Just your average Fanatic

Mornings in the university library always start the same way—slow and soft. You wake up before the rest of the world has, drinking in the fresh air and then the smell of books that you’ve grown not only accustomed to, but fond of. The old building creaks as the heating kicks on, sunlight crawling through the tall arched windows in pale stripes that land across the study tables. You like this part—the quiet before the rush. You stack donated paperbacks on the cart, straighten the display of new arrivals for the fourth time just because it’s satisfying. The place smells faintly of old pages and lemon cleaner, the hum of the fluorescent lights blending with the low whir of the AC. It’s a steady, predictable routine.

You do your usual opening walk-through: checking the study rooms, flicking on desk lamps, picking up the abandoned scarf someone left draped over a history atlas last night. The university outside is still half-asleep—scattered footsteps across the quad, the distant hiss of a bus braking, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. Inside these walls, though, everything stays suspended in a calm you’ve always clung to.

Which is exactly why the sound of approaching boots sets your teeth on edge.

They’re heavy steps—purposeful, rhythm too familiar after months of his rounds overlapping with your shifts. You don’t even have to look up to know who it is. The single most disruptive force to your peaceful mornings. The walking embodiment of “actually, that’s against policy.”

He appears at the end of the aisle like an unwelcome plot twist: navy security polo stretched across his shoulders, ID clipped to his belt, expression already somewhere between suspicion and smug satisfaction. His hair is tied back today, exposing the sharp line of his jaw. Unfortunately for your sanity.

“Morning,” Bucky says, voice low and annoyingly warm for someone who thrives on ruining your calm. His gaze sweeps the room like he’s inspecting a military outpost instead of a library. “Return cart’s a little overloaded. Might be a tipping hazard.”

You don’t even turn around. “Good morning to you too, Officer Overkill. That was next on my to-do list.”

“It’s Sergeant, technically,” he says, smug like he’s waiting for you to mess up again.

“Well, Sergeant Technically, you’re blocking the returns slot.”

He huffs a laugh—quiet and amused—as if to say he’s already decided you’re going to make his morning interesting. He doesn’t move, though. Of course he doesn’t. He just stands there with that infuriatingly relaxed posture, weight shifted onto one leg, arms crossed like he’s settling in for the long haul.

“I’m conducting an inspection,” Bucky replies, tone all official. “Lot of rules get broken in this building when you’re left unsupervised.”

Unsupervised. As if you’re some kind of rebellious toddler with a barcode scanner.

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Most people start their day with coffee. You start yours with harassment. Interesting coping mechanism, I must say.”

“Part of the job,” he says. “Besides. If you followed procedure, I wouldn’t have to hover.”

“Hover?” You choke out a laugh. “You’re blocking an entire section of circulation. This is beyond hovering. This is—you’re practically nesting.”

He raises a brow, mouth tugging into a half-smirk. “If I’m nesting, sweetheart, it’s only because someone keeps giving me reason to stick around.”

Sweetheart.

You pretend it doesn’t hit you like a flick to the sternum.

You straighten the last of the returns just a touch more aggressively than necessary. “Unbelievable.”

“Mm.” He pretends to scan the nearby shelves, but he’s absolutely watching you from the corner of his eye. “Loose shelf in the archives still not fixed.”

You freeze, and he notices. Of course he does.

“Don’t start,” you warn.

Bucky steps just close enough for you to feel the ghost of his presence at your back—warm, annoying, entirely deliberate. “I reminded you yesterday.”

“And the day before,” you grit out.

His voice drops, teasing, maddeningly soft. “And the day before that.”

You whirl around, and he’s right there—too close, too tall, too smug. The kind of close that makes your pulse skip in a way you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

You jab a finger at his chest. “I run a library, Barnes. You run… hallways.”

He smiles, slow and unfair. “You think about my hallways often?”

You should walk away. Instead, your voice comes out tight. “Move. I have work to do.”

He steps aside finally, hands lifted like he’s being oh-so-accommodating. But as you pass him, he dips his head, speaking low so only you can hear.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll be back to check on you.”

Like he ever does anything else.

Your peaceful morning is officially over, but you’ve learned how to salvage it. Ignore him, redirect your focus, and bury yourself in the small rituals that make this place yours.

You roll the return cart toward the stacks, determined to pretend he didn’t just mess up your peace once again, right on schedule. The wheels squeak faintly as you push it along the carpeted aisle, and for a moment you manage to breathe again.

You shelve a paperback. Then another. The light shifts across the floor as the sun climbs. The quiet settles back in like a blanket. Then it’s over as soon as it started, the lunch rush starting and, just like every other day, ruining your peace in a much more appreciated way. Students spill in like a tide—loud, laughing, exhausted, caffeinated. Backpacks thump onto tables, laptops snap open, someone is already arguing about a group project three days past its deadline. The calm you coaxed back into place frays at the edges, replaced by the chaotic midday symphony you’ve grown used to and almost fond of.

You weave between aisles with the practiced grace of someone who’s dodged far too many carelessly swung tote bags. A cluster of freshmen wave you down to ask where the psychology reserves are. A senior begs for an extension on a study room reservation like you personally control time. Someone spills iced coffee dangerously close to the classics section.

Normal. Predictable. Manageable.

You’re halfway through directing a student toward the printers when you feel it—that faint, irritating prickle at the back of your neck.

A disturbance in the force.

Or, more accurately, in your blood pressure. You don’t need to turn around to know exactly who’s walked in, but you do turn. Slowly. And there he is.

Bucky stands just inside the entrance, scanning the room with that same maddening mix of hypervigilance and barely concealed amusement. He’s ditched the jacket, left in just his navy polo, sleeves snug against his biceps, badge catching the harsh midday lights. He looks entirely at ease in the chaos—as if he thrives in it.

Of course he shows up now. He does every day at this hour, it's part of his rounds. That doesn’t mean you have to like it.

He spots you instantly, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth, subtle and sharp, like he’s delighted to find you mid–crisis. 

You narrow your eyes.

He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute, the I told you I’d be back version of a wave as he mouths one word: Archives.

You fight the urge to throw a stapler at him.

After the kids lunch is your lunch, which is one of the few peaceful moments of your day. Barnes’ rounds take him all the way to the opposite end of the campus, kids are in their classes, and you sit behind your desk and have a quiet meal. The most that happens is the occasional student coming in to cram last minute for a test.

Calm, predictable, routine. 

The rest of the day passes with more of the same, like every other. Bucky doesn’t stop by for the rest of the day, as he patrols the entire campus. You shelve books, read a few, and take care of your little haven. Soon the sun is setting, and you’re starting to pack up. There are a few students straggling, those late-night studiers who prefer the library to their dorms, but the doors lock automatically from the inside, so they’ll be fine. As you get ready to leave, an annoying voice rings in your head.

Archives, archives, archives, archi—

Your jaw tenses and you sigh. Fine, he wants the shelf fixed so bad, you’ll just do it yourself. You flick off the lamp at your desk, grab your keys, and march toward the basement stairs like a woman going to war. The building is quiet now—library quiet, which is different from morning quiet. Deeper. Echoing. Every footstep is yours alone.

Stalker-quiet.

You hate that you think that, because it’s exactly the sort of dramatic exaggeration Bucky would mock you for. Relax, sweetheart, nothing down there but dust and overdue textbooks. You can practically hear him.

You descend into the archives anyway, irritation guiding you more than obligation.

The lower level smells like paper, cold air, and that faint mineral scent of old stone. Lights flicker as you flip them on, humming to life in slow, uneven rows. The shelves down here stretch taller, older, heavier than the ones upstairs. This part of the library is rarely visited, except by you and, unfortunately, one aggravating security guard.

You walk all the way to the back, where the loose shelf is. It’s one of the oldest, built into the wall with ancient check-out books on it—from before everything was digitized. Sure enough, the wooden shelf hangs at an angle, the books look like they’re one blow of the AC from slipping off. 

“Good thing there isn’t AC down here.” You mutter to yourself as you walk over. The room is cooled only because of a few fans, humidity sticking to your skin slightly, but not enough to cause the books down here to mold.

You go over to the shelf, plant your feet, and tug it upward, trying to coax the warped wood flush against the brackets. It shifts a little, but not enough. You grit your teeth and try again. The old thing groans like it resents being touched.

“Come on,” you mutter, fingers slipping. “You were standing fine last month. Why now?”

Time, your brain unhelpfully supplies. 

You crouch, inspecting the lower bracket. It’s slightly bent—not broken, just stubborn. Probably just needs a little encouragement. You grab the edge of the shelf again, lean your weight into it, and—

A loud crack echoes through the basement, and before you can react, the entire shelf jerks forward, dragging several decades’ worth of hardbound, dust-heavy ledgers with it.

“Oh, shit—!”

It gives way all at once.

You stumble back, arms flying up on instinct, a useless attempt to shield yourself from the avalanche of oversized archival tomes about to flatten you. You have just enough time to register, oh, this is how I die, crushed by budget reports from 1973—

A hand closes around your upper arm and yanks you backward, hard.

Your back collides with a solid chest.

The wall of books slams to the floor where you’d been standing a heartbeat ago, the crash echoing through the basement like a small earthquake. Dust billows up in a cloud that would be dramatic if you weren’t currently pressed against a very warm, very solid person.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Bucky mutters against your ear, breath warm, grip still locked around your arm. “You trying to get yourself killed down here?”

Your brain scrambles between indignation, adrenaline, and bewildered relief.

“What—what are you doing here?” you demand, shoving his hand off you even though your legs are still shaky.

He lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Saving your ass, apparently.”

You glare at him, cheeks hot. “I had it handled.”

He huffs a laugh, stepping around you to survey the wreckage. “Yeah? Looked real handled from where I was standing.”

You refuse to acknowledge how fast your heart is still racing. “You’re not even supposed to be down here.”

“And you’re not supposed to be fixing collapsing shelves alone after dark,” he fires back, crossing his arms. His shirt stretches over his shoulders unfairly. “Heard the crash from upstairs, door was propped open. Figured there was a reason.”

You blink. “Oh.”

His jaw ticks, like he’s irritated you’re surprised. “You think I don’t pay attention to what goes on in your building?”

Your building.

You ignore the way that phrasing hits somewhere low and inconvenient.

Bucky steps closer—close enough that the leftover dust rising in the air settles in his hair like ash. His voice drops, softer, but somehow heavier.

“You could’ve been hurt.”

You swallow.

Then, because you can’t bring yourself to just thank him like a normal person, you scoff, “You’re the one who told me to come fix the shelf…”

His mouth curves—not quite a smirk, not quite a frown—something in between, something that looks frustratingly like he’s trying not to smile.

“I told you it needed fixing,” he corrects. “Didn’t tell you to go full demolition crew by yourself at eleven o’clock at night.”

You cross your arms petulantly. “Oh, so now I need supervision to move a piece of wood?”

“Apparently,” he deadpans, gesturing to the crime scene of shattered ledgers and splintered brackets on the floor. “Exhibit A.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” he fires back without hesitation. “Birds of a feather, sweetheart.”

The nickname makes something hot crawl up your throat—annoyance, obviously. Definitely not anything else. Absolutely not. You clamp your arms tighter across your chest as if that’ll keep the heat down.

“It’s late,” you bite out, because that’s safer than acknowledging anything else. “I wanted to get it done.”

He steps closer, just enough for the air to stretch tight between you.

“So you came down here alone,” he says, voice dropping low, “in the dark. With a shelf you already knew was unstable.” His gaze flicks over your face, slow and intentional. “Tell me again how you didn’t need supervision.”

You open your mouth to snap something back, but he’s already closing the distance, crouching to pick up one of the fallen ledgers. His bicep flexes under the strain; the book is heavy enough you hear the pull of old glue and stitching crack in protest. He flips the ledger in his hands, checking the spine like he actually knows what he’s looking at.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your throat has gone dry.

Bucky notices.

His gaze flicks over, down to your lips, your throat, the lift of your breath.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

“It’s cold,” you lie, even though the basement heat clings to your skin.

He moves closer anyway, lowering his voice to something dark and intimate that curls around your spine.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “just admit you were scared.”

Your breath hitches.

He hears that too.

His eyes darken, a heat there so sharp it feels like it cuts straight through you. “Or” he adds softly, “is there another reason you’re shaking?”

Your fingers tighten around your elbows, nails biting into your sleeves. “I’m not shaking.” you whisper before you can stop yourself, but it sounds weak, even to your ears.

He straightens slowly, the massive ledger hanging loose from one hand like it weighs nothing. Dust drifts from the cover, floating between you like suspended sparks. By the time he’s fully upright, he’s closer than he was before—too close for you to pretend your pulse isn’t doing somersaults.

“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” he says, deceptively soft.

You want to snap at him. You want to step away. You do neither.

His free hand hovers—almost touching your waist, barely an inch of charged air between his knuckles and your sweater—but he doesn’t close the distance. He doesn’t need to, the heat rolling off him hits you anyway.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you manage, except it sounds nothing like the sharp reprimand you intended. It sounds breathless, barely held together.

Bucky’s head tilts, the corner of his mouth lifts very slightly, like he’s realizing something he probably shouldn’t voice out loud.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” he says.

“Liar,” you shoot back—quiet, unsteady.

He chuckles under his breath. It’s low, warm, and it sinks straight down, making your thighs squeeze together instinctively.

“Alright,” he concedes, eyes flickering down, catching the movement, “maybe I am.”

Your heart trips over itself, and he doesn’t even try to hide it this time—the way his eyes travel over your frame, the way his gaze lingers on the places you least want him looking and most want him noticing. His jaw flexes once—tight, restrained—like he’s holding back.

He sets the ledger down on the nearest table with a heavy thud, freeing both his hands. The sound echoes in the low ceiling, vibrating straight through your chest.

Your pulse stutters as he steps into that last inch of space you were clinging to like it offered any protection at all. His hand lifts again, slower this time, deliberate in a way that makes your breath snag. The back of his knuckles brushes just barely along your waist—light enough to claim it was an accident, intentional enough that you both know it wasn’t.

Your lungs stop working properly.

“Bucky—”

“Mm?” He sounds far too satisfied with himself, voice dripping with the kind of lazy heat that comes from knowing exactly what effect he’s having.

“You—” You swallow hard.

“I?” His fingers graze your side again, a faint stroke through fabric that sets every nerve on edge. “I what, sweetheart, use your words.”

Your mouth goes dry.

He hears the tiny inhale you make, sees the way you press your thighs together again, like that’s going to hide anything from him.

“Thought so,” he murmurs.

Before you can protest—or lie—his hand slides up, slow and precise, stopping just at the curve of your ribcage. Not quite touching anything scandalous, but not quite innocent either.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice so low it feels like it curls under your skin, “if you don’t want me close…” His thumb drags the faintest, most maddening line along the side of your torso, and you curse your mind for wishing your sweater wasn’t there to mute the feeling, “…you’ve gotta tell me to back up.”

You can’t, and he knows it.

His breath ghosts over the corner of your mouth, his lips close enough that one more inhale would have them brushing. His eyes dip to your lips again—slow, hungry, barely restrained.

“Say it,” he challenges softly. “Tell me you want this.”

Your breath stutters so sharply you feel it all the way to your fingertips. You can’t even think the word without heat pouring down your spine, pooling embarrassingly low. And Bucky—god, Bucky sees it. Every twitch, every swallow, every second you hesitate.

His hand slides just a fraction higher—not enough to touch your chest, but enough that you can feel the warmth of his palm through your sweater, the promise of it. Your ribs expand against his knuckles on your next breath, and you swear he shivers.

“I—” you try, but it comes out as barely a sound.

He leans in, breath brushing your parted lips, voice dark enough to melt bone.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Just say the word. One little yes.”

Your knees nearly buckle. Your hands, stubborn traitors that they are, uncross and hover uselessly at your sides, like they’re waiting for you to decide whether you’re going to shove him away or pull him closer. You don’t do either. You just stand there, trembling, while Bucky Barnes watches you like he knows exactly which choice you’ll make.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes raking over your face, your lips, the pulse hammering in your throat. “Fight me on everything, but this, huh?”

“That’s—” You swallow. “That’s not—”

“You sure?” he asks, stepping closer still.

Your back bumps the desk behind you. You didn’t even realize he’d guided you backward until you felt the cold wood against your spine.

He cages you in, arms braced on either side of you. Not trapping—waiting.

Hovering inches from your mouth, breath hot, eyes molten.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” he says, quieter this time, like he already knows you won’t, “and I’ll stop right now.”

His thumb skims your waist again, a slow, sinful drag that has your breath catching on your tongue. Your body shivers traitorously, and his eyes flare in triumph.

“Sweetheart…” His voice drops to a whisper, barely a vibration against your lips. “You’re shaking so hard you’re gonna give yourself away.”

Your chest rises unevenly against him, your lips part, and the smallest, softest sound escapes before you can swallow it down.

A helpless little whimper.

His jaw tightens. His fingers curl against your side like he’s fighting the urge to grab.

“S’that a yes?” he murmurs, voice gone rough.

You don’t answer out loud. You just look up at him—eyes wide, breath trembling, lips parted—and he exhales like you’ve punched the air right out of him. The second you nod, he presses closer, lips finally meeting yours. 

Bucky’s mouth claims yours in one smooth, hungry press, his hand sliding from your waist to your hip, gripping just enough to pull you into him. You gasp into the kiss, and he swallows that sound like it’s something he’s been waiting to hear for weeks.

His other hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw before cupping it, thumb stroking once—slow, reverent, nothing like the cocky challenge he’d been throwing at you a moment ago. The contrast makes your knees wobble all over again.

He notices. He always notices.

Without breaking the kiss, he crowds you back against the desk, chest flush to yours, the heat of him overwhelming and perfect. His mouth moves against yours with dangerous intent—slow enough to savor, deep enough to ruin.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his breath mingling with yours, lips still brushing yours like he can’t quite let go.

“Been driving me insane,” he mutters, voice roughened to gravel. “You know that, right?”

You can’t think, can’t form words. You just blink up at him, dazed and breathless, and his lips twitch into a smirk that’s far too self-satisfied for the situation.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours, “you know.”

You grab the front of his shirt—maybe to steady yourself, maybe to pull him back in—and it works, because he groans low in his throat, like the sound is dragged straight out of him.

“Sweetheart,” he warns softly, “you do that again, and I’m not stopping at a kiss.”

Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “Shut up and kiss me.”

His jaw flexes, control slipping visibly.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes, voice dark and promising as he leans in again, “yes ma’am.”

His mouth crashes back onto yours with a sound that’s almost a growl, hot and consuming, your command snapping whatever fraying thread of restraint he had left.

The kiss turns rough instantly—one hand sliding behind your hip, dragging you flush against him; the other tangling into your hair, tipping your head just enough for him to fit his mouth harder to yours. The desk digs into your lower back from how firmly he crowds you into it, so you hop slightly. He groans and catches your legs, sliding you on top of the desk and slotting himself between them,

“Christ,” he mutters against your lips, breath ragged, “you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Your fingers fist in his shirt tighter, and the sound he makes—low, wrecked—is something you’ll be thinking about for days. His thumb strokes along your jaw, slow and possessive, while his other hand snakes beneath the thick fabric of your sweater, just enough to brush your ribs with his bare thumb.

When he breaks the kiss again, his lips ghost along your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants to taste you next.

“You’re trouble,” he whispers, more like a confession than an accusation. His breath skims your pulse, and it jumps under his mouth. “Absolute fuckin’ trouble.”

Your head tips back before you can even think better of it, a soft sound caught in your throat. He follows the movement instantly, lips trailing higher, his grip on your hip tightening in a way that sends heat flooding straight through you.

“Bucky—” you manage.

He lifts his head, eyes dark, blown wide, fixed entirely on you.

“James,” he murmurs, chest rising hard against yours. “Call me James.”

You don’t even hesitate.

“James.”

His breath leaves him in a slow, hungry exhale, like the word alone nearly undoes him.

“Fuck,” he whispers, leaning in, “c’mere.”

His mouth finds yours again, but this time it’s different—deeper, hungrier, like hearing his name in your voice flipped some internal switch he’d been holding shut for far too long. His hands frame your hips, thumbs pressing in just enough to make your breath stutter. He drags you closer across the desk until there isn’t an inch of air left between your bodies.

You whine softly against his lips, and he swallows the sound with a quiet, vicious groan.

“Jesus,” he mutters into your mouth, like he can’t help it, “I knew you’d sound good, but—fuck.”

He trails off, because he’s kissing you again, slower now but somehow even more intense—like he wants to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you breathe, the way you lean into him without realizing it. His hand slides up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades, guiding you into the angle he wants. The other slides higher under your shirt, palming your chest over your bra.

You immediately arch into the touch, shivering against him, hips bucking into his before you can stop them.

His reaction is instant. A sharp inhale, a soft, ruined curse. His hips press closer in a way that makes your breath catch hard in your throat. His forehead drops to your shoulder for a single, shuddering second—like he needs a breath, like he needs to remember how to stay upright—then he’s kissing down your neck, open-mouthed and hot and devastating.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes against your skin, voice strained, “you’re gonna kill me.”

Your fingers find his hair again, tugging lightly, until he makes a sound. He lifts his head, eyes blown, chest rising hard against yours. His thumb brushes the edge of your bra where his hand still cups your chest, teasing just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice pitched low and thick as he presses his hips forward again. “’S what you do to me.”

Your hands slide down to his shoulders, gripping, pulling him closer because you can’t not, because being even a millimeter farther from him feels unbearable now. He groans like the sound is torn from him, grabbing your hips, pulling you fully against him as if he’s trying to fuse the two of you together. He tugs your shirt up and over your head, eyes raking over your exposed form greedily.

The moment your shirt hits the floor, something shifts in him. Not the hunger deepens into pure lust and worship, like the sight of you stole the breath right out of his lungs.

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice low, reverent in a way that makes heat spike through you. His hands hover for a second, like he’s not sure where to touch first, like every inch of you is something he wants to savor and ruin all at once. One hand comes up to cup your cheek again, thumb brushing your flushed skin. The other slides along your waist, fingers splaying wide over your side as if he’s trying to map it from memory.

“You’re…” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “You’re so damn perfect.”

The compliment hits you deeper than you expect. Your breath stutters, and his eyes flick down to your chest, watching the way it rises—slow, trembling, want spilling out of you in ways you can’t hide. His gaze snaps back up to yours, pupils blown wide. He dips down, pressing a chaste kiss to your collarbone, then another lower, just above the rise of your breast, not once breaking eye contact. Your breath is caught in your throat as his fingers slide up your back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake before deftly undoing the clasp of your bra.

He slowly peels it off, taking you in for a brief moment before lowering his head back to your chest, still not moving his burning gaze from yours. He presses another soft kiss just above the swell of your chest, then lower, leaving wet kisses on the skin. His lips move with an agonizing slowness—like you’re something he’s afraid to rush, something meant to be savored. Each kiss is deliberate, warm, open-mouthed just enough that you feel the faint drag of his breath on your skin. Finally, his lips wrap around your nipple, sucking at the sensitive skin.

Your fingers tighten in his hair without you meaning to. He reacts instantly—his eyes fluttering half-shut, a soft groan vibrating around you in a way that makes you whimper before he forces them open again, looking up at you from where he’s kissing you.

The sight alone almost knocks the air from your lungs. His stare pins you in place—wild, hungry, and so focused it feels like he’s stripping you down to something deeper than bare skin. His mouth stays on you, tongue flicking lightly before he sucks again, harder this time, like he wants to hear the exact sound it’ll pull from your throat. When it comes—a shaky, helpless breath—his grip on your waist tightens, fingers digging in like he’s holding himself back by a thread.

He pulls off you slowly, lips wet, breath unsteady. For a moment, he just rests his forehead against your sternum, chest rising and falling against your stomach as if he’s trying to get a handle on himself. His hands are anything but calm—they roam upward, sliding along your ribs, thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts in a way that makes your knees nearly buckle.

Then he looks up again, and this time, there’s no restraint left in him. He presses you back onto your palms on the desk, leaning over you, chest brushing yours, heat overwhelming.

“Lie back,” he breathes, voice dark and steady, “and let me take care of you.”

You sink back onto your hands before you even register moving—your body responding to his voice faster than your mind can catch up. The desk digs lightly into your palms, grounding you, but everything else feels suspended in the thick, charged air between you.

He watches you settle, eyes dragging slowly over the lines of your body—your parted lips, the rise and fall of your chest, the way your thighs shift like you’re fighting the urge to pull him closer. Something in his expression darkens, sharpens, lust carving itself into every angle of his face.

“Good,” he murmurs.

He lowers himself again, bracing one hand next to your hip as the other glides across your stomach, thumb drawing an absent, shaky line over your skin. It’s barely a touch—gentle, almost hesitant—but the heat of his palm burns through you.

Then he dips, mouth finding your breast again, this time with no hesitation at all.

His lips close around you harder, hotter, his tongue stroking a slow, deliberate pattern that makes your spine arch off the desk. He groans when you react—quiet, like he wasn’t expecting how strong the pull of your body would be—but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets greedier. His free hand slides up your side, wide and warm, spreading over your ribs like he wants to feel the way you breathe for him.

Your breath catches, a soft sound escaping before you can swallow it back. He pulls back just enough to murmur against your skin, voice wrecked. “That’s it, let me hear you.”

And then he’s on you again, sucking, kissing, teeth grazing just lightly enough to make your stomach drop. His breath is hot, uneven, his mouth moving lower, then back up, tracing circles in a rhythm that feels like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pleasure.

Your arms tremble from holding yourself up, and he notices immediately—of course he does. His hand slides to your back, slow and sure, and he eases you down, guiding you until your spine meets the desk and you’re lying out beneath him, flushed and breathless and completely undone.

He hovers over you, lips swollen, eyes blown wide, and then he lowers his head, moving slowly, deliberately, with the clear intent of kissing his way even lower. His lips trail downward with a patience that feels nothing like restraint—more like devotion, like he wants you to feel every single place his mouth touches. Each kiss is warmer than the last, each one lingering long enough that your breath stutters before he moves again. He kisses the center of your sternum, then the sensitive spot just below it, his breath spilling hot over your skin.

When he reaches your stomach, his hands slide down to your hips. His thumbs press into the soft curves there, firm but careful, as if grounding himself on your body. He pauses—not because he’s unsure, but because he’s looking at you again. 

The sight of him between your legs, shoulders broad and steady, eyes dark and hungry, nearly knocks the air from your lungs. His gaze flicks from your face to your stomach, then lower, and his breath leaves him in a rough, unsteady exhale.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says quietly, but his voice is already frayed at the edges, already wrecked from wanting.

You shake your head, breathless. “Don’t stop.”

The sound he makes is low, guttural, almost like he’s been physically hit by the words.

His fingers move to the waistband of your pants, tracing the seam slowly—agonizingly slowly—before he hooks them under the fabric. He pulls, dragging them down your hips, down your legs, keeping his eyes on you the entire time like he’s afraid to miss even a second of how you react.

Once they’re off, he settles himself back between your thighs, hands smoothing up the inside of them in a way that makes you shiver. He spreads you open gently—not demanding, not rough, but with a kind of reverence that makes your chest tighten.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fuck.”

He leans in, but he doesn’t touch you yet. He hovers, breath warm against the thin barrier of your underwear, close enough that you feel the heat of him but not close enough to ease the ache building in your core.

His hands tighten on your hips.

“Can I?” he asks—voice low, strained, like it’s taking everything in him to wait for your answer.

You nod, too quickly, too desperately.

“Need words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “James, yes.”

That’s all he needs. He exhales, long and shaky, like your permission undoes something inside him. Then his fingers slip beneath the edge of your underwear, and he drags them down your legs, slow, deliberate, until you’re bare before him.

He looks at you—really looks—and the heat in his eyes is overwhelming. Then he lowers his head, lips parting, breath ghosting over your most sensitive skin, and he finally touches you with his mouth. He groans the instant his mouth meets you, guttural and low. His hands slide under your thighs and pull you closer, anchoring you against his mouth as he settles in like he plans to stay there for a long time.

The second kiss is deeper, firmer, his tongue dragging in a slow, devastating stroke that makes your hips jolt off the desk. He growls softly in response, palm flattening over your hips to hold you still.

“Easy,” he murmurs against you, voice wrecked. “Let me… fuck, let me enjoy you.”

He goes back in immediately, licking you again—long, slow, deliberate—before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking gently. Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp, fingers flying to his hair. You don’t tug at first, just bury your hands in the strands, grounding yourself, but when he starts moving his tongue in slow circles, pressure building with maddening precision—

You pull harder than you mean to, and he moans into you. The vibration sends heat shooting through your entire body.

His hands tighten, one sliding up to grip your hip, the other moving to your stomach—holding you down just enough that he can work you how he wants. He’s not careless, he’s not rough, but he’s relentless, focused in a way that makes your pulse thrum.

“Bucky—” Your voice cracks on his name.

His head lifts just enough for you to see the state he’s in—lips wet, pupils blown, breath unsteady.

“What?” he asks, voice hoarse. “Tell me.”

You don’t even have time to form the words before he leans in again, licking a long stripe up your center, slower this time, savoring. His fingers dig into your thigh like he’s losing his mind right along with you.

“You taste…” His voice breaks off in a whisper, shaking slightly. “Jesus, sweetheart, I’m gonna get addicted.”

Then he closes his mouth over you again, sucking—hard enough that a loud, helpless sound tears from your throat. He moans like the sound is a reward, settling deeper between your thighs, as if he wants to drown in every reaction he pulls from you.

You’re panting now, trembling, hips rocking involuntarily against his mouth. He helps you, guides your hips with his hands as his tongue meets your movement with perfect rhythm, like he’s been waiting for this, like he knows exactly what you need. Your fingers clutch at his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp. Every time you make a sound—every gasp, every broken breath—he reacts, groaning into you, working harder, deeper, hungrier.

He shifts one hand from your thigh to between your legs, sliding a finger along your slick seam, just barely teasing, gathering the wetness his mouth is already pulling from you. Then, with a slow, devastating precision, he slides a finger inside you.

You choke on a gasp. His mouth doesn’t stop.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against you, curling his finger just right. “Good girl. Let me have you.”

His words hit you like a spark to dry tinder—your whole body lights up, back arching off the desk as his finger curls again, deliberate, devastating.

“James—” It falls out of you like a prayer.

He groans at the sound, deep and wrecked, the vibration of it sinking straight through you. His tongue flicks against your clit in a slow, controlled pattern that only makes everything worse—better—more. His mouth works you with almost reverent focus, like he’s worshipping every reaction you give him.

“Yeah,” he rasps against you, pumping his finger deeper, “say my name. Don’t stop.”

You can’t. You couldn’t if you tried.

Your fingers tighten in his hair—he moans, low and hungry, and the sound alone nearly sends you over the edge. His other hand slides up your stomach to your ribcage, like he wants to hold you still, hold you together, hold you.

Then he pushes a second finger inside you—slow at first, careful—and your breath stutters violently.

“Oh fuck—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice dark with something like pride. “You’ve got it.”

He curls both fingers in a perfect, ruthless rhythm, and the drag of his tongue keeps matching it, syncing with you, coaxing your body higher and higher until you can barely breathe, barely think. Your thighs tremble around his head—he tightens his grip around your hips to keep you open, keep you right where he wants you.

“That’s it,” he breathes, sounding dizzy with it. “You’re so close, sweetheart—I can feel it. You’re squeezing my fingers so tight.”

He groans again, like he’s the one about to fall apart.

Your legs twitch, hips rocking helplessly into his mouth. You’re clinging to him now—one hand in his hair, the other braced against the desk, trying to anchor yourself as he works you with devastating precision.

His mouth seals around your clit again, sucking harder this time, and the world goes white at the edges.

“Jamie—Fuck, I’m—”

His fingers curl exactly right. His tongue presses exactly where you need.

It hits you so hard your breath leaves you in a broken, shaking gasp—your body pulling tight around him, hips jerking, thighs trembling around his head as the climax crashes through you, sharp and overwhelming.

He doesn’t stop. He moans into you, riding every wave with you, drawing it out until you’re shaking, until you’re gasping his name like you’re trying to breathe it.

When you finally collapse back against the desk, trembling, he slows—softening his mouth, gentling his touch—until the aftershocks ease. Only then does he lift his head. His lips are wet. His pupils are blown wide. His chest rises and falls hard, like you just knocked the wind out of him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks up at you with something dark and reverent, and breathes—

“Sweetheart, I’m not done with you yet.”

He flips you over in one smooth, decisive movement—gentle enough that you land without jarring, rough enough that your breath catches in your throat. Your palms hit the cool surface of the desk, your body still trembling, your mind slow to catch up with the shift in gravity.

His hands settle on your waist immediately—wide, steady, undeniably claiming. His thumbs press into your hips, grounding you, guiding you back against him in a way that makes heat surge through you all over again.

“Good,” he mutters, voice low and ragged behind you. “Just stay right there.”

You feel him lean over you, his chest brushing your back, his breath hitting the side of your neck. One of his hands slides up your spine, slow and firm, fingers trailing each ridge with deliberate care. The other stays at your hip, anchoring you as if he knows exactly how unsteady you feel.

You don’t realize you’ve dropped your head until he murmurs, “Uh-uh,” and curls his fingers gently under your chin, guiding your head back up. “I want you to breathe for me.”

You inhale shakily. He presses a soft kiss to the nape of your neck—not teasing, not demanding. Just grounding. Like he wants to bring you back into your own body before he takes anything further.

Your muscles loosen under the warmth of him, tension melting from your shoulders, and he hums approvingly.

“There you go,” he whispers, thumb stroking the back of your neck. “Good girl.”

His other hand slides from your hip to your lower back, a slow, steady pass meant to soothe more than tease. He presses his palm flat there, holding you still, his breath steadying in time with yours.

Then, lower—his hand drifts to your thigh, fingers curling around it as he nudges your legs apart just a little more.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, sounding almost proud. “So damn perfect like this.”

You feel his forehead rest between your shoulder blades for a moment, his breath warm through your hair. It’s the kind of pause that isn’t indecision—it’s restraint. A flicker of control he’s fighting to keep.

He exhales—slow, shuddering.

Then his hand trails back up your spine, fingers slipping into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head so he can press his lips to your cheek.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmurs, voice quiet but edged with heat he’s barely holding back. “Otherwise…”

His grip tightens just slightly.

“I’m gonna ruin you.”

His fingers stay tangled in your hair for a beat, his breath warm against your cheek, his chest rising and falling against your back like he’s wrestling himself into something slower, gentler—because every part of him wants to lose control, and every part of him wants to make sure you’re with him for every second of it.

You swallow, your breath catching, and he hears it. You feel the way his whole body responds—tightening, focusing, preparing.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice turning low and certain. “That’s it. Stay right here.”

His hand slides from your hair down the curve of your back, slow enough to make your skin prickle. When he reaches your ass again, he palms it—his thumbs pressing into the plus flesh, his fingers curling around you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

He pulls you back the smallest bit, testing the give of your body against his, and a soft sound slips out of you—half breath, half helpless reaction. His grip clenches immediately. You feel him spread you out, another swear leaving him as he leans over and spit directly on your weeping hole.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Christ, look at you.”

His hips grind forward against you, his erection pressing tight against the curve of your ass, and you feel the shudder that rolls through him. His free hand slides up your spine again, fingers pressing between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to steady himself. 

You arch your back instinctively, pressing into his touch, and the groan he lets out is filthy with want. His hand leaves your spine and you hear the unbuckling of his belt, the rustle of clothes being removed. He doesn’t let you turn around to see him, pressing you back down. 

“Stay,” he orders, the command rough but threaded through with something desperate. When the blunt, slick head of him brushes against you, he stills—just for a heartbeat—as if savoring the moment. Then he pushes in with one slow, relentless thrust.  

You gasp from the sheer fullness of him, the way your body stretches to accommodate. He curses under his breath, hands tightening on your hips, fingers sinking into flesh. “Fuck,” he grits out, chest heaving. “You’re fucking tight, even after all that.”  

His first few strokes are careful—controlled—but soon, the rhythm fractures. He pulls out almost completely before driving back in hard enough to shove the desk forward a fraction. A filthy groan is ripped from your throat as you brace your hands against the edge. The wood digs into your palms, anchoring you as he snaps his hips again and again. His breath is ragged against your neck, lips brushing your skin between muttered praises and darker, dirtier words.  

Your fingers scramble for purchase on the desk, sliding against wood, and he notices—of course he does. His hand closes over yours, lacing your fingers together, pinning you down as he fucks you deeper, rougher.  

“That’s it,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Take it. Take all of me.” 

His hips snap forward again, and this time your body bows under the force—spine arching, breath stuttering—as he bottoms out inside you with a groan that vibrates through your skin. His free hand slides up your sweat-slick back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to fuse himself to you.  

You whimper, half-formed words dissolving into gasps as he sets a brutal pace, each thrust turning your brain more and more into static. The wood creaks under your weight, the sound lost beneath the slap of skin and Bucky’s ragged breathing.

“Look at you,” he pants, lips skimming your ear. “You feel this? How fucking perfect you are?” His teeth graze your neck, blunt and possessive, and then he’s pulling back—just enough to drag his cock almost entirely out before slamming in again. The angle shifts, and suddenly he’s hitting a spot that makes your vision blur.  

Your nails scrape the desk, and Bucky snarls something filthy against your shoulder. His rhythm breaks completely—harder, faster, hips pistoning in short, desperate strokes like he’s chasing something he can’t name.  

“Gonna—” His voice cracks. “Fuck. Gonna be my good girl and come for me again?”  

His palm lands sharp on your ass—once, twice—and the sting sends you careening over the edge, back arching as you clench around him. The sounds leaving you are pornographic, moans you didn’t even know you were capable of making leaving your lips. Bucky curses, hips stuttering, and then he’s burying himself deep with a groan that sounds like it’s been ripped from his chest. His entire body shudders as his warmth fills you, painting your insides white.

For a heartbeat, neither of you move. Your breath is still catching in uneven waves, your body loose and boneless against the desk when he finally stills behind you. For a moment, neither of you moves—just the quiet rush of your breathing and his, tangled together in the dim room.

Then Bucky exhales. A long, low, wrecked sound that trembles out of him as he presses his forehead to your shoulder blade.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice raw and barely there. “That was… you’re perfect.”

He gathers you gently—so gently it nearly undoes you—and helps you sit upright, guiding you back against his chest. You’re shaky, and he feels it; his hands instinctively steady your hips before sliding around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of him.

His nose brushes your temple, slow, almost absent, like he can’t not touch you. You feel his breath hitch once—just once—before he presses a soft, grounding kiss to your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmurs, quiet in a way that feels too intimate, too soft for someone who had you undone seconds ago.

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah… yeah. Are you?”

He huffs a breath that almost becomes a laugh, arms tightening. “Sweetheart, I’m not sure I’ve ever been that good in my life.”

The confession warms you, settles something inside you. His thumb strokes little circles at your ribs, steady and slow, like he’s reassuring himself you’re really there. After a moment, he shifts, turning you toward him until you’re cradled between his legs. His fingers tip your chin up gently, not demanding—just wanting to see you. His blue eyes soften instantly.

“God,” he says quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, “you’re beautiful.”

You want to look away, the heat rising to your cheeks too much, but he doesn’t let you—not with force, just with that look, that calm, steady warmth that holds you in place.

He leans in, presses a slow, lingering kiss to your lips—nothing like before. No heat, no urgency. Just softness. Reverence.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. Then his eyes widen.

“Shit, I didn’t pull out. Are you—?”

Your breath catches—not from nerves, but from how him the question is. How the shift from wrecked and reverent to worried and gentle happens so fast you can feel the sincerity in it.

You blink up at him, still tucked safely between his legs. “It’s okay,” you say softly. “I’m clean and on the pill. You?”

It takes a full second for relief to wash over his face, for the tension in his shoulders to melt out of him. He drags a hand over his jaw, letting out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a laugh.

“Yeah, me too,” he mutters, eyes closing briefly. “Clean, I mean, not— you know what I mean.”

You can’t help but let out a snort, and he rolls his eyes a bit before pulling back.

“Guess I really gotta ask you out now, huh?”

A slow smile tugs at your mouth. “Now?” you ask, leaning back a little to look him in the eye. “You’re asking me now?”

His hands tighten at your waist, like you might float away if he doesn’t keep you there. “Sweetheart,” he groans, scrubbing a hand over his face, “after what just happened? Yeah, I kinda have to.”

You raise a brow. “Oh? Is that the rule?”

“No,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to your mouth. “The rule is that you don’t get to look at me like that and then not let me take you out.”

“Like what?” you ask, all innocence you definitely don’t feel.

He gives you a deadpan look—one that lasts maybe half a second before dropping his head back like he’s praying for strength. “Oh my god,” When he looks at you again, it’s with that crooked, undone half-smile that makes your stomach flip. “You’re killing me.”

“Oh, am I?” you tease.

“Yes.” He leans closer, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, like he’s trying to get his composure back one kiss at a time. “And you’re enjoying it, too.”

You do. He knows you do. You tilt your head anyways, feigning surprise. “Wow. Big accusations.”

“Big facts,” he shoots back, nipping lightly at your throat just to feel you gasp. “And now I’m definitely asking you out.”

You pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You didn’t actually ask, though.”

He raises an eyebrow.

Then a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face.

“Oh. You want me to ask.”

You shrug, trying not to grin. “I mean… if you’re gonna do it, do it right.”

He lets out a quiet, incredulous noise—half laugh, half growl—and pulls back, grabbing your clothes off the floor. “Well then you better get some clothes on first.” He tucks your panties in his pocket, “a souvenir," before he watches you dress, openly and shamelessly, with a gaze so warm it sends a flutter through your chest. He reaches for your cardigan, holding it out so you can slide your arms in. The gesture shouldn’t feel intimate, but it does.

Once you’re wrapped up again, he steps back, hands on his hips like he’s assessing you. “There,” he says. “Now I can do it right.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Finally.”

He licks his lips, like he’s taking a moment to pull himself together. Then he reaches out, cupping your cheek and turning your head until your eyes meet his.

“Go out with me,” he says softly—still teasing, still confident, but there’s sincerity threaded through it now. “Tomorrow night.”

You pretend to think. “And what if I say no?”

He laughs under his breath, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “After that?”

You shrug with a smirk even though you know he’s right, “Yeah. What if I just wanted it to be a one-time thing and say no?”

He sighs, stepping back and looking at you exasperatedly, “Well then I’d walk out of here clutching my bleeding heart, but I’d respect your wishes.”

You can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face, nor the blush that accompanies it. “Guess it's a good thing I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

The smile that breaks his face is more of a beam, so bright and full of joy it makes you giggle as he kisses your cheek. “Tomorrow night it is then. I end my nightly rounds here anyways, so I’ll pick you up. Sound good, sweetheart?”

“I’ll see you then.” You smile, hopping off the desk and staggering slightly from just how badly he’d turned your legs to jelly. He steadies you immediately with a teasing grin that has your eyes rolling. “Shut up.” 

“Didn’t say anything, sweetheart.”

The next morning, you arrive early to the library, like every other day. You stack donated paperbacks on the cart, straighten the display of new arrivals again. You check the study rooms, flick on desk lamps, and sip your morning coffee, taking in the quiet calm.

When you hear boots interrupt the peace, for once your jaw doesn’t tense. When you see Bucky Barnes open the door, you smile instead of grimace.

“Did you order the new shelf for the archives?”

When the cassette mixtape shows up in your gym locker, you can’t avoid bringing it up. You almost feel guilty, like you’re breaking an unspoken rule, violating the terms of this mystical pact.

Anxiously, worrying it will fracture something if it gets back to Bob, you bring it up to the other teammate who knows him best.

“Does he do this to you?” you ask, showing Yelena the tape after a morning workout. “Leave surprises for you all over the place?”

She cocks one eyebrow, towel in hand, running it over her hair before turning to retreat deeper into the locker room. Her eyes soften, like she's watching a baby lamb frolic in front of her. “Nope. That’s just for you.”

You don’t want the little pieces of tribute to stop, but you’re also dying to know what’s on that tape.

That’s how you wind up outside Bob’s room on a Sunday afternoon, snakes in your stomach as you knock and wait for him to answer. It always takes him a while. He naps unpredictably or listens to his headphones for hours on end. When he appears, he’s sleep-rumpled, but his eyes brighten the minute he finds you there.

“Hey sweet stuff.”

That one always makes you blush. You show him the mixtape. “I hate to sound terminally uncool, but I don’t have anything that can play this.”

“Oh no,” he says, lips pursing before they shift to the side. “Guess you’ll never know what’s on it.”

He pretends to shut the door on you, laughing when you charge into the room and cuddle into his side, dangling the tape in front of his face. “That’s not nice. What if there’s a secret message on it? What if it contains all the wisdom of the universe? What if it will change my life?”

Making a thoughtful, muted sound, he squeezes you back. “Sounds serious.”

You turn him in place, angling him toward the clunky, huge boombox on his desk, right next to the record player, shoebox overflowing with cassette tapes, and a plastic milk crate of vinyl records. Bob wanders the city alone a lot, usually at odd times of day to make sure he never encounters a crowd. Sometimes, you hear him coming back and pop out into the hall to see him carrying a plastic bag with a thrifted record or a box of free shit he found on the street. His taste can’t be easily categorized or discerned, his room a treasure trove of oddities, hoarder-cramped, the overcorrections of a man who has so often had nothing.

“If only you had a machine for this exact purpose that I could borrow."

Bob sighs theatrically, touching his cheek to yours. “If only.”

“Please?” He’s generally highly susceptible to your begging, even in scenarios where he holds all the cards. “I wanna listen.”

“Mm.” Another deep, thoughtful noise. His arm tucks around your waist, his nose pushing into your hair. “I’d consider a trade.”

“Magnanimous.”

“That’s me.” He laughs. “Wait, that means generous, right?”

“Bob.”

He knows it makes you insane when he plays dumb. Holding you at arm’s length, he taps his cheek, eyes big and hopeful. You lean in, eager, and press a long, lingering kiss where he indicated, feeling his skin ignite under your lips.

He’s six deepening shades of red when you pull away.

Flicking his head toward the boombox, he squeezes your hip. “She’s all yours.”

You sit on the floor of your room with the boombox plugged into the wall. It just seems right to do it that way, honor the spirit of the exercise. Your heart is in your throat as you listen to the songs he’s picked. It’s…eclectic to say the least, just like him, surprising and sweet, raw and dark, sensitive and heart-melting. By the third song, you’re lying on your floor, hands clasped over your stomach as the music rolls over you.

It feels like an outsourced confession.

Forty-five minutes later, you track back to his room, but he’s not there. Bob has several hiding spots, some known only to you. There’s a yoga studio with a meditation room on the thirtieth floor. It has a soft vibe, lots of cushions, and a small balcony with a view of the park. You find him there, in the open, wind tossing his hair while he resettles it over and over again, fidgeting.

You grab a cushion and pad outside to sit beside him. There’s a tension in his cheeks that’s way past familiar; he’s wearing the face of a man in a nightmare, naked, staring down a gymnasium full of classmates. When his left hand lifts to fix his hair again, you take it, folding it underneath yours on your knee. Then, you just sit.

There’s plenty to love about you, but Bob loves your silence.

Your silence isn’t like anyone else’s. It’s light, comfortable, utterly devoid of expectation. He fell in love with that quiet. He knows it sounds weird, but in a world full of people staring and wondering and willing, waiting for him to either detonate like a nuke or save mankind, the silence matters. He doesn’t see it as a lack of anything, but a deeply embodied confidence. In yourself. In him.

You’re not waiting for him to do anything but be himself, and that’s enough. You’ve never asked him to be more than he is, never even hinted at it, just snorted at his corny jokes, kept him company during sleepless nights, and shared pieces of yourself that he could hold on to.

He likes it when you talk, too, of course he does, he thinks you’re the funniest person on the team, wry and observant, whispering things to him in briefings that often win you both sharp looks from the inappropriate giggling.

But this? Sitting with you, being with you, knowing you’ll let him speak when he’s ready… He’s never felt anything like it.

“There’s a lot more I wanted to put on there,” he says, hand flexing under yours, sweating against your knee. “There are four more tapes, actually. Five, sort of, but that one still sucks. So.”

You nod, lifting your head against the breeze, rubbing your thumb across his knuckles. “Bob.”

“Mm.”

“Why do you leave things all over the tower for me?”

He ducks his head, tilting it back and forth to weigh the answer. Against his fear. Against his pride. “Sometimes I’m not there for you the way I wanna be. And so, I just think: what would make me feel good, you know? And it’s that, I…” He trails off, heaving out a stammering breath, eyes sliding to the side, resting against you gently. “This way you know I’m l-loving you, even if I’m not there, even if I can’t get out of bed that day. Or if I’m…whatever. You know?”

His entire face seizes around the L-word. He scrunches up his shoulders, relaxes them when you lean into him, your head tilting against his. When it hits him, that he said it, that he really fucking said it, he feels like his skin might melt into his lap. He’s just going to be bones, nervous bones, like some gross, slimy prop from an Indiana Jones movie, you’ll scream and—

“I love you, too.”

No girlfriend has ever said it to him like that. Calm. Reassuring. No one has ever said it to him without wanting something in return, drugs or sex or pity…

“Okay,” he says, shaking out the nerves, vibrating against you. “Holy shit.”

He rearranges your hands, holding yours, then brushes a soft kiss across your lips, staying there, silent and loved, for a long, long time.

Bob finds the mixtape two days later in his snack stack at the back of the pantry. His heart flops into his mouth as he stares at it, already plotting how he’ll get his boombox back.

From the woman he loves, from the woman that knows him so well.

[and for fun, Bob's mixtape]