Adjustable if possible."

"Can do." He moved to measure the pantry opening, then paused and looked at her. "What height works best for you, Mrs. Barnes? For the shelves and the work surface?"

She blinked, clearly not expecting to be asked directly.

Of course she wasn't expecting it. She'd probably never been asked what she wanted for anything, just told what was standard and expected to make do. Bucky watched her process the question, saw the moment she realized Larson actually wanted her input.

"I... What is the standard?"

"Standard doesn't matter if it doesn't work for you," Larson said pragmatically. "Come here, stand where you'd be working."

She moved to where the old plank sat propped on barrels, and Larson held his hand at different heights until she indicated what felt comfortable.

"About here," he said, making a mark in his notebook. "Good."

Bucky watched her relax slightly as Larson continued asking her practical questions, where she wanted the hooks for pots, how much shelf space she needed near the stove, and whether she preferred drawers or open shelving in certain spots.

The man was treating her like any other client. Professional. Respectful. Not staring, not pitying.

Good.

"And the counter," Bucky said after a few minutes. "We need somethin’ bigger than what's there now. A proper work surface."

Larson walked over to the plank-and-crate setup and looked at it for a long moment. Then he turned to Bucky with his eyebrows raised.

"Barnes," he said slowly. "This isn't a counter. This is a board sitting on two barrels."

Bucky felt heat creep up his neck.

Damn it. He knew how it looked, he wasn't an idiot. But he'd been making do with what he had, and a plank on barrels functioned as a counter.

Function had been good enough. Until it wasn't. Until she'd arrived and he'd seen how inadequate everything was for her to live there.

"I know that. I'm not that much of a backwoods fool. It's just... that's what I call it. The thing. Can you build a proper counter there or not?"

He heard the defensiveness in his own voice and tried to rein it in. The man wasn't judging, just stating facts. And the fact was, Bucky's setup was pathetic. He'd known it every time he watched her trying to make do with barely functional furniture and supplies that should've been replaced a long time ago.

The corner of Larson's mouth twitched. "Yeah, I can build a proper counter. With drawers underneath, a level surface, and an appropriate height. An actual counter."

"Good."

Larson measured the space and made more notes. "Pine or hardwood for the work surface? Pine's cheaper but won't hold up as well to cutting and heavy use. Maple or oak costs more but lasts."

Bucky looked at her again.

"Hardwood," she said, more confidently now. "If it's not too expensive. I'd rather have something that lasts."

"Hardwood it is," Larson said, writing it down. He moved to the wall. "And for the sink drainage… you want the pipe going through this wall here? Shortest run to the outside."

"That works," Bucky said.

"I'll need to cut through. Frame it properly so you don't get drafts."

"Fine."

Larson continued measuring, sketching rough diagrams in his notebook, and asking questions. After about twenty minutes, he stepped back and looked over his notes.

"Alright," he said. "Cupboard with doors, pantry with solid doors and adjustable shelves, proper counter with drawers, hooks for pots and pans, shelf by the stove, larger sink with drainage. "Should take me two to three weeks in the workshop, depending on how the joinery goes. Maybe less if my boy helps with the rough work."

"How much?" Bucky asked.

The carpenter did some quick calculations. "Materials and labor... forty-five dollars. That's with the hardwood counter."

Bucky nodded. It was fair. More than fair, actually, given the amount of work involved.

"Done," he said. "When can you start?"

"I'll order the wood tomorrow, and should have it by Wednesday. Start building Thursday." Larson closed his notebook and put it back in his satchel. "I'll send word when I'm ready to install."

"Appreciated."

Bucky paused, thinking.

The books. She'd asked for a shelf, but that wasn't enough. A shelf meant stacking them like firewood, pulling them out whenever she wanted to read. She deserved more than that.

"The things you've got finished in the workshop… you have any small tables that might work against that wall?"

He gestured toward the space between the window and the door.

Larson tilted his head, considering. "What kind of table? Side table, work table?"

Bucky glanced at her for a moment, then back at Larson. "Somethin’ she could use for... writin’ if she wants. Letters, or to set books on for readin’."

He felt her gaze snap to him, surprised, but kept his attention on the carpenter.

"The kitchen table tends to be clean, but there's always residue," he continued, trying to explain it in a way that made sense. "Grease, flour dust. I'd like somethin’ where she can set papers down without worryin’ if I left a mess. Somethin’ for her things."

She needed a space that was hers. Not the kitchen, where she worked. Not the bed, where they- where other things happened. Somewhere she could just be. Read her books, write letters if she wanted, exist without having to be useful or accommodating or anything other than herself.

"A writing desk, then," Larson said, nodding slowly. "Or close to it."

"Yeah. That."

Larson scratched his jaw. "I've got a small table. Walnut, actually. Nice piece. Fellow ordered it for his parlor but changed his mind halfway through, wanted something fancier. It's simple but well-made. Drawer in the front, smooth top. About this high." He held his hand at roughly waist height.

"That work?" Bucky asked, turning to look at her directly now.

She nodded, her eyes still wide with surprise. "Yes. That sounds perfect."

Good. He'd guessed right, then. The walnut would be nicer than pine, more substantial. And if some fancy townsman had changed his mind about it, that meant Bucky could get a quality piece for less than it was worth.

Win all around.

"It's already finished, just needs a polish," Larson said. "I can bring it when I come to install the kitchen."

"Good. Add it to the total."

"Will do." Larson made another note in his book, picked up his hat, and settled it on his head. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

"Almost forgot," he said, his voice carefully casual. "Picked this up in town for you as you asked."

He handed it out to Bucky.

Finally. He had started to think it might not come in at all, that he'd have to think of something else. He took it, feeling the small weight of it through the fabric. "Thanks. I owe you."

"Don't mention it." Larson tipped his hat to her. "Mrs. Barnes. Pleasure meeting you."

"You too, Mr. Larson," she said quietly.

"Barnes." He nodded to Bucky and headed for the door.

----

A writing desk. Just for her.

It hadn't even occurred to her to ask for something like that, wouldn't have dreamed of it, honestly. She was fine with the shelf. A simple thing where her books could sit upright instead of crammed in her carpetbag.

But a table. A place where she could write letters or read without worrying about stains getting on the pages. A space that was hers.

She felt her chest warm. He'd thought of it. Not because she'd asked, but because he'd noticed she might need it.

The door shut, and she turned and crossed to him without thinking, her arms going around his waist before he'd even fully turned around.

"Thank you," she said against his chest, her voice muffled by his shirt.

She felt him go still for a moment -surprised, maybe- then his hands came up to rest on her back.

"For what?" he asked, though his tone suggested he knew.

"The desk." She pulled back just enough to look up at him. "It's something I'd thought about. But much further down the line, not now when everything is..."

She gestured vaguely at the cabin around them, the kitchen exploded across half the space, the enormous curtain dividing the bed from the rest of the living area.

"Not now," she finished quietly.

His hands stayed on her back, steady and warm.

"You deserve it now," he said simply. "Not later."

After a pause, he cleared his throat and slid one hand from her back down to her waist while the other reached into his coat pocket.

When he pulled it out, he was holding the small bundle wrapped in cloth.

He unwrapped it clumsily but carefully, the fabric falling away to reveal a ring. Simple silver band with a subtle braided pattern running around the edges.

"I… asked Larson to pick it up in town," he said, and there was an edge of self-consciousness on him. Like he wasn't entirely sure how this was supposed to go. "Ordered that day, we went to town together, and took a few weeks to come in."

She stared at the ring, her throat tight.

She'd assumed there wouldn't be one. Or if there was, it would be something makeshift, a piece of wire bent into shape, maybe. Plenty of frontier marriages made do without.

But he'd ordered one. Had it been brought in specially.

"I know it ain’t much," he said, still not quite meeting her eyes. "But-"

She looked up at him, and whatever he saw in her expression made him pause.

"It's perfect," she managed.

He exhaled, something like relief crossing his face. Then he reached for her left hand -still pressed against his back- and held it carefully.

His fingers were rough, callused from years of work, but his touch was gentle as he slid the ring onto her finger.

It fit. Not perfectly, but close enough that it wouldn't slip off easily.

She stared down at it, the silver catching the light from the window. Such a small thing. But it changed everything, somehow. Made it feel real in a way the words in front of the reverend hadn't quite managed.

"Good?" he asked quietly, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

His hand tightened around hers for just a moment -a brief squeeze- before he let go.

She bit her lip, then caught his hand again before he could pull it away completely.

He looked at her, a question in his eyes.

"I know this wasn't..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "I know the circumstances weren't what either of us would have chosen. But I'm glad it was you."

His expression shifted, something softer than usual, almost tender, before he looked away.

"You didn't have to offer," she continued, her thumb brushing over his knuckles the way he had brushed over hers a moment ago. "You could have let the sheriff sort it out, or- or just walked away. But you didn't. You took responsibility when you didn't have to."

"Wasn't gonna leave you to deal with that alone," he said quietly.

"I know." She took a breath. "And everything you promised me that day, before we married, that you'd treat me well, that you wouldn't use... this-" she gestured vaguely between them, meaning the marriage, the power imbalance, all of it, "to make my life miserable. You've kept your word. You treat me well. I feel safe with you. I just wanted you to know that," she finished softly. "That I'm grateful. And that I think, despite how it all happened, I'm fortunate it's you I'm married to."

For a moment, he didn't say anything, just looked at her. His jaw clenched, and his hand flexed around hers. Small movements, but she'd learned to read them. He was affected, even if he was trying not to show it.

Then he lifted his other hand and cupped the side of her face, brushing his thumb along her cheek.

"I'm grateful it's you, sweet girl," he said quietly, his voice a little rougher than usual. "That it's you I get to come home to."

Something warm and overwhelming bloomed in her chest at the tenderness in his voice, the way he was looking at her.

Then he leaned down and kissed her, slow and deliberate, his hand still cradling her face like she was something precious.

----

He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against hers, breathing her in. The faint scent of soap and woodsmoke clung to her hair. The warmth of her skin under his palm.

I feel safe with you.

Those words had hit harder than he'd expected.

He'd seen the uneasiness in her eyes that first day at the lumber post, standing there with her trunk and carpetbag, realizing she'd been brought to the wrong -or right- place entirely. Had seen the way she'd braced herself when he'd offered marriage, like she was expecting conditions. Expectations she'd have to meet or else.

And now she felt safe.

With him.

It wasn't something he'd thought about before, what it meant for someone to feel that way around him. He'd always just been... himself. Did his work, kept his word, and didn't cause trouble unless they came looking for him first.

But hearing her say it…

He'd married her because it was the right thing to do. Because leaving her to face the consequences of something that wasn't her fault would've been wrong.

And that was true.

But he'd be lying to himself if he said that was the only reason.

They'd put up that sign -him and the other men- because they'd wanted wives. He'd wanted a wife. Someone to build a life with out here.

And when she'd knocked on that battered door, when she'd looked at him with those mismatched eyes and tried to make sense of where she'd ended up-

He'd known.

Not in some romantic, lightning-strike way. Just... known. The way a man knows when a trail is safe to walk. A certainty in his gut.

The right thing to do had just made it easier to do what he'd wanted anyway.

Standing here now, with her hand still holding his and the ring he'd chosen on her finger -hearing her say she was grateful, that she felt fortunate-

He wanted to be the kind of husband she deserved.

Next Chapter

She turned when she heard the door, and for a moment they just looked at each other.

Except she didn't quite look at him. Her eyes met his for barely a second before sliding away, focusing somewhere past his shoulder.

"You're late," she said quietly. "I was starting to worry."

Her voice was steady enough, but there was something in the way she held herself, shoulders slightly drawn in, hand gripping the wooden spoon a little too tightly.

"Miller wanted to finish the section we were workin’ on," he said, setting down his lunch pail on the table. The same pail she'd walked all that way to bring him. "Took longer than expected."

She nodded, still not looking at him directly, and turned back to the stove. "Dinner's almost ready. I made stew."

She was focused intently on stirring the pot, like it required her complete concentration. Like she couldn't risk looking at him while she did it.

Shit.

So he did scare her.

Or made her uncomfortable enough that she couldn't even meet his eyes anymore.

He stood there for a moment, watching the way she kept her face carefully angled away from him.

"I should wash up," he said finally, his voice coming out rougher than he intended.

"There's water in the basin."

He moved to the counter, rolling up his sleeves, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to say.

----

They ate in silence.

She'd set the table the way she always did, plates, spoons, bread wrapped in cloth. But she kept her eyes down, focused on her bowl, eating with small movements.

Every time he looked at her, she found something else to focus on. The bread. Her spoon. The grain of the wood table.

Anywhere but him.

He made it halfway through his stew before he couldn't take it anymore.

"We need to talk," he said.

Her spoon paused halfway to her mouth. She set it down carefully, still not looking up.

"About what happened today," he continued. "At the camp."

She nodded once, a tiny jerk of her chin, but didn't say anything.

He took a breath.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For the way I... for how I handled things. I shouldn't have-" He stopped, trying to find the right words. "You came all that way to bring me lunch, and I repaid that by draggin’ you behind a tree and-"

"You didn't drag me," she said quietly, still looking at her bowl.

"I was rough with you. Demandin’. And anyone could have seen us, and I-" He ran a hand through his hair. "You deserved better than that."

She was quiet for a moment. Then, so quietly he almost missed it: "I didn't mind."

He stared at her.

"What?"

"I didn't mind," she repeated, barely above a whisper. "What you did. How you-" She stopped, her hands twisting together in her lap.

"Then why you ain’t lookin’ at me?"

The question hung in the air between them.

She pressed her lips together, and he watched her throat work as she swallowed.

"I don't know how to," she said finally, her voice small.

"How to what?"

"How to... act. Around you. Now." Her hands twisted tighter in her lap. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do, or say, or-"

She stopped, and he saw her chest rise and fall with a shaky breath.

"I've never..." She trailed off again, clearly struggling. "This morning, you kissed me. And touched me. And I don't know- what happens now. What you expect from me."

Understanding hit him like a fist to the chest.

She wasn't scared of him.

She was embarrassed. Uncertain. Completely out of her depth and trying to navigate something she had no framework for.

Of course she was.

He exhaled slowly and set down his spoon.

"Look at me," he said quietly. "Please."

She hesitated, then slowly -so slowly- lifted her eyes to meet his.

The vulnerability in her expression made something in his chest ache.

"What I expect from you," he said carefully, "is nothin’ you ain’t ready to give. Understand?"

She blinked, clearly trying to process that.

"But you said-" She stopped, fumbling again. "You said you were done pretending you didn't want..."

"What's mine," he finished. "Yeah. I did say that."

He leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice gentle.

"And I meant it. I want you. I ain’t goin’ to lie about that or pretend otherwise." He paused. "But wantin’ somethin’ and takin’ it are two different things. I ain’t goin’ to push you."

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his face like she was trying to understand something.

"But… what if I don't know?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if I don't know what I want because I don't understand what any of this is?"

He took a long drink of water, draining half the cup, his eyes on her the entire time. When he set it down, his voice was steady.

"Did you like it?" he asked. "What happened today?"

Her face flamed instantly, but she didn't look away this time.

"Yes," she said quietly.

No hesitation. No deflection. Just honest admission, even though he could see how much it cost her to say it out loud.

Something warm settled in his chest.

"Do you wanna do it again?"

Her breath caught. For a moment she just stared at him, and he could see her working through it: the embarrassment warring with something else. Want, maybe. Curiosity.

"Yes," she whispered.

He pushed his chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the floor.

"Then come here, sweet girl."

----

She stood slowly, her legs unsteady, and crossed the small distance to where he sat.

Sweet girl.

The endearment made her feel foolish. Childish. She wasn't a girl. She was twenty-six years old, married, and by all rights should have had years of experience with this sort of thing by now.

Other women her age had husbands they'd been with for years. Had children. Knew what happened between a man and woman in the dark, knew how to navigate this territory without feeling like they were stumbling blind through unfamiliar woods.

But here she was, being called sweet girl and feeling like it fit because she didn't know anything. Didn't know what to do with her hands or where to look or how to-

His hand caught hers when she got close enough, his fingers warm and calloused against her palm.

"Sit," he said gently, guiding her.

She let him position her, settling sideways across his lap with her legs draped over his thigh, her hip pressed against his stomach. One of his arms came around her waist to steady her, and suddenly she was surrounded by him: his warmth, his scent, the solid strength of his body supporting her weight.

"Comfortable?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

His free hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone the same way he had this afternoon.

"We're gonna take this slow," he said. "And if you want to stop, you tell me. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Then he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers.

Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the intensity of this afternoon, but somehow just as overwhelming.

She felt the tip of his tongue trace along her lower lip -a question, a request- and this time she knew what to do.

She opened her mouth.

The sound he made -low and approving- sent heat flooding through her body. His tongue swept inside, and she remembered what he'd shown her earlier. How to respond, how to let her own tongue meet his.

It was easier this time. Less overwhelming now that she knew what to expect. She could focus on the details: the taste of him, the warmth of his mouth, the way he angled her head slightly to deepen the kiss.

His hand at her waist tightened, pulling her closer, and she felt herself shifting on his lap without thinking about it. Turning toward him more fully, her hand came up to rest against his chest.

She could feel his heart beating under her palm. Fast. As fast as her own.

The kiss grew deeper, more intense. His tongue stroked against hers with a rhythm that made something low in her belly clench and pulse the same way it had this afternoon.

She made a small sound -couldn't help it- and felt him respond immediately. His arm tightened around her waist, his other hand sliding from her face down to the back of her neck, fingers fisting in the hair at the base of her braid.

And then, without really meaning to, she shifted again.

It started as just wanting to be closer, to angle herself better into the kiss. Her body moved before her mind could catch up: one knee lifting, seeking better balance, and then the other following.

Her skirts bunched and caught between them as she moved, layers of fabric twisting awkwardly. She felt his hands come down to her hips -steadying her, guiding her- and then he was smoothing the fabric aside with sure movements, making space.

When she finally settled fully onto his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips completely, her skirts pooling around them both, his whole body went rigid beneath her.

----

Christ.

She'd done it without thinking, he could tell. Some instinct driving her to get closer, to find a better angle. She probably didn't even realize what the position meant, what it implied.

Didn't realize that now he could feel the heat of her even through all the layers of fabric between them. That with one small shift of his hips he could press up against her in a way that would-

No.

Slow. They were taking this slow.

But his hands had already moved to her waist, gripping firmly, and he had to force himself not to pull her down harder against him.

"Sweetheart," he said, his voice coming out strained. "You know what you just did?"

She pulled back from the kiss, her eyes unfocused and hazy. "Hm?"

He looked down meaningfully at how she was positioned and watched her follow his gaze.

Understanding dawned slowly. Her eyes widened.

"Oh," she breathed. "I didn't- should I move? I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking-"

"Don't." The word came out rougher than he intended. His hands tightened at her waist, holding her in place. "Don't apologize. And don't move unless you wanna."

She stared at him, clearly trying to figure out what he meant.

"Is this... proper?" she asked uncertainly.

A low laugh escaped his lips before he could stop it. "No. Not even a little."

"Oh."

But she didn't move. Just sat there straddling his lap, her hands resting uncertainly on his shoulders, her face flushed.

"Does it bother you?" he asked quietly. "Sittin’ like this?"

She considered the question seriously, and he watched her think through it. Felt her shift slightly, experimentally, testing the position.

The movement sent a jolt straight to his groin.

"No," she said finally. "It doesn't bother me."

"Good." His hands flexed at her waist. "Because I like havin’ you here."

He pulled her back into the kiss, and this time, there was less restraint in it.

His mouth moved over hers with more intensity, more demand, and she responded eagerly, her fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt.

One of his hands slid up from her waist to the back of her neck, fisting her braid, angling her head exactly where he wanted it. The other-

The other moved down.

Over the curve of her hip. Lower. Until his palm was cupping her rear through all the layers of skirt and petticoat, gripping firmly.

And then he pulled her forward, pressing her hips down against his.

She felt it immediately. The hard length beneath her, unmistakable even through all the fabric. Her whole body went tense with surprise.

He must have felt it because she felt him start to pull back, his hand beginning to loosen-

But before he could, before he could break the kiss or move his hand away, her body responded.

Instinct. Pure instinct.

Her hips rocked forward slightly, pressing down against that hardness, and sensation shot through her so intensely that it made her gasp against his mouth.

His grip on her tightened immediately. Both hands now, the one still in her hair, the other on her backside, holding her exactly where she was.

"Fuck," he breathed against her lips. "Do that again."

She didn't fully register what she'd done. But she understood the rough need in his voice, the way his whole body had gone tense beneath her.

So she did it again.

Rolled her hips forward, pressing down against him, and felt his whole body shudder.

The sound he made -low and broken- went straight through her. His hand on her backside tightened almost to the point of pain, guiding her movement, encouraging it.

"That's it," he muttered, his lips brushing against hers. "Just like that, darlin’."

She didn't understand what was happening to her body.

Every time she moved -every time her hips rocked forward against that hard ridge beneath her- sensation sparked through her lower body. Heat and pressure and something that made her want to press closer, move faster, chase whatever this feeling was building toward.

It was almost too much. The intensity of it, the strangeness. But she couldn't stop.

His hand was guiding her now, helping her find a rhythm, and she followed it without thinking. Rocking against him in small, deliberate movements that made her breath come faster, made heat pool low in her belly.

She could feel herself getting warmer. Could feel dampness gathering between her legs in a way that should have embarrassed her, but somehow didn't. Not when he was making those rough, broken sounds that told her he was feeling something too.

His mouth left hers, trailing down to her jaw, her neck. She felt the scrape of his teeth against sensitive skin and gasped.

"Bucky-"

"I know," he muttered against her throat. "I know, sweetheart."

But she didn't think he knew. Didn't think he understood that she felt like she was coming apart, like something was building inside her that she didn't have a name for.

Her movements became less controlled. More desperate. Chasing something she didn't understand but needed anyway.

And then his hand -the one that wasn't on her rear- moved.

Slid from her neck down over her shoulder, down further until it curved around her side. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast through her dress, and then his hand cupped it fully.

Even through the dress and chemise, she could feel the heat of his hand. The gentle pressure. The way his fingers flexed and squeezed experimentally.

No one had ever touched her there. No one. Not even herself, really, she'd been taught that such places were shameful, that touching them was sinful outside of the necessities of bathing and dressing.

But this didn't feel shameful.

It felt-

She made a sound she'd never heard herself make before. Helpless and needy and completely beyond her control.

His thumb found her nipple through the fabric and circled it deliberately.

The sensation was so intense it bordered on painful. She buried her face against his neck and her hips started moving again, faster now, more desperate.

----

He could feel her nipple harden under his touch, through the clothing. Could feel the way her whole body responded when he circled it with his thumb, the way she pressed her breast more firmly into his palm like she was asking for more pressure.

Christ, she was responsive.

And she had no idea. No idea what she was doing to him, how close he was to losing control.

She was grinding against him now, and he couldn't just sit there and take it. His hips lifted to meet hers, pressing up against her in a rhythm that matched her own. The friction was maddening, even through all the fabric, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from staining his underthings.

Every time she rocked forward, he thrust up. Creating pressure, friction, giving her something solid to grind against.

"Feels good, darlin’," he muttered against her neck. "Just- just like that, sweetheart."

She whimpered and kept chasing the sensation, and he matched her pace. His hand on her backside guided her, pulling her down harder against him with each movement. His other hand still worked her breast, thumb circling that peaked nipple in time with the roll of their hips.

The dual sensation -his hand on her breast, the pressure between her legs as she rocked against him while he thrust up to meet her- was clearly overwhelming her.

Her breath came in short gasps, her movements losing their rhythm as desperation took over.

He was going to lose his goddamn mind.

She had no idea what she was chasing. No idea that her body was building toward something, that all this friction and heat and pressure had a destination.

But he knew.

And Christ, he wanted to get her there. Wanted to feel her come apart in his arms, wanted to see what she looked like when she finally understood what her body was capable of.

But not dry-humping him through her skirts like some desperate girl hidden in a barn.

"Slow down," he said, his voice strained, even as his own hips continued to move beneath her. "Sweetheart, slow down."

"I can't-" Her voice was desperate, breathless. "Something's-"

"I know." He forced his hips to still, forced his hand on her rear to gentle its grip, trying to slow her movements even though every instinct was screaming at him to let her keep going. "I know what you're feelin’. But you need to slow down for me."

She made a frustrated sound but tried to obey, her movements becoming less frantic even though he could feel the tension thrumming through her entire body.

"That's it," he murmured. "Just like that. Slow and steady."

He guided her hips into a slower rhythm, more deliberate, and watched her face as she adjusted to it. Her eyes were closed, swollen lips parted.

Beautiful.

She was fucking beautiful like this.

"Bucky," she breathed. "I need-"

"I know what you need," he said quietly. "And I'm gonna give it to you. But not like this."

Her eyes opened, confused and hazy. "What?"

He shifted beneath her, his hands moving to her waist to still her completely.

"Stand up for me, darlin’."

She looked at him, dazed and confused, but let him guide her off his lap. Her legs were unsteady when her feet hit the floor, and he had to keep his hands at her waist to keep her from swaying.

He stood with her, his own body protesting the movement, protesting the loss of contact.

But he ignored it and took her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

"Come on," he said quietly, and started walking toward the bed.

She followed without question, her hand gripping his tightly, and he could feel the tremor running through her. Anticipation. Nervousness. Need.

When they reached the bed, he turned to face her.

Her eyes were wide, searching his face for something. Reassurance, maybe. Or permission.

"Sit down," he said gently.

----

She did, perched on the edge of the mattress, and he knelt in front of her.

"I'm goin’ to touch you," he said quietly. "Properly this time. Not through all these layers." His hands were already moving to her boots, unlacing them easily. "Is that alright?"

She nodded, her breath catching.

"I need to hear you say it, sweetheart."

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, it's alright."

He pulled off the first boot, then the second, setting them aside carefully.

"All of them?" she asked, and he could hear the nervousness creeping into her voice. "You mean... all the layers?"

He looked up at her from where he knelt, his hands resting on her ankles.

"No," he said simply. "Not all of them. Not tonight. Unless you want me to."

He saw relief flicker across her face, followed quickly by confusion.

"Just enough," he continued, his hands sliding up to her calves, "that I can touch you properly. Make you feel good." He paused. "The dress can stay on. The chemise too, if you want. But some things..." His fingers found the tie of her petticoat through her skirt. "Some things are goin’ to be in the way of what I'm tryin’ to do."

"And… what are you trying to do?" she asked quietly.

He smiled slightly. "Make you understand what your body was chasin’ a few minutes ago."

She felt him working the petticoat loose. The garment gave around her waist, and he helped her stand just long enough to let it fall to the floor in a puddle of fabric.

She sat back down quickly, suddenly very aware that there was one less layer between her and his hands.

"The stockings too," he said quietly, and she felt his fingers at her knee, finding the ribbon that held them up.

He untied the first one slowly, deliberately, his knuckles brushing against her skin as he worked. Then he rolled the stocking down, his palms warm against her leg as the fabric slid away.

The air felt cool against her bare skin. Strange. Vulnerable.

He did the same with the other leg, just as slowly, and she found herself watching his hands work. The carefullness of his movements. The way he touched her like she was something valuable.

When both stockings were off, he set them aside and looked up at her.

"Lie back," he said.

She hesitated for just a moment, then did as he asked, scooting back on the mattress until she could lie down fully. The bed was soft beneath her back, familiar. Comforting.

He stood, and for a moment she thought he was going to join her on the bed. But instead, he moved closer to the edge of the bed where her legs dangled off the side, his hands going to her ankles.

She tensed.

"Trust me," he said quietly.

Then he started gathering her skirts.

Slowly. Inch by inch. Pushing the fabric up past her ankles, her calves, her knees.

Higher.

She felt the cool air hit her thighs and instinctively tried to press her legs together.

"Easy," he murmured, his hands pausing on her knees, gentle but firm. "Need to... get there."

The words -the implication- made her face burn.

He kept pushing the fabric higher until it was bunched around her hips, and then his hands stayed on her knees.

"Open for me, sweetheart."

She let her knees fall apart slowly, her whole body tense with nervousness.

This wasn't-

Nothing about this matched what her mother had told her.

The conversation had been brief and clinical. She hadn't expected her to marry -had made that clear enough over the years- but had given her the information anyway, a few days before passing away. Just in case.

When the time comes, you'll undress and lie down. He'll get on top of you and put his... thing inside you. It will hurt the first time. Don’t make a fuss; men don't like fussing. You stay on your back, let him do, and it will be over quickly.

That was it. That was all she knew.

Nothing about this. Nothing about lying on her back with her skirts pushed up while her husband stood between her legs, still fully clothed. Nothing about the things he'd already done: the tongue in her mouth, the touching, the way he'd made her body feel like it was on fire.

Nothing about pleasure.

She felt exposed. Vulnerable in a way that went beyond just the physical. The cool air against her bare thighs, the knowledge that he could see her now, see parts of her that no one had ever seen.

"Breathe," he said quietly, his hands still resting on her knees. "Just breathe, darlin’."

She realized she'd been holding her breath and forced herself to let it out.

His hands moved then, sliding slowly up her thighs, pushing her legs wider as he stepped closer to the edge of the bed.

And then she felt it.

His gaze.

He was looking at her. Really looking. At the most private part of her body.

She wanted to close her legs. Wanted to pull her skirts back down and hide. But his hands were firm on her thighs, keeping her open, and something in his expression -something almost reverent- kept her from protesting.

"Christ," he muttered, his voice rough. "You're perfect."

Perfect.

The word didn't make sense. How could that part of her be perfect when it was supposed to be something to hide?

His hands slid higher, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where she could feel heat and dampness gathering, and she couldn't stop the small sound that escaped her throat.

----

He'd known what to expect, logically. But logic and reality were two very different things.

She was bare beneath her chemise and drawers, no additional undergarments in the way. Just the curls between her thighs, and beneath them-

Christ.

He could see how wet she was. Could see the evidence of her arousal glistening there, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to just bury his face between her legs immediately.

Slow. He had to go slow.

His thumbs brushed higher, and he heard her breath catch. Watched her hips shift restlessly against the quilt.

"I'm gonna touch you here," he said quietly, one thumb sliding along the crease where her thigh met her body. So close to where he wanted to be. "Right here, where you're wet for me."

She made a sound, half gasp, half whimper.

He let his thumb drift closer, brushing through the curls, and her whole body jerked at the contact.

"And then," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "I'm gonna use my mouth."

The silence that followed was absolute.

He looked up and found her staring at him, eyes wide with shock.

"Your-" She couldn't seem to finish the sentence. "You're going to put your mouth... there?"

"Yes."

"But that's-" Her face was burning now, he could see it even in the dim firelight. "Why would you-"

"Because it's gonna feel good," he said simply. "Better than anythin’ you've felt so far. And because I want to." He paused, holding her gaze. "Do you trust me?"

She stared at him for a long moment, clearly trying to reconcile what he was telling her with everything she'd been taught about what was proper, what was decent.

Finally, she nodded.

"Say it," he said quietly. "I need to hear you say it."

"I trust you," she whispered.

Then, quieter still: "Should I... rinse first? I washed this morning, but-"

"No." The word came out firm, almost harsh. He gentled his tone. "You're perfect just like this. Don't need anythin’ different."

The idea that she thought she needed to clean herself for him made something twist in his chest. She was worried about being proper. About being clean enough, good enough, acceptable enough.

He was going to show her she didn't need to worry about any of that. Not with him.

He dropped to his knees on the floor at the edge of the bed, positioning himself between her spread thighs, and let his hands slide up to grip her hips.

"I'm gonna learn what you like," he said, his thumbs brushing through the curls, and then lower, parting her folds, and she felt him touch her directly for the first time, brushing through wetness she'd been trying not to think about, exploring carefully, and every nerve ending in her body seemed to light up at once.

"Oh-" The sound escaped her before she could stop it when he caught in a little nub of flesh.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

His thumb circled it slowly, and she felt her hips lift off the bed without meaning to, chasing it.

Then his hand slid lower, and she felt pressure -gentle but insistent- at her entrance.

"Relax," he said quietly. "I’m gonna- just one finger. Nice and slow."

She tried to do as he said, tried to let her body soften, but when she felt him start to push inside, her whole body tensed.

It didn't hurt. Not exactly. But it was strange. The sensation of being breached, even just by one finger.

"Breathe," he reminded her, and she realized she was holding her breath again.

She exhaled shakily, and he pushed deeper.

All the way in until she could feel his knuckle pressed against her.

"Good girl," he said, his voice rough with approval. "That's good. You're doin’ so good."

Then he started to move.

Slow, shallow strokes that made her aware of muscles she'd never thought about before. Made her aware of how her body was gripping him, how the sensation shifted from strange to-

Not unpleasant.

Actually, not unpleasant at all.

His thumb found that spot again -the one that had made her gasp before- and circled it while his finger continued its steady rhythm inside her.

The dual sensation made her head fall back against the quilt, made her hips start to move with him instead of against him.

"There you go," he murmured. "Just like that. Feel good?"

She couldn't speak. Could only nod, her hands gripping the quilt again.

She felt him add a second finger, stretching her more, and the slight burn made her tense for just a moment before her body adjusted.

"Still good?" he asked.

"Yes," she managed, her voice barely recognizable. "Yes, it's-"

She couldn't finish because his fingers curled inside her, pressing against something that sent sensation shooting through her entire body.

She cried out, her back arching off the bed.

"Found it," he said, satisfaction clear in his voice.

----

Her reaction when he found that spot inside her -the way her whole body bowed, the broken sound she made- nearly undid him.

He stroked against it again, deliberately, and watched her fall apart. Watched her hips rock desperately against his hand, chasing more of whatever he was making her feel.

She was so wet now that he could hear it, the slick sound of his fingers moving inside her. It should have been obscene, but all he could think about was how responsive she was.

He kept working that spot inside her while his thumb circled her little nub, building her higher, watching her climb toward something she didn't even know was coming.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Let it build, darlin’. Don't fight it."

But he could see her start to tense, to pull back from the intensity of it, like she was scared of where it was leading.

Time for his tongue.

He left one hand between her legs, fingers still buried inside her, still stroking that sweet spot. His other hand moved to her inner thigh, holding her open and steady.

Then he leaned in and put his mouth on her.

----

The first touch made her entire body jolt.

She'd thought the fingers were overwhelming.

But this…

His tongue, warm and wet, licking directly over that spot his thumb had been circling, combined with his fingers still moving inside her, still pressing against that place that made her see stars-

It was too much.

She cried out, her hands flying from the quilt to tangle in his hair, not sure if she was trying to push him away or pull him closer.

He decided for her, his mouth staying exactly where it was, his tongue circling with the same deliberate motions his thumb had used.

Then he shifted, and instead of licking, she felt him-

Sucking.

His lips closed around that spot, and he started to pull gently. The sensation was so foreign, so strange that her mind scrambled for any reference point.

Like a baby nursing, some distant part of her brain supplied, and it should have seemed obscene, should have made her want to push him away in shame.

But she couldn't bring herself to care.

Couldn't think about propriety or decency when her entire body was lighting up like fire, when every suckle of his mouth sent sparks shooting through her.

The sounds coming from her throat didn't sound like her. Desperate, broken, pleading sounds that she couldn't control.

And she didn't care.

Couldn't care about anything except the building pressure, the heat coiling tighter and tighter in her belly, the way every suck and curl of his fingers was pushing her toward something that felt too big, too intense, like she was going to break apart if she let it happen.

"Bucky-" His name came out strangled. "I can't- something's-"

His fingers curled harder inside her, and his mouth worked that spot with renewed interest, and-

Everything shattered.

----

He felt it the moment she went over the edge.

Her entire body went rigid, her inner walls clamping down on his fingers, trying to pull them deeper. Her hands in his hair fisted it, holding his head exactly where it was.

And then she came.

Her hips bucked against his mouth, her back arched off the bed, and she made a sound he'd never forget, high and broken and completely unrestrained.

Her first orgasm. And he was giving it to her with his tongue and fingers, watching her discover what her body was capable of, feeling her pulse and clench around him as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her.

He worked her through it, his mouth gentling but not stopping, his fingers slowing their rhythm but still moving, drawing out every last aftershock until she was trembling and pushing weakly at his head.

"Too much," she gasped. "Please-"

Only then did he pull back, withdrawing his fingers carefully and pressing one last soft kiss to her inner thigh before sitting back on his heels.

He looked up at her.

She was wrecked. Hair falling out of her braid, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her legs were still spread, trembling slightly, and he could see how fucking wet she was, glistening in the firelight.

Perfect.

----

She couldn't move.

Couldn't think.

She lay there staring at the ceiling beams, trying to understand what had just happened to her. Trying to find words for the sensation that had ripped through her body, for the way she'd completely lost control, for the sounds she'd made-

Oh God, the sounds she'd made.

Heat flooded her face as awareness slowly returned. She became conscious of how she was lying, legs still spread, skirts bunched around her waist, completely exposed.

And he was looking at her.

She could feel his gaze even without seeing him, and suddenly the vulnerability of her position crashed over her like cold water.

She tried to close her legs, tried to pull her skirts down, but her limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated. Her hands fumbled with the fabric, shaking.

"Hey," he said quietly. "Easy."

She heard him stand, felt the bed dip as he sat down beside her, and then his hands were there, gently helping her straighten her skirts, covering her.

She still couldn't look at him. Couldn't meet his eyes after what she'd just let him do, after the way she'd fallen apart, after-

"Look at me, sweetheart."

The command was soft but firm, and her eyes obeyed before her brain could override them.

He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Satisfaction, yes. But also something else. Something almost tender.

"That," he said quietly, "was perfect. You were perfect."

She felt her eyes wanting to slide away, to look anywhere but at him, but before she could, he spoke again.

"Did it feel good?"

She knew he already knew the answer. Had heard it in the sounds she'd made, felt it in the way her body had responded to him.

But he was asking anyway. Wanted to hear her say it.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Then there ain't nothin' to be ashamed of," he said firmly. "What just happened -what we just did- that's somethin' men and women do together. In private. In their marriage bed" He paused. "It ain’t wrong or shameful. It's natural."

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to let his words sink in and wash away the years of being taught that her body was something to be hidden, controlled, and never enjoyed.

But it was hard to unlearn a lifetime of shame in one night.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, needing not to be flat on her back anymore while they talked. The position felt too vulnerable, too unequal with him sitting beside her.

He seemed to understand, because he shifted, lying down next to her on his side, propping his head up on one hand so they were more level.

Better.

She could breathe a little easier like this.

"I thought..." she started, then stopped.

"What did you think?" he prompted gently.

She took a breath, forcing herself to continue.

"I thought that what happened between... between a husband and wife was just..." She gestured vaguely, her face burning. "Putting... not hands. Or mouths. Just..."

She couldn't finish, but she saw the understanding in his expression.

"Just the act itself," he said.

She nodded, relieved he'd said it, so she didn't have to.

He was quiet for a moment, seeming to choose his words carefully.

"Sometimes it is like that," he said finally. "The man does what he needs to do, and that's... that's all it is."

She nodded slowly. That matched what her mother had told her.

"I ain't gonna lie to you," he continued. "There'll be times when the need is strong enough that we might skip straight to the act itself. That happens. Men..." He paused, seeming to search for the right words. "Men have needs that can be pretty insistent."

She felt her face warm but nodded again.

"But in my experience," he said, his voice dropping lower, more intimate, "when the woman feels good, the man enjoys himself a hell of a lot more too." His eyes held hers. "I liked hearin’ those sounds you made, feelin’ you come apart under my hands and mouth."

The directness of it made her face burn again.

"So yeah," he continued, "we could do it the other way. But why would I want that when I could have you wantin’ it, instead of just doin’ your duty?"

He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, the gesture casual and affectionate.

"Does that make sense?"

She nodded, processing his words. Then her eyes drifted downward -just for a moment, just a brief glance- and landed on the obvious bulge straining against his trousers.

Heat flooded her face, but she forced herself to ask.

"And... and that?"

His eyebrows rose slightly. "What about it?"

She gestured vaguely, unable to make herself say it out loud. "Does it... will it just... go away? On its own?"

Something flickered in his expression. Surprise, maybe, or amusement, though not unkind.

"Eventually," he said. "Given enough time, yeah, it'll go down on its own."

"Oh."

"But the way I'm feelin’ right now…" He shifted slightly, and she saw his jaw clench. "I'm probably gonna need to step outside and take care of it myself."

She blinked, trying to understand what he meant. Take care of it himself?

How did one...?

Her confusion must have shown on her face because his expression softened.

"I'll handle it," he said simply. "Don't worry about it."

But she was curious now. Curious in a way that probably wasn't proper, but that she couldn't quite suppress.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Tried again.

"How do you-" She stopped, frustrated with her own inability to just ask. "I mean, what do you... do?"

----

He was going to die.

Right here, right now, from this conversation alone.

His wife -his sheltered wife who twenty minutes ago hadn't even known what an orgasm was- was asking him how he jerked off.

He took a breath, trying to find words that wouldn't completely scandalize her while still being honest.

"I know you ain't never seen one," he said, gesturing vaguely toward his crotch. "A man's... member."

She shook her head quickly, her face flaming.

"But have you ever seen one on an animal?" he asked, trying to find some kind of reference point.

Her eyes widened slightly. "I've... yes. Horses… in the street. Sometimes."

He couldn't help it; a laugh escaped his lips, though he tried to smother it quickly. "Well, it ain't quite that... dramatic. But the general idea is similar."

She was staring at him now, clearly trying to process this information.

"So when I take care of it," he continued, "I... wrap my hand around it. And I move my hand up and down. Along the length of it. Until-" He stopped, not sure how explicit to be.

"Until?" she prompted quietly.

"Until I finish," he said simply.

She was quiet for a moment, and he could practically see her mind working, trying to form a mental picture of what he was describing without any actual visual reference.

----

She was trying to imagine it.

His hand wrapped around... that. Moving up and down. The mechanics of it made a certain logical sense, she supposed, even if the reality was still completely foreign to her.

She thought about what had just happened. About how he'd used his hands and his mouth to make her feel things she'd never imagined possible. About how patient he'd been, how careful, how focused on her pleasure.

And now he was going to go outside -alone, in the cold- and take care of his own need by himself.

It didn't seem fair.

More than that, it didn't seem right.

She'd enjoyed what he'd done to her. Had felt cared for, cherished even, in the way he'd touched her. Shouldn't she... shouldn't she want to do the same for him?

And if she was being completely honest with herself… she was desperately curious.

Wanted to see what he looked like. Wanted to understand what she'd felt pressing against her when she'd been sitting in his lap. Wanted to know if touching him would make him make the same kinds of sounds she'd made.

But she had no idea how to ask for that.

How did one even phrase such a request?

She looked at him, opened her mouth, closed it again.

"What?" he asked gently, clearly seeing the struggle on her face.

"I..." She took a breath. "You made me feel good. And I... I want to..." She gestured helplessly. "Do the same. Is that... would that be appropriate?"

----

There was absolutely nothing appropriate about what he wanted to do after hearing those words.

He wanted to strip her naked and bury himself inside her until neither of them could think straight. Wanted to feel her wrapped around him, wanted to hear her make those sounds again while he moved in her.

But he couldn't.

Not when she'd just had her first orgasm twenty minutes ago and was still processing what that meant. Not when he was bone-tired from twelve hours at the lumberyard, muscles aching.

If he took her properly right now -the way his body was screaming for- he'd probably last all of two minutes before spilling inside her like some green kid with his first woman. And then he'd likely pass out on top of her, dead to the world, leaving her first time as some fumbled, graceless thing she'd remember for all the wrong reasons.

He wouldn't do that to her.

Wouldn't embarrass himself like that.

"You ain't gotta do that," he said, his voice strained. "This ain't about returnin' favors or what's appropriate. I wanted to make you feel good. That's all."

He saw something flicker across her face -disappointment, maybe- and felt his resolve crack.

Fuck.

If he'd been hard before, he was damn near ready to explode now. The idea of her hands on him, of her seeing him, touching him, learning what made him feel good the way he'd just learned her-

The words were out before he could stop them.

"Are you sure?"

He heard himself say it and wanted to kick himself. So much for noble restraint.

"I'm sure," she said quietly, and the curiosity and determination in her eyes completely undid him.

He took a breath, trying to get himself under control.

"Alright," he said finally. "If you want to… help, you can help."

He sat up slowly, and she mirrored the movement, both of them sitting on the edge of the bed now, facing each other.

His hands went to his suspenders first, sliding them off his shoulders. Then to the buttons of his trousers, working them open one by one, aware of her gaze tracking every movement, of her breathing coming faster.

When he pushed his trousers down just enough and reached into his drawers, he hesitated.

This was different than just being naked with a woman. This was his wife. Sheltered, inexperienced, twenty minutes ago, she hadn't even known what pleasure felt like. And now she was about to see-

He pulled himself free.

The cool air hit his overheated skin, and he hissed slightly through his teeth. He was achingly hard, had been for the better part of half an hour, and just the brush of his own hand as he took it out made his hips want to jerk forward.

He forced himself to stay still. To let her look.

Her eyes went wide.

----

She'd tried to imagine it based on what she'd felt when she'd been sitting in his lap, that hard ridge pressing against her through all the layers of fabric.

She hadn't been even close.

He was thick. Her mind immediately tried to compare it to something, anything, but came up blank. Longer than her hand could span, she thought. It curved slightly upward, and as she watched, she saw it twitch under her gaze, responding to her attention.

She couldn't look away.

The skin looked different than the rest of him, smoother somehow, pulled taut. Veins were running along the length that she could see clearly, and there was something at the tip -moisture, glistening slightly in the firelight- and she watched, fascinated, as his hand wrapped around the shaft.

Her eyes tracked downward. Below, she could see them, those she'd at least heard referenced obliquely, though never described. They hung heavy between his thighs, and she found herself wondering if touching them would make him react the way he had when she'd shifted in his lap earlier.

And that was supposed to... fit inside her?

Before she could process that thought fully, his hand moved.

She watched, transfixed, as his fingers wrapped around himself -his grip firm, almost tight- and dragged slowly from base to tip. The sound he made -low, guttural- sent a shiver down her spine.

He did it again, slower this time, and she couldn't look away from the movement. From the way his hand worked over himself, from the tension in his shoulders, from the way his jaw clenched.

Then he stopped. His hand fell away, gripping the edge of the bed instead, knuckles white.

She should have been frightened by the size of him, by the reality of what their eventual consummation would mean.

Instead, she felt that same heat starting to pool low in her belly again. Curiosity and something else. Something that made her want to reach out and touch, to see if it felt as hard as it looked, to learn him the way he'd learned her.

"Can I?" she whispered, not taking her eyes off him.

She heard his breath catch.

"Yeah," he said, his voice wrecked. "Yeah, sweetheart. You can touch me."

----

He had to make use of all his restraint to keep still as her hand reached out.

Slowly. Tentatively. Like she was approaching something that might bite.

Then her fingers made contact. Her touch was feather-light, exploratory. Just her fingertips tracing along the length, learning the shape, the texture, and he couldn't stop the groan that tore from his throat.

"It's so hard," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "But the skin is soft."

Oh yes, he definitely was going to die. Right here. Death by innocent curiosity.

Her fingertips were still just ghosting over him, curious and maddeningly gentle, and he needed-

Christ, he needed more than that.

"Wrap your hand around it," he managed, his voice strangled. "Like you saw me do."

She did, her smaller hand encircling him -not quite able to close all the way around- and he had to close his eyes against the sight of it.

Too much. It was too much.

"Move your hand, darlin’," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

She obeyed, tentative and careful. So careful it was almost worse than not being touched at all, like she was afraid she might hurt him.

A sound escaped his throat before he could stop it.

"Want me to guide you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice gentle despite every nerve screaming for more pressure. "Show you what I need?"

"Yes," she whispered, and he heard the relief in her voice. "Please."

His hand came up to cover hers, his fingers wrapping around hers.

"I'm too far gone to let you explore right now," he said, his voice rough. "So today, I'm gonna set the pace." He paused, his hips already starting to shift restlessly. "Another time you can… touch how you want to. But right now I just need-"

He didn't finish the sentence. Just guided her hand in a long, firm stroke from base to tip.

The sound he made was broken, desperate.

"Like that," he managed. "Just like that, sweetheart."

He did it again, using her hand, setting a rhythm that was faster than she probably would have gone on her own. Showed her how much pressure to use, how to twist slightly at the top, how to-

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back.

----

She watched, fascinated, as his whole body responded to what they were doing.

His breathing had gone ragged. His jaw was clenched tight. The muscles in his neck stood out in sharp relief, and she could see his pulse jumping beneath the skin.

And the sounds he was making, low and rough, made her tingle between her thighs.

It was intoxicating.

His hand over hers kept guiding, kept showing her the rhythm, but she was learning quickly. Could feel the way he got harder -impossibly harder- under her palm. Could feel the moisture, making the slide easier.

"That's it," he rasped. "Christ, just like that."

His hips started moving, thrusting up into her hand, and she realized he was chasing the sensation the same way she'd chased hers earlier.

"Tighter," he said through gritted teeth. "Squeeze tighter."

She did, and his whole body shuddered.

"I'm-" His voice broke. "Close, I'm- you should-"

He was trying to say something, maybe trying to warn her, but his hand tightened over hers -the opposite of letting go- moving faster, rougher.

Everything happened fast after that.

He groaned -a deep, guttural sound- and gasped "Fuck-"

Then she saw it.

White liquid pulsing from him, coating her fingers, their joined hands. Spattering across his stomach in thick ropes.

Then she felt warmth on her cheek.

She jerked back instinctively, startled, but his hand was still clamped over hers, holding her grip firm on him as he continued to pulse and shudder.

He was still making sounds -broken, breathless sounds- his whole body rigid and trembling.

And she just... watched him in awe.

Watched him come completely undone, the way his face contorted with pleasure, the evidence of his release painting his skin, their joined hands, and -she realized- her own face.

Finally, the shuddering stopped. His body went slack, his head falling back, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

She stayed frozen, her hand still on him, not sure what to do now.

----

It took him a long moment to come back to himself.

When he finally managed to open his eyes and look at her, his brain was still too scrambled to process what he was seeing at first.

Then it registered.

Her hand still wrapped around him, covered in his release.

His stomach smeared with it.

And… a streak of it on her cheek, just below her eye.

Oh fuck.

He hadn't warned her. Hadn't told her what would happen, what to expect, where to-

Christ, he'd spilled on his wife's face.

"Shit," he managed, his voice wrecked. "Darlin', I-"

He tried to move, but his body wasn't cooperating yet.

She was just staring at her hand, at the mess coating her fingers, with an expression he couldn't quite read.

Shock, maybe. Or curiosity. Or horror.

Probably horror.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I tried to warn you. Should've pulled your hand away, or-"

"It's warm," she said quietly, cutting him off.

He blinked. "What?"

She finally looked up at him, and there was wonder in her expression instead of disgust.

"It's warm," she repeated. "I didn't... I didn't know it would be warm."

"Yeah," he said, and for the first time since any of this started, he felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. "It's... it's warm."

He wasn't used to talking so much about it. Explaining every detail like some kind of instructor instead of just... doing it.

And he was still mortified about her face.

A man didn't... you didn't do that to your wife. There were certain things that were meant for women you paid, not for the woman you married. And he'd just crossed that line without thinking, without even giving her the chance to-

"I'm sorry," he said again, already pushing himself up on unsteady legs. "Let me-I need to get somethin’ to clean you up."

He shoved himself back into his drawers awkwardly, not bothering with the buttons on his trousers, and crossed to where the towels hung near the basin.

His legs felt weak. His whole body felt wrung out in a way that was familiar but somehow more intense than usual.

Because it had been her. Not some quick fist in the dark or a paid fuck with a sporting woman who had a line of men waiting after him, and didn't care whose spend she was washing off.

It was her hand, her presence, her eyes watching him come apart and it had hit different. Harder.

He dampened one of the clean towels and came back to the bed, kneeling in front of her.

"Here," he said quietly, reaching for her hand. "Let me-"

----

She'd changed into her nightgown while he'd stepped outside to dump the water from the basin, he'd said, though she suspected he'd also needed a moment to collect himself.

When he came back in, he'd stripped down to his underthings without a word and climbed into bed beside her.

Now they lay on their backs, not quite touching, both staring at the ceiling beams barely visible in the dim light. She could hear his breathing. Steady but not quite the deep rhythm of sleep.

So he wasn't asleep either.

"Was it… alright?" he asked quietly, breaking the silence. "What we did. Any of it made you uncomfortable?"

She turned her head slightly to look at him, though she could barely make out his profile in the darkness.

"I was nervous," she admitted, and something about the darkness made it easier to say. "I didn't know what to expect. Didn't know what I was supposed to do."

"But did you want to?" he pressed gently.

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "I wanted to."

She felt him relax slightly beside her.

"I just..." She paused, choosing her words. "I feel foolish sometimes. Being so ignorant at my age. Most women have been married for years, they know these things, and I-"

"Darlin'..." He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her. She could just make out the shape of him in the darkness. "That ain't your fault."

"I know, but-"

"No," he said firmly. "You're a proper woman." His hand found hers under the quilt, fingers threading through hers. "Your ma wasn't gonna tell you anythin'. No one was. That's how they keep decent women decent, by makin' sure you don't know enough to want it."

He paused, his thumb stroking across her knuckles.

"That… ignorance, is what separates a decent woman from... well, from the kind men don't marry. So you not knowin’, it ain’t make you foolish. It just means you were raised right."

She was quiet for a moment, processing his words.

"Besides," he added, and she could hear something rough in his voice, "when you touch me like you did tonight -when you look at me like you're curious, like you want to know-" He stopped, exhaled. "That does more for me than any woman who already knows what she's doin’ ever could."

Heat crept up her neck at his words.

"Really?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah." His thumb stroked across her knuckles again. "Because knowin’ I'm the only man who's ever made you feel like that… there's nothin’ else like it."

She absorbed his words, feeling warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the way he kept making her feel like she wasn't wrong or inadequate for her age.

"Can I ask you something?" she said after a moment.

"Anythin’."

She hesitated, then pushed forward. The darkness made it easier.

"Is it... is it always like this? Between spouses in the dark?"

"Like what?"

“Talking about it. You asking what I think." She turned onto her side to face him, though she still couldn't see him clearly. "My mother… made it sound like something that just happened. The man did what he needed to do, and the woman endured it. But this..."

He was quiet for a moment.

"I can't say I know what happens behind closed doors in every household," he said finally. "But from what I've heard -men talkin’ at camp, back when I served- most marriages are probably closer to what your mother described. The man takes what he needs, the woman tolerates it. That's just... how most people do things."

She heard the bedclothes rustle as he shifted closer.

"But I don't want it like that," he continued, his hand finding her face in the darkness. "Not because I'm some saint, but because-" He paused, seeming to choose his words. "A woman who's just lyin’ there waitin’ for it to be over… that don't do much for me.”

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because I'm a prideful bastard who gets off on makin’ my partner feel good,” he said quietly. “You feel good, I feel good.” His thumb stroked across her cheek. "And... because I care about you. So that's how this is gonna work between us."

She felt a smile touch her lips. "Good," she whispered.

He made a low sound of agreement, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her closer.

She let herself be pressed against his side, her head on his shoulder, his warmth surrounding her, and nuzzled against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her ear. Within minutes, his breathing had evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep.

She lay there listening to it, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the weight of his arm around her, and closed her eyes.

Warm, safe, and wanted.

Next Chapter

There’s a farmhouse on the edge of a loch, nestled against a cluster of old trees, made of stone and thatch, set within a hill that overlooks the crisp, clear water. It’s silent except for the wind and the birds, peacefully disconnected from the rest of the world. At the bottom of the small hill rests a wooden dock with an aged rowboat tied to a post, the shallow hull creaking with the rippling water.

All outward appearances speak to abandonment, that its previous occupants died along with everyone else, drifting into history, forgotten and alone. Unreachable by road, not for lack of path, but lack of maintenance. Rain has washed away the gravel, allowed grass to grow, removing all traces of tire tracks.

No one lives here. Nothing stirs.

And that’s exactly how they like it.

A door stands open to the enclosed garden. Simon, with apron on and arms covered in blood and stag entrails, works a hunting knife between skin and meat. One stag is done, its parts separated and cleaned, taken away by Price to be stored properly. The second stag hangs from the ceiling by its hind legs, a bucket beneath its head to catch what blood still drips from its open neck.

This is silent work. All precision. Keeps his head clear.

Johnny is out in the garden. Simon can hear his Scottish lilt as he talks to the chickens, complimenting the hens’ feathers and scolding the rooster each time it attempts to take flight and land on him when his back is turned. Kyle’s been missing all morning, likely at the long-distance radio, listening for any outside communication.

They’ve grown fewer over the years. Months pass in complete static. Still tries though Simon sees no point in it. People are gone. People are dead. People are feral, surviving, or rotting above ground in piles. War machines churn, spewing bullets and disease, creating bioweapons meant for the enemy, only to lose control of the beast they’ve birthed, dissolving humanity with it.

Simon clears away the fur, hanging it on nearby hooks next to the other stretched stag hide. Price will clean it, turn it into a coat or a throw for one of the beds. Bone is separated from the meat, each section placed in a specific spot on the butcher table based on use. Simon’s knife is sharp. Cuts clean. Makes the work easy.

“Simon.”

Though Price calls his name, Simon keeps his gaze on removing the stomach.

“Simon.”

“What?” questions Simon, severing the connecting tissue. Holding the stag’s stomach in both hands, he sets it gently on the table.

Price stands in the doorway, his own butchers apron slick with gore. “Nearly done?”

“Just about,” replies Simon, observing the carcass.

He aims for a joint.

“Kyle picked up a signal.” Simon’s knife pauses. Falls to his side. “Distress call.”

“Close?”

Price nods. “Not far.”

“They’re out front. Surrounding the car.”

“How many?”

A scope sweep over the jerking bodies, and Simon answers. “A few dozen. One on fucking fire. Nasties don’t seem bothered.”

“Any movement inside?” crackles Price’s voice in Simon’s earpiece.

Waterproof, solar-powered, short-range walkies turned out to be a goddamn blessing after the apocalypse.

“None,” replies Simon, checking the windows not covered in newspaper. “All quiet.”

“Never a good sign,” Johnny grumbles.

To Simon’s right, Old Chap, the stray Scottish Deerhound Price found on a hunt and brought back, is all silent statue, unmoving like Roman marble, waiting for the signal. Pup was bred to hunt deer, and on a hunt, Old Chap is lethal, herding them out of hiding and into the range of their rifles. Infected meat falls under his maw, too, ripped apart by Old Chap’s teeth. The Wasting Disease rots the flesh and curdles the blood in humans or transforms them into a fleshy bullet, shambling and twisting, throwing themselves forward, hungry to bite bite bite and spread.

Creatures like that don’t last long. They’re fast but mindless. The Wasting Disease controls the base motor functions but not much else. Machines of a bloody caliber, made to ignore pain, breaking down into ripped limbs and gory stumps until the thing eventually dies. Could survive a few days. At most a week. A disease made in a lab for American Imperialism, only to backfire, spreading to enemies and friendlies. Destroying fucking everything.

“They’re fascinated by the fire,” murmurs Simon, aiming the sniper rifle, transferring the scope to each rotting head. “Strange,” he drawls, a hint of confusion in his tone.

Price’s voice again. “What’s strange?”

Simon sniffs, leaning to the left and away from the scope. The diseased, human torch topples over, still, remaining alone, its companions keeping distance.

Is he fucking seeing things?

“Simon,” prompts Price.

“They’re avoiding it,” answers Simon after a brief pause.

“Avoiding what?”

“The fire.”

Car overturned, engulfed in flame, but only one burned. The rest linger nearby, observing the vehicle and fire but refusing to draw closer. Inconceivable years ago. Wankers threw themselves at everything in their path in their need to bite. Bullet, car, train, tree, building—anything.

Simon returns to the scope, watchful of the gathered horde. Breathing widens, becoming loud in his ears. One of the nasties breaks away. From the length of the hair and the gentle flare of the hips, it might have been a woman once. She drifts back, focusing on the building, head tilting skyward.

“Price,” speaks Simon into the mouthpiece, “use caution when you enter.”

A pause. “What do you see?”

“Consciousness.”

Old Chap blinks, revealing teeth as he senses the change. Simon gently turns his head. “Still,” he softly croons, and the deerhound becomes stone.

Price sighs before he speaks. “Clear in the back. We’re entering. Rear door.”

“Copy.”

Price, Kyle, and Johnny are alone in there. Simon cannot rush to their rescue, only give them time if they require an exit. Silence for nearly three years then a distress signal from a tiny town thirty-two kilometers away. Something stinks about it. Simon fucking hates surprises.

Crackling words push into Simon’s eardrum as he counts and recounts the shambling group out front. A pop. Hiss. Little sparks burst upward from the car, flares of light that turn the nasties heads. Back when the Wasting Disease raged, any sound sent the slobbering masses running to investigate. Here, they almost admire.

“Fucking gross in here,” comes Johnny’s voice, a breath of sound.

Another pop. Another spark.

“Three. Round that corner,” growls Price.

Silence as they work. Silence on the roof. Simon sniffs, runs the scope over the crowd. Counting. Counting. Counting.

“Shit,” he mutters. Simon shifts his focus, looking for the wayward enemy.

It’s the infected woman again, dragging her right foot behind her as she lurches forward, aiming for the alley. Not a wide opening, certainly wide enough for a human to navigate quietly but not a fucking diseased shamble.

“Ones on the move,” Simon softly speaks into the walkie. “Heading to the back.”

Through the earpiece, Kyle, Price, and Johnny relay signals, mere whispers of instruction and confirmation, moving through the building as Simon readies his rifle. If he’s careful, Simon can take her out as she hobbles into the alley. He’ll have a few seconds of space before she disappears.

Simon lines up the reticle. Finger tightens.

Not yet. Not yet.

The woman turns, her gaze focusing in Simon’s direction as if she can see his hiding place.

Trigger pull—and the gun is silent, but not from a suppresser.

A wave of intense heat explodes up and outward, creating a mushroom shape that dissipates, leaving a roaring inferno behind, knocking down or incinerating the nearby nasties. Half of the building catches flame, the windows blow, bits and chunks of wood flying.

“Fuck!”

As the horde stirs, Simon snaps into action, taking out one then another, aiming for the heads if possible, taking out knees if a headshot remains blocked.

“Talk to me,” Simon says into his walkie, desperately attempting to cover the panic in his voice. “Price, do you copy?” Silence. “Johnny?” More silence. “Johnny, do you copy?” Quiet except the heated maw of the fire. “Gaz? Gaz! Fuck—Kyle!”

Old Chap is up, teeth bared, stance locked for violence though Simon hasn’t given the signal. The extension of himself is the rifle and the burst of gore from heads. It is his voice calling their names, limbs itching to fucking risk it and go after them.

Most of the horde is on fire or dead, the rest drag themselves around, limbs broken or blown from Simon’s bullets. Dreary doubt chews at the hope.

“Simon?”

Johnny.

“Soap? Do you copy?”

A pause. “Aye.” Johnny coughs. “I copy.”

“Where’s Price? Kyle?”

All that comes over the walkie is a low groan.

“Soap! Listen to me. The building’s on fucking fire. You need to get up—”

A familiar click. Simon remains perfectly still, perfectly calm as he slowly pivots to glance over his shoulder.

Man or woman, hardly matters. Some wanker has a gun pointed in Simon’s face. They’re covered, head-to-toe in black tactical gear. Shit looks nearly authentic to what he wore in the field.

“Get that gun out of my face,” growls Simon. They don’t. “I said—”

“Heard what you said.” A man’s voice. “Not here to harm you. Or those with you.”

Simon sneers behind his balaclava. “Have a funny way of showing it.”

The tactical-clad man nods toward the ground to Simon rifle. “Bigger gun. Had to be careful.”

In Simon’s earpiece, Johnny is talking, talking about Price, talking about smoke, and coughing hacking coughing.

“We can help them.”

“We?” snarls Simon.

The stranger takes a step back, shows his hands, lowers his gun. “Received a distress call. That you?”

“No. We received one, too.”

Johnny is shouting at him. Price is down. And Johnny can’t bloody see. “Let us help,” repeats the man. “Let us help.”

Jaw clenched and grinding, Simon looms in the corner like a waiting reaper.

Price is hooked up to a bunch of machines that fucking beep constantly and mean fuck all to Simon. Med was never his thing. He was a hunter. Silent stealth and bloodied knife. Johnny holds vigil beside Price’s bed, fists clenched on the chair arms, gaze sadly intense.

Kyle is missing.

Gaz is fucking missing.

Four down to three but doesn’t mean he’s dead. Johnny is here, and Simon can slip away, search for Kyle in the wreckage, unless the fuckers found him and are holding him here without telling either of them. Entirely possible, but Simon has always seen the worst in people.

Ash clings to Johnny’s face and clothes, a hint of smoke lingers in the air, Simon untouched by both, watching from afar as Price and Johnny were pulled from the burning building by strangers. They’ve relieved Price of his fatigues, swapped for plain, clean clothes, washed his face, neck, and arms.

Johnny and Simon weren’t allowed in at first. Both fought, Simon swinging on a few armed men, knocking them to the floor before he was subdued. Johnny, still with smoke in his lungs, fell easily, unable to breathe right and exhausted. Put him on oxygen for a while, fluids for hydration, refusing a bed because Johnny didn’t want Simon out of his sight.

“Need to find Gaz,” growls Simon, voice scratchy from lack of use.

Johnny sighs heavily, keeping his gaze on a snoozing Price. “Think he’s here?”

“Likely,” shrugs Simon. “Right behind you, wasn’t he?”

“One floor down at the bottom of the stairs. He stopped to check a room.”

Simon’s head snaps to Soap. “He wasn’t with you?”

“He was—”

“Not behind you.”

Johnny remains mute, lips pinched. Simon crosses his arms over his chest, tucking them in until it’s a hug. Whatever anger dwells in his bones isn’t for Soap.

“Glad you’re alive, Johnny,” sighs Simon, the cloudy temperament lifting.

A swarm of tactical-clad men emerged after Simon stood down. Like beetles from a drain, they scattered, mowing down infected, storming the house, sparks from gunfire illuminating the few windows not blown out from the blast.

Old Chap, the good pup, wrapped himself around Simon’s leg, baring his teeth at any of the men that drew near, following Simon to the truck they put him in, and hasn’t left Price’s side since. The nurses even brought him a dog bed.

“We have to find him,” whispers Soap. “He’s out there.” Johnny glances at Simon. “Kyle isn’t dead.”

“No,” agrees Simon. “He’s not.”

Kyle, the bastard, is indestructible.

A soft knock at the door draws their attention to the right. In the open doorway, a woman with dark hair pulled back into a tight bun smiles, her white doctor’s coat perfectly pressed and clean. Simon inhales sharply, momentarily stunned by the sight of her. Simon hasn’t seen a woman in damn near four years. It was him and his hand and pictures. Johnny is as startled as Simon, grip loosening on the chair arms, falling into his lap as he discreetly tries to hide the obvious bulge.

All Simon has seen of this place is men. Men in tactical wear, men in scrubs, men in civilian clothes. Men men men fucking everywhere. This is the first woman, which, why wouldn’t there be? If they’d ever come across one during these long years, Simon knows he’d have taken her. Probably what they’ve done here. Perhaps allowed a few to retain their previous jobs, just like the doctor standing in front of him.

That how these things go. In war-torn areas, it’s always the women and children who suffer the most.

“Hope I’m not disturbing,” she says softly, taking a few steps inside, heading over to Price’s beeping machines. With clipboard in hand, she makes a few notes, murmuring under her breath as her pencil scratches across the page.

“Everything aces?” grumbles Simon, chest heaving slightly.

The doctor turns, her smile remaining soft and professional. “The good news is that he’ll recover.”

Johnny blows out a ragged breath, rubbing his hands over his face as he leans forward, groaning, resting elbows on knees.

“There’s a but, isn’t there?” asks Simon. There always is.

She inclines her head. “Several bones in his legs and feet are broken. Some with smaller fractures. We need patience and time while he heals. No internal bleeding but lots of bruising. A few burns. Those are only first and second degree. They’ll heal and likely won’t leave scars.” She turns toward Price. “He’s incredibly lucky.”

He’ll live. Price will live.

But they know nothing about Kyle.

“There was a fourth with us. Is he here?”

The doctor frowns. “I’m only aware of you three. It’s possible he was brought here as well, but I haven’t seen anyone else from…outside.”

“But he could be here?” Simon adds pressure to his voice, an authoritarian air he hasn’t used since the time before.

She clocks it immediately, her smile disappearing. “I’ll find out what I can.” She nods at Johnny, disappearing through the open door. A minute later and one of those gnarly wankers that stuck their guns in Simon’s face appears. Big and broad but not as large as Simon. He could take him. The man’s eyes narrow, laser focused as if Simon personally slighted him.

Answers.

Simon will have them, even if it takes some broken teeth.

“This place is weird. I don’t like it.”

Between the slats of the window blinds, Simon observes a group of laughing men walking by. Johnny grunts, and Simon turns. The Scot is lying on the floor, fighting with the laces of his boot.

“Johnny,” snaps Simon.

“Fucking help me,” he grumbles, loosening the laces of one boot, sticking it out toward Simon. With an annoyed huff, Simon grasps the toe of the boot and yanks. “Bloody Jesus, Ghost. Trying to take my leg off?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Aye. I heard ya.”

“Said this place is weird.”

Johnny manages to kick off the other boot and sit up, arms on his knees as he looks up at Simon, bewildered. “That’s what you’re on about right now?” Johnny extends his palms upward, fingers splayed. “Give it a rest.”

“Give it a rest?”

Johnny frowns at him. “We’ve been awake, what? Forty-eight hours now?” Simon tuts dismissively and Johnny snorts, clearly fed up and irritated. “We need rest. We need a plan.”

“We need to find Kyle.”

“I know, Simon,” hisses Johnny. “Think I don’t care?”

Simon crouches. “I think you’re too calm about this.”

Johnny’s frown becomes sour. “Not looking for a fight, Ghost. I want to sleep.” He pauses, growing grim. “And to clean off Price’s blood.”

Simon can’t sleep. He’s on edge. “There’s something not right about this place.”

“Not disagreeing,” groans Johnny as he shifts to his knees and then his feet, joints audibly popping as he stretches. “But what are we going to do about it?” Simon opens his mouth, but Soap holds up a hand to silence him. “Nothing. We need sleep. A shower. Won’t do Kyle any good if we’re tanked.”

Johnny is already removing his clothes, discarding them one by one, bare ass giving Simon a show until he disappears into the bathroom. The shower turns on, and Simon considers his options. A quick walk won’t hurt. In and out.

Simon leans against the doorframe, knocking. “Soap! Going for a walk!” Johnny responds but it’s muffled by the falling water. “Be back in ten!”

A quick look. That’s all.

That’s what Simon tells himself as he steps out into the cool night, as he walks to the fence line, as he strolls casually, pretending he’s out for fresh air when it’s to spy. As Simon strolls and observes, all he notices are men and their smiling faces. Bizarre, like someone cut out lips and glued them on. No air of oppression or authority, no one making themselves appear small, and no lingering sense of tension. It’s off-putting and unnatural. Aside from that, Simon hasn’t noticed a single woman.

Are they separated? Could be. Would explain their absence. The doctor is the only women they’ve met. The nurses that came in to check on Price, the security guards, and the patients, were all men.

Simon continues to walk, passing by a few guard gates. There are only glimpses of what’s beyond, hints of what might be a town, of other people. The men standing guard there nod their heads at him before continuing in their chatter, completely relaxed, not worried that Simon is out and about this late at night. That’s strange, too. It all is, and it sours Simon’s stomach.

One lap and Simon trudges back to the small cabin he and Johnny have been given. Johnny is out of the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, on his back in bed, eyes closed.

“What’d you find?” asks Johnny, not looking at him.

“They’re guarding something.”

Johnny snorts. “From your weird arse.”

Simon side-eyes him but leaves it. Exhaustion is setting in, muscles sore. Rolling his neck, Simon removes his boots, his clothes, plunging beneath the warm water of the cascading shower.

Simon lights up, blowing smoke into the air.

“Price is well,” says Johnny, squinting as he looks up into the sky. The sun is beating down, warming their faces, but the wind whips, bringing a chill. “Checked on him this morning.”

“Doctor find anything out about Gaz?”

Johnny shakes his head. “No. Kept it brief.”

“See anything while you were there?”

Johnny sucks his teeth. “Saw mostly men again. More women though. All in doctor’s coats.”

“How many?”

Soap shrugs. “Least six.”

“Six? And no female patients?”

“Nope,” quips Johnny. “But I was watching them because shit—how long has it been?”

“Four years,” Simon answers instantly.

Johnny elbows him in the arm. “Been counting?”

“Fuck off or talk.”

Johnny cracks a smile like he’s been holding on to a juicy secret. “Forty-eight hours and I’ve seen six female doctors. Six, Simon. Means there could be more.”

“Has to be,” mutters Simon, not really speaking to Johnny but to the cigarette smoke drifting in front of his face.

Johnny grins wider, lightly smacking Simon’s arm with his knuckles. “What if we free them? Have ourselves our own little harem.”

Simon smirks. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Johnny?”

Johnny sighs dreamily, resting his head against the wood wall of their cabin, eyes closed. “I can picture it now.” Holding out his hands, he makes a cupping gesture. “Big bouncy tits. Something I can suckle on while she’s on top.”

Simon snorts, choking on smoke. “You’re a dog, Johnny.”

He opens one eye, his smile growing larger. “Oh, aye. Even since I popped out of me ma.”

“What else did you see?”

At this, Johnny’s amusement softens. “Strangest thing. Around the women, all the men were…polite.”

“Polite?”

Johnny’s face pinches, lips pursing. “Wrong word,” he mutters, taking a moment to think. “Respectful,” he finally says.

“Respectful,” Simon repeats.

“Hanging on their every word. Doing what they’re told. No arguments. No joking. No backtalk or attitude. Totally compliant. Fucking bizarre if you ask me. All smiles. Some Stepford Wives bullshit.”

“Robots?” deadpans Simon. “You think the men are all robots?”

Johnny throws up his hands. “Or lobotomized.”

“Fucking hell, Johnny,” growls Simon. “They’re doctors. Course they’re being spoken to with respect.”

“No. No. You didn’t see what I did.” Johnny swallows. “Men moved out of their way. Did things without asking.” He imitates a walking robot and stilted voice. “Obedient and without soul.”

“Be fucking serious,” huffs Simon. “Respect doesn’t mean brainwashed. I’ll admit the place is weird. Think they’re hiding things. But this isn’t sci-fi movie.”

Johnny scratches the side of his nose. “Think it’s odd the only women we’ve seen are doctors. Where are the rest?”

“If we ask, might find out where Kyle is, too.” Simon puts out his cigarette with the toe of his book. “Since we’re idle, should make conversation. Learn what we can.”

Johnny nods. “Agreed. Not sure how you’ll manage it.”

“I’m not that scary.”

Johnny places his hand on Simon’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “Course not. You’re fucking Mary Poppins.”

“Get moving,” growls Simon, shoving at Soap, who dances out of reach. “Be back here in two hours. No more.”

Johnny mock salutes and disappears, leaving Simon to contemplate his next move. Could walk the perimeter again, but he’s far more interested in those gates and whatever the hell they’re guarding.

Retracing his steps, Simon reaches the first gate he came across in the night. Closed and guarded in the twilight hours, it stands open with a different set of guards. Two of them, chatting and smiling, leaning like they haven’t a bother. Simon strides forward, relaxing his body to appear less threatening.

One of the men, a redhead with freckles, nods in Simon’s direction, unfazed by his appearance. “You’re one of the new ones.”

Simon’s reply comes sharp. “What of it?”