My Library

long as your eyes could see, it's snow. you don't remember the last time it snowed like this. like it could trap you inside if you're not careful. thankfully you reached home before it got worse.

the front door sticks like it always does in winter, the wood swollen from the cold, and you have to shoulder it open with your hip while juggling two grocery bags and the mail that was frozen to the box.

snow tumbles off your boots in heavy clumps, melting instantly on the heated tile your dad finally splurged on last year.

the house smells like a candle he probably lit for you and like the chili he’s had simmering since noon, thick with cumin and too much garlic, the way he’s made it since you were little, the way it feels like home.

you’re kicking the door shut behind you when you hear your dad’s laugh boom from the living room, the one that means he’s genuinely happy.

there’s another voice under it. even though you haven't heard it before, you know that voice from a hundred stories.

bucky barnes. the guy who pulled your dad out of a burning hut in kandahar, the guy who sends you birthday cards with twenty dollars tucked inside even though you’re in your twenties now, the guy whose face you’ve only seen in grainy photos because he’s always “on the road” or “out west” or whatever vague thing your dad says when you ask why his best friend never visits.

you round the corner expecting the same old soldier you’ve built in your head: buzz-cut, sunburned, maybe missing a finger from some explosion.

instead there’s a man sprawled in your dad’s favorite recliner like he owns it, one boot propped on the coffee table, and flannel sleeves shoved to the elbows.

he’s bigger than the pictures, shoulders filling the chair, and when he turns his head the light catches on the sharp line of his jaw and the faint white scar that cuts through his left eyebrow.

your stomach just flips. hard. like it had never before.

“there she is,” your dad grins, arms open like you’re still eight. “thought the blizzard ate you.”

“almost did,” you manage, voice cracking on the last word because suddenly your tongue feels too thick. you dump the bags on the floor. the mail scatters. “roads are shit. i slid twice just getting out of the driveway.”

bucky’s eyes—god, they’re blue enough to hurt—track the movement of your hands, then lift to your face.

he doesn’t smile, not exactly, but something kind of shifts in his expression. there's a tightening around his mouth, nostrils flaring like he’s scenting the air.

you don’t understand why that makes heat rush straight between your legs.

you’ve never felt anything like this. it’s not just warmth; it’s an insistent throb, and you’re abruptly, achingly wet.

slick. the word pops into your head from some barely remembered dream, but that can’t be right. right?

you shift your weight, making your thighs brush, and the friction makes you bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from whimpering.

your dad is still talking, oblivious to whatever's happening inside of you. “bucky’s house got buried under six feet of snow and a pine tree. power’s out for the county, roads closed till god knows when. told him he’s staying here till it thaws.”

“hey, kid,” bucky's voice sound mesmerising even closer. he doesn’t stand up— probably can’t without looking awkward in the low-ceilinged room —but he leans forward to put his elbows on his knees. “heard a lot about you.”

you try to laugh but it just comes out shaky. “yeah, well, dad exaggerates.”

“doesn’t feel like exaggeration,” he murmurs, so low you’re not sure your dad hears it over the crackle of the fire.

your skin is on fire. you shrug out of your coat too fast, and when you bend to pick up the groceries your sweater rides up in the back.

cool air hits the strip of skin above your jeans and you swear bucky’s inhale is audible. when you straighten he’s staring at the floor, jaw clenched so tight you can count the muscles there.

“you okay, honey?” your dad asks, atill not understanding what's happening. who can blame him? even you don't understand.

“fine,” you lie. but your voice cracks again. “just—just hot. house is warm.”

bucky finally stands slowly like every inch costs him. he’s taller than you expected, broad enough that the room feels smaller now.

taking two steps towards you, he stops an arms length away. his hands are loose at his sides but you can clearly see his fingers flexing and unflexing.

“you burning up, sweetheart?” he asks quietly. “hurts anywhere?”

the question is gentle, but there’s something under it that makes your knees wobble.

you stare at him like you're confused, your brows drawn together. because you sure are confused.

because how could he possibly know your whole body feels like one raw nerve? your nipples are tight against your bra, your clit pulsing in time with your heartbeat, and you’re terrified if you move wrong everyone will smell how soaked you are.

“i—” you start, then stop, because your dad is right there.

bucky’s eyes flick to your dad and back to you, a silent conversation you don’t yet understand. “we’ll talk later,” he says, soft enough it’s almost just breath. “after your old man’s snoring loud enough to wake the dead. yeah?”

you nod before you can think about it. your throat is dry, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth.

“good girl,” he says, and the praise hits you like a punch to the sternum. your thighs clench involuntarily.

your dad claps bucky on the shoulder, breaking the moment. “come on, i’ll show you the guest room before the game starts. you still drink that piss-water beer?”

“only when i’m desperate,” bucky lets himself be steered away, but you can feel the way his gaze pierce you one last time before he disappears around the corner.

you stand there in the hallway long after their footsteps fade upstairs, heart beating so hard you can feel it basically everywhere.

your panties are absolutely ruined. you can feel the wet sliding down the inside of your thigh when you finally force yourself to move, and you have to bite your lip until it bleeds to keep from moaning out loud.

upstairs a door thuds shut. you can hear water running, and your dad's infectious laugh.

you press your back to the wall and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, knees to your chest, trying to breathe through the ache that has your name written all over it. and you don’t even know what it means.

snow keeps falling outside silently, erasing the world one inch at a time. inside, the house creaks around you like it knows something you don’t.

you stay there until your legs go numb, wondering why the air still smells like wood and forest and something darker, something that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin and into someone else’s.

bucky’s that someone else.

he’s sleeping ten feet down the hall tonight. with snow covering every inch around the house. with no where left to run even if you try.

you’re fucked. so fucked.

you wait until the house goes quiet. the way it only does after midnight, when even the the wind outside has worn itself out against the windows.

your dad’s snores rumble through the walls like distant thunder, the same rhythm since you were a kid hiding under blankets during storms.

you count to two hundred after the last creak on the stairs, then slip out of your room in socked feet, hoodie pulled up over your head, and heart punching against your ribs so hard you’re almost convinced it’s loud enough to wake him.

the guest room door is cracked open, a thin blade of lamplight cutting across the hardwood.

fingers curled against the frame, you hesitate. because you're not sure what is going to happen when you walk in. but your body is begging you to push open the door and jump in the bed with a man you barely even know.

because knocking feels too formal and you’re terrified of making any real noise, you push open the door slightly.

bucky’s sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but sweatpants, staring at the floor like it owes him money.

the lamp paints gold across the ridges of his back, the metal arm catching the light in a way that makes your stomach flip all over again.

he doesn’t look surprised when you appear. if anything, the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction. is he… relieved?

“couldn’t sleep either, huh?” his voice is rough from disuse, gentle in a way that makes you feel small and safe and completely out of your depth all at once.

shaking your head, you step inside, and pull the door almost shut behind you. “i kept… feeling weird. like my skin doesn’t fit right. and everything smells like you and it’s making me—” you stop, because your cheeks are burning and you don't know how to finish that sentence without making a fool of yourself. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“nothing’s wrong with you, sweetheart.” he pats the mattress beside him, in a way that's offering but not demanding. “c’mere. sit before you fall over.”

your legs carry you across the room like they’ve decided for you. the bed dips under your weight and you end up closer than you planned, knee brushing his thigh. the contact sends sparks skittering up your spine and you jerk away immediately, then hate yourself for it.

bucky huffs a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “yeah, that’s gonna keep happening. sorry.”

“why?” the word comes out tiny.

he rubs a hand over his face, just to have something to do with his hands. “your mom ever talk to you about… wolf stuff? beyond the shifting when you were a kid?”

you pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “she died when i was six. dad doesn’t— he thinks the full-moon thing is just stories. i only shift when i’m really upset or whatever. i thought that was it. the whole package.”

bucky’s quiet for a long beat. “christ. okay.”

he shifts to face you more fully, one leg goes under him now as if he's careful not to crowd you. “there’s more. a lot more. and what you’re feeling right now? that’s your body waking up to something it’s been waiting for its whole life.”

your throat feels dry as you try to push your next words out. “waiting for what?”

“an alpha,” his voice is so soft, exactly the opposite of what it seems to carry. “me, apparently.”

the word doesn’t mean anything to you and everything at the same time. you stare at him, with your mouth open a little.

he winces like it hurt him. “shit, that sounded creepy. i’m not—i didn’t plan this. i came here because my cabin’s under six feet of snow and your dad’s the only person i trust not to ask questions when i start growling at the walls in a couple days. i had no idea you're the same, let alone that you’d be—” he gestures vaguely at all of you, flustered in a way that’s almost cute on a man built like a brick wall.

“be what?” you whisper.

“unclaimed omega,” he says, like the words taste both sweet and dangerous. “and in your first real heat cycle, from the smell of it. which is… fuck, it’s like walking into a room full of birthday cakes when you’ve been starving for years.”

your face goes nuclear. “i don’t—i’m not—i’ve never even—” you can’t finish any of those sentences.

“i know,” he says gently. “i can smell that too.”

your hands move upwards on their own accord as if to hide your face from the impending humiliation. “oh my god.”

“hey, no.” his flesh hand settles on your wrist, thumb stroking the inside where your pulse is rabbiting. “this isn’t your fault. none of this is, baby. your mom should’ve been here. or someone. anybody to explain that when an omega hits maturity and meets a compatible alpha, biology loses its goddamn mind.”

you let him lower your hand. “so what is a heat, exactly? like… being horny? because i feel like i’m dying.”

he exhales through his nose, and there's a sound you're not sure is a laugh. “it’s being horny on a cellular level, yeah. but worse. your body’s screaming for— for relief. for a knot. for—” he stops himself before going too far. “sorry. trying not to be crude.”

“i don’t even know what a knot is,” you mumble.

bucky makes a wounded noise. “jesus, kid.”

“i’m not a kid,” you protest automatically, then immediately want the floor to swallow you because you sound twelve.

“you’re twenty-somethin’ and you’ve never had anybody explain this to you. that’s criminal.” he drags a hand through his hair. “okay. short version, no diagrams. alphas go into rut. omegas go into heat. when they’re near each other and the timing’s right, it’s like throwing gasoline on a bonfire. the alpha’s body produces a—structure—at the base of his—” he gestures downward, face red now. “it locks inside the omega so nothing leaks out. nature’s way of making sure pups happen. it feels… good. really good. but it’s intense and it lasts a while and if you’re not ready it can hurt.”

you stare at your knees. “so you’re saying in a couple days you’re gonna… lose control?”

“i’m saying i’m already fighting tooth and nail not to crawl into your bed right now and do things your dad would shoot me for,” his voice is strained. “and you’re leaking slick like because your body recognizes me as—as safe. as yours. which is fucking with my head almost as bad as yours.”

the room spins a little. “mine?”

he looks at you then, and his eyes are soft and wrecked at the same time. “yeah. mine too, if we let it be. but that’s—we don’t have to. i can tough it out. i can leave at first light, find a motel with industrial suppressants, ride it out alone. i’ve done it before. it sucks but it’s doable.”

panic flares sharp in your chest. “no.”

he blinks, like he's trying to process if that's what he had really heard.

“i mean—” you twist your fingers together until the knuckles are strained. “i don’t want you to go. i don’t understand any of this but when you say you’re leaving, it feels like someone’s ripping something out of me. and i’m scared and everything hurts and you’re the only person who even knows why.”

bucky’s throat bobs. “sweetheart—”

“and you call me sweetheart and it makes my whole body feel like warm honey,” you blurt out, then slap a hand over your mouth.

a helpless smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “yeah, that’s the bond talking. little bit of it already. fuck, you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

you groan into your palm.

“look,” he says, scooting closer until your knees touch again. this time you don’t move away. “i’m not going anywhere tonight. tomorrow we’ll figure out suppressants, or—or something. but right now you’re shaking and you smell like a distressed omega and it’s making me want to punch through the walls.”

“i’m not shaking,” you lie, and then your teeth chatter loud enough to prove you wrong.

he rolls his eyes, but it's fond. “c’mere.”

before you can decide if that’s a good idea, he’s tugging you into his side, arm looping around your shoulders.

you go stiff for half a second and then melt, face pressed to the warm skin of his neck, breathing him in like oxygen. he smells good, so good, like he was just made for you.

“better?” he murmurs into your hair.

“mhmm.” it comes out a little muffled and a lot pathetic.

he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. “thought so. scent bonding. works both ways.”

his hand rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades while the house settles around you. eventually he shifts, pulling the quilt from the foot of the bed and draping it over both of you.

“you ever been with anybody?” he asks quietly. “kissed, touched, anything?”

heat floods your face again. “no. there was this guy in college who tried but i got all panicky and bit him. like actually bit him. on the lip. i think he needed stitches.”

bucky snorts. “good instincts.”

“i thought i was just broken,” you admit. “everyone else was hooking up and i felt… nothing. until tonight. until you looked at me and it was like someone flipped a switch.”

“not broken, baby,” he says firmly. “waiting. your body knew what it wanted even if your head didn’t have the manual.”

you tilt your head back to see his face. “so what happens now?”

“now you let me hold you until you stop shaking. tomorrow your heat’s gonna get worse—cramps, fever, more slick than you know what to do with. i’ll be here. we’ll take it slow. i’ll talk you through every step. and if at any point you want me to stop, or leave, or call someone else— i will. no questions.”

you study him, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his metal fingers twitch like he’s fighting not to pull you closer. “you promise?”

“cross my heart, kid.” he draws an x over his chest with the flesh hand, like he's solemn.

you nod against his collarbone. “okay.”

“okay,” he echoes, there's a relief in his voice.

“bucky?”

“yeah?”

“is it always gonna feel this big? like the world got too small for my skin?”

he presses his lips to your temple in a lingering but featherlight kiss. “only when it’s right.”

you close your eyes and let the steady thump of his heartbeat under your cheek lull you toward something that feels dangerously like peace.

but in this room, wrapped in quilt and an alpha and the first real answers you’ve ever had, you finally stop shaking.

you wake up slowly, like swimming up through an ocean, and the first thing you notice is the heat.

not just the quilt tucked around you both, but bucky himself, a living furnace pressed along your back, his metal arm draped heavy over your waist, flesh hand splayed low on your stomach like he fell asleep holding you together.

your cheek is smushed against his collarbone, one of your legs thrown over his thigh because sometime in the night you apparently decided personal space was for suckers.

it’s too hot. you’re sweating where your skin touches his, hoodie twisted up under your arms, and between your legs you’re so wet it’s embarrassing, like you’ve been dreaming things you don’t even have names for.

the sheets under your hips feel damp and you pray to every god you’ve ever heard of that it hasn’t soaked through to his side.

you're not sure if he's awake yet. but you don't want to move and give yourself away. the thought is barely formed when his chest vibrates under your ear.

“morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice still laced with sleep. “been awake a while. you kick in your sleep, did you know that?”

your whole body goes rigid. oh god, he heard that thought. or guessed. does that mean he’s thinking about the other thing too?

“and yeah,” he adds quieter, thumb stroking across the strip of bare skin where your hoodie’s ridden up, “i can still smell how wet you are. been able to since about four a.m. when you started grinding on my leg like a daydream.

mortification floods you so hard you make a strangled noise and shove your face into the crook of his neck, trying to disappear into him.

his scent is stronger here, more concentrated, and it makes your mouth water and your thighs clench involuntarily.

“hey, none of that,” he laughs against your hair. “told you last night, it’s biology, baby. not your fault. i’m the one who should be apologizing for sporting wood like a teenager since the second you crawled in here.”

you risk a peek. his eyes are half-lidded, and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones that might be from the heat or might be something else.

“i thought maybe i peed the bed,” you mumble into his skin.

he actually laughs then, like the sound was startled out of him. “christ, you’re gonna kill me. no, baby, that’s slick. it's perfectly normal. it just means your body’s getting ready.”

“ready for what?” you ask, because even though you know, you still don’t totally get it, why this much is needed.

“ready for whatever we decide,” he says carefully. “or ready to make me take a very cold shower. jury’s out.”

down the hall comes the unmistakable thud of your dad’s bedroom door, then the groan of floorboards, and then the cough that always starts his day.

bucky goes still, arm tightening around you for a second before he eases away slowly, like he’s forcing himself.

“time to play innocent,” he whispers, pressing one quick kiss to your forehead that feels anything but innocent. “go. i’ll follow in a minute.”

you scramble out of the bed so fast you nearly face-plant, yanking your hoodie down and praying your legs work.

the cool air in the hallway hits your damp thighs and you whimper before you can stop yourself.

bucky’s already swinging his legs off the bed, sweatpants doing nothing to hide the situation in his lap. “go,” he repeats, voice strained. “before i do something stupid.”

you bolt. because you’re not thinking much, just acting on instinct.

in your room you change three times because nothing feels right against your skin, everything too scratchy or too hot, and end up in the softest leggings you own and one of your dad’s old army tees that hangs to mid-thigh.

when you creep downstairs, bucky’s already at the kitchen counter pouring coffee like he belongs there, hair damp from the fastest shower in history, wearing a different flannel that makes him look unfairly good.

your dad’s shoveling cereal into his mouth standing up, keys in one hand. “morning, trouble,” he says around a mouthful. “roads are clear enough for the plows. i gotta go in, inventory won’t count itself. you two behave.”

“yes, sir,” bucky says, mock-salute with his coffee mug.

your dad points a spoon at him. “and you, don’t let her con you into watching those vampire shows all day. she’ll rope you in, they’re addictive.”

“i make no promises,” bucky says solemnly.

your dad kisses the top of your head on his way out, same as always, and then the front door slams and the truck rumbles to life and pulls away, tires crunching over packed snow.

the house goes suddenly, echoingly quiet.

you stand there in the middle of the kitchen feeling like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

bucky sets his mug down, leans back against the counter, with his arms crossed. it makes his biceps look good enough to chew through. “so. questions?”

a million of them crash together in your head. “is it always going to feel like this? like— this intense?”

“first heat’s the worst,” he says. “like the volume gets turned to eleven on everything. smells, touch, emotions. all of it.”

you chew your lip. “and the… wet thing. is that forever now?”

he huffs a soft laugh. “only when you’re around an alpha you like. or ovulating. or happy. or sad. basically whenever your body feels like being dramatic.”

“great,” you mutter. “i’m a leaky faucet.”

“adorable leaky faucet,” he corrects, grinning when you flip him off without thinking.

by ten you’re convinced you’re fine.

you make pancakes. well, bucky makes pancakes while you sit on the counter kicking your feet and stealing chocolate chips.

the cramps are mild, just a low tug deep in your belly, and the wetness has eased to a manageable dampness.

you even laugh when he flips a pancake and it lands half on the stove.

“see?” your is mouth full, but that doesn't stop you from talking. “totally normal. maybe it was just a twenty-four-hour thing.”

bucky eyes you over the rim of his coffee, expression unreadable. “sure, kid. whatever you say.”

by noon the cramps are back with friends.

you’re curled on the couch under three blankets watching some documentary about penguins because everything else felt too loud, and every time you shift the pressure between your legs makes you whimper.

bucky sits on the coffee table facing you. “scale of one to ten?”

“six?” you lie.

“try again.”

“eight,” you admit. sweat beads at your hairline even though it’s cold enough to freeze your feet. “it feels like someone parked a truck on my uterus.”

he winces in sympathy. “yeah, that’s the heat talking. your body’s cranking the dial, trying to get my attention.”

“it has your attention,” you snap, then immediately feel bad. “sorry. i’m sorry. i’m just—everything hurts and i’m scared and i still don’t really get why.”

“i know.” he reaches out, brushes damp hair off your forehead. “want me to run you a bath? heat helps sometimes. or i can make a heat pack. or—”

“can you just—” you gesture vaguely. “sit with me? like last night? your smell makes it quieter in my head.”

he hesitates for half a second, then crawls onto the couch behind you, pulling you back against his chest.

you go boneless instantly, like a switch was flipped, head lolling on his shoulder.

“better?” he asks, mouth against your temple.

“mhmm.” you’re already drifting, the pain dulling to a background throb. “don’t leave.”

“not going anywhere,” he promises.

the afternoon bleeds away in waves. one minute you’re dozing, the next you’re arching with a cramp so sharp tears leak out the corners of your eyes.

bucky holds you through all of it, rubbing slow circles on your belly, murmuring nonsense about how strong you are, how good you’re doing, how fucking brave.

by four you’re openly crying, not even trying to hide it, face buried in his shirt. “it hurts so much,” you sob. “i changed my mind, i want it to stop.”

“i know, baby.” his voice is wrecked. “i’m right here. you’re doing so good.”

you can feel him shaking too, just a faint tremor in the arm locked around you.

his scent has gone darker, sharper, and when you turn your face into his neck you realize he’s sweating through his shirt.

“bucky?” you whisper.

“yeah?”

“are you okay?” the irony is delicious, you asking him if he were okay, while you were nearly knocking on death’s door.

he laughs, but it’s thin. “no. your heat’s kicking my rut into gear about a week early. trying real hard to be a gentleman here.”

you whine. “i don’t want a gentleman. i want it to stop hurting.”

he goes very still. “sweetheart, we talked about this—”

“i know what i said,” you cut in. “but i changed my mind. please. i’ll beg if you want. just make it stop.”

he cups your wet cheek, thumb wiping away your tears. “you don’t have to beg, baby. ever. but we’re gonna do this right, okay? we are gonna go slow. with lots of talking. the second you say stop, we stop.”

you nod so hard your teeth click.

“words, omega,” he says gently.

“yes. please. yes.”

he exhales shakily, then scoops you up like you weigh nothing, carrying you toward the hallway.

“guest room’s got the bigger bed,” he mutters, half to himself. “and farther from your dad’s room for when he gets home.”

you cling to his neck, breathing him in, the pain already easing just from the promise in his arms.

he carries you up the stairs like you’re made of glass and dynamite at the same time, one arm under your knees, the other cradling your back.

your face is tucked into his neck because it’s the only place that doesn’t feel like it’s on fire, and every step jostles you against his chest.

only then you feel it. the thick, rigid line of him pressed against your hip, unmistakable even through two layers of clothes.

you pull back just enough to stare, wide-eyed even though you try hard not to be startled. “bucky… is that—”

“yeah,” he mutters, cheeks going red. “ignore it. or don’t. christ, i’m trying to be decent here.”

“it feels huge,” you whisper like you're both awed and terrified, and then immediately want to die because who the fuck says that out loud?

he trips on the top step, catches himself with a grunt. “you’re gonna be the end of me, kid. swear to god.”

the guest room door is already ajar; he shoulders it open and lowers you onto the bed like you’re something precious.

the mattress is cool under your back and for one glorious minute the cramps ease, the fever drops, and you think maybe the worst is over.

you prop yourself on your elbows, hair still sticking to your damp forehead. “i feel… okay right now. like it backed off.”

bucky stands at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, breathing slowly through his nose. “that’s the calm before the next wave, sweetheart. happens sometimes. gives you just enough hope to make the crash worse.”

you bite your lip, debating whether to ask or not. but then tour body thrums like it needs him inside you, and you make up your mind. “so… knotting. you said last night it locks you inside. how does that even work? like… is it painful? or does it just… pop out like a balloon animal?”

he chokes on air, rubs the back of his neck until the skin goes pink. “jesus. uh. no balloon animals. it’s—there’s a ring of muscle at the base. when i’m… close, it swells, and… and gets thick. the idea is it plugs everything so nothing leaks, keeps the—keeps you full.” his ears are scarlet now. “biology’s real romantic.”

you sit up fully, knees drawn to your chest, genuinely curious. “but does it hurt you? or me? and how long does it stay big?”

“hurts if you fight it,” he says carefully. “if you relax and let it happen, it’s… intense. but good intense. lasts twenty minutes, half hour sometimes. you feel full, safe, floaty. like the best hug you’ve ever had, only inside.”

your eyes go round. “inside.”

he groans and drops his chin, as to avoid eye-contact for a bit. you've never seen him this embarrassed. “yeah. inside.”

you pick at the hem of your borrowed army tee. “we’re probably gonna have sex anyway,” you say softly, matter-of-fact. “you can just say cock. i’m not gonna faint.”

bucky lifts his head, stares at you for a long second, and then laughs. “god, baby. you’re something else, you know that?”

“i’m serious,” you insist even if your cheeks are hot. you are determined. “i want to know what’s coming. i hate not knowing.”

he exhales once and crawls onto the bed beside you, sitting cross-legged like you’re having a sleepover instead of the single most loaded conversation of your life.

“alright. honest, then. i’m big. bigger than average even for an alpha. first time’s gonna burn a little no matter what, but if i open you up slowly —tongue, fingers, lots of slick—you’ll take me. the knot’ll stretch you wide and then lock, and yeah, it’ll feel like you can’t possibly get any fuller, and then you will. and it’ll be good. i’ll make sure it’s good.”

“promise?” your voice is barely a breath.

“promise,” his is rough. “now c’mere before the next wave hits and you start crying again.”

you go willingly, letting him tug the oversized tee over your head.

cool air kisses your skin and your nipples tighten instantly, aching little points that beg for attention before he’s even touched them.

bucky’s gaze drops to your chest and something feral flickers across his face before he reins it in with visible effort.

“fuck,” he breathes. “look at you.”

you cross your arms self-consciously.

you cross your arms self-consciously, trying to hide, but he catches your wrists gently in one big hand and pins them above your head without even thinking about it, metal fingers cool against your pulse points.

“they’re just boobs.” you can feel your cheeks heating up.

they’re perfect,” he counters, and leans in, mouth closing over one stiff peak without asking permission because you’re already arching toward him like your body wrote the invitation years ago.

the first pull of his lips is gentle, almost curious, like he’s tasting something sacred. then he groans and sucks harder, tongue flicking in quick, ruthless circles while his beard scrapes the soft underside of your breast.

his flesh hand cups the weight, feeding you deeper into his mouth like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’ll ever fill him.

there’s no milk, you know that, but he’s sucking like there is, like he could live off it, like if he tries hard enough he’ll coax it out of you just to taste how sweet on his tongue.

“bucky—” your fingers tangle in his hair, not sure if you’re pulling him closer or holding on for dear life. probably both.

he switches sides, laving the abandoned nipple with the flat of his tongue before drawing it in, humming around it.

the vibration shoots straight between your legs and you realize you’re grinding against nothing, hips rolling in tiny, desperate circles.

he pulls off with a wet pop, eyes blown black. “need to taste you properly,” he rasps. “gonna make you come on my tongue twice before we can even think about my cock. okay?”

you nod so fast your head spins.

he eases you onto your back, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your leggings and panties together, peeling them down in one motion. the fabric sticks where you’re soaked through and he has to work them over your hips, cursing under his breath when the cool air hits your bare, dripping skin.

the scent of you slams into him like a punch. his eyes flutter shut for a second, throat working as he swallows hard.

“christ, look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs, settling between your thighs, pushing them wide with careful hands. his thumbs stroke the crease where thigh meets groin, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. “all wet and dripping for me. fucking glistening.”

you whimper and try to close your legs out of sheer embarrassment, but he holds you open easily, metal arm braced across one thigh, flesh hand splayed over the other, keeping you spread like a feast.

“uh-uh. let me see.” he blows a cool stream of air directly over your clit and you jolt, a high-pitched sound escaping that you don’t even recognize as yours. “sensitive little thing. look at her twitch for me.”

before you realise what’s happening, his mouth is on you.

the first lick is broad and slow, from your entrance to your clit, gathering slick like he’s starving for it, tongue curling to scoop every drop.

he groans against you the sound vibrating through your entire body, and does it again, and again, until your thighs are shaking in his grip and your back is bowed off the bed.

your brain short-circuits so hard you actually forget your own name for three full seconds.

all that now exists is the wet heat of his mouth and the mortifying little squeak you make that sounds absolutely nothing like you.

“taste so fucking good,” he mumbles, words slurred like he’s drunk on you. “sweetest thing i’ve ever had. could live down here, baby. could die happy with my face buried in this cunt.”

he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, like he's just teasing, then seals his lips around it and sucks. it's soft at first, then harder when you cry out.

your back bows off the bed, fingers scrabbling for purchase in his hair.

“bucky—oh god—”

he slides one thick finger inside you without warning and you clench around it, shocked at how easily it goes, how much more you suddenly need.

it doesn’t hurt like you always scared you it would. it feels like coming home to a house you didn’t know you owned. you have to bite your lip to keep from saying something mortifying like 'thank you'.

“relax, baby,” he soothes, pulling off your clit just long enough to watch his finger disappear into you, eyes dark with wonder. “gotta open you up. look how greedy you are — fuck—sucking me right in like you were made for this.”

he crooks his finger, finds that spot inside that makes your vision white out, and you come with a startled wail, thighs clamping around his head, slick gushing over his hand.

he just keeps stroking that spot slowly while his mouth returns to your clit with soft and lazy licks, drawing the orgasm out until you’re shaking and oversensitive and trying to squirm away from his grasp.

“one more, baby,” he says against your folds, voice muffled again. “need you soft and open for me.”

you want to be cool and say something sexy but what comes out is, “i don’t have any more in me."

he just laughs into your thigh like you just told the best joke in the world. the laugh vibrates and suddenly you do have one more.

a sob leaves you now, as you say “can’t,” but your hips are already chasing his tongue. he laughs again like he's received the memo.

“you can and you will. come on, omega, give it to me. give it to your alpha.”

he adds a second finger, stretching you carefully, scissoring gently while his tongue flicks faster.

the burn is there, like a sweet ache, but it’s drowned out by the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until you snap again, harder this time, a rush of wet heat spilling over his chin.

he works you through it, licking softly until you go limp, with tears drying on your temples.

only then does he crawl up your body, pressing kisses to your belly, your ribs, the space between your breasts. it's like he needs to map every single part of you, make you his in every way that will ever count.

his beard is soaked, lips swollen and shiny, and he looks wrecked in the best way.

“good girl,” he whispers, nuzzling your throat, scenting you openly now. “so fucking good for me.”

you reach for him with shaky hands, tugging at his shirt. you know one thing and one thing only. that you want him. “off. want skin.”

realisation hits you that you're talking in half sentences now, but you have bigger things to look forward to.

he yanks it over his head in one quick motion, then pauses, looking down at where you’re still spread open and trembling beneath him.

you just stare at him and his abs because it's goddamn unfair how hot he is. the flannel shirt has been hiding the most beautiful thing in the world ever.

there’s a faint sheen of sweat across his collarbones from holding himself back all day, and the scent rolling off his bare skin hits you like a drug, wet earth and gun-oil and something feral that makes your mouth water and your thighs try to close on instinct.

“still with me?” his voice is both rough and gentle at the same time, thumb stroking your cheekbone like he’s checking you’re real.

you nod and pull him down until his weight settles over you, the most perfect thing ever.

his chest hair rasps against your nipples, the metal arm cool against your ribs, flesh hand burning hot on your hip, and you feel tiny under him, safe and pinned and exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“don’t stop,” you breathe against his mouth. “please don’t stop.”

"not gonna," he kisses you like he’s drowning, swallowing every little sound you make.

his tongue strokes yours, making you taste yourself on him, and you whine into his mouth.

your hands slide over the ridges of his back, nails digging in when another cramp twists low in your belly.

it is sharp enough to make your hips jerk, grinding your soaked pussy against the hard line of his cock still trapped in his sweatpants

“alpha,” you gasp against his lips, the word slipping out of you in the most needy way, surprising you both.

bucky groans, his forehead dropping to yours. “fuck, omega. say it again.”

“alpha, please.” tears spill down your temples. “it hurts. need you inside, please.”

he rears back just enough to shove his sweatpants down, kicking them off, and then he’s bare above you, cock heavy and flushed against his stomach. there's a bead of precum pearling at the tip.

you stare at him, because holy shit he wasn’t exaggerating about how big he is.

it’s ridiculous. beautiful and ridiculous and you have a fleeting, hysterical thought that you’re about to get ruined by a guy who still sends you birthday cards.

the thought makes you giggle and then choke because he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“eyes on me,” he says softly, settling between your thighs again, nudging them wider with his knees. “gonna go slow, sweetheart. tell me if it’s too much.”

you nod, almost biting your lip bloody, and he lines up, dragging the blunt head through your folds, coating himself in slick, spreading your wetness up over your clit until you’re shaking and trying to chase the pressure.

the first press is gentle, just the tip breaching you, and you both suck in a breath.

“oh god,” you whimper. it burns sharply, but underneath it is relief so profound you start crying harder, tears sliding hot into your hair.

“breathe, baby,” he murmurs, voice shaking with restraint. “breathe out a little. there you go—fuck, that’s it.”

inch by agonizing inch he sinks in, pausing every time you tense, kissing away your tears, whispering praise against your throat, “so tight. taking me so well. my perfect girl,” the words rumbling against your skin, beard scraping deliciously.

when he’s halfway you feel impossibly full already, and you claw at his shoulders. “too much—”

“almost,” he soothes, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest, rolling down between your breasts. “just a little more. you’re doing so good, omega. look how pretty you open for me.”

he pulls back just enough that you both watch his cock disappear into you, the sight so filthy your walls flutter around him and he curses under his breath.

the stretch is so sudden and complete that for one stupid second you’re scared you’re going to split open.

but then the fear flips into wonder because he’s home, he’s actually home inside you and your body is singing in a language you never even learned, every ridge and vein dragging against places inside you that light up like fireworks.

another slow push and he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, and you both moan, broken sounds that tangle in the air.

he stills as he's buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, with his forehead pressed to yours.

“move,” you beg, because you feel full and empty at the same time somehow. “please move, alpha.”

he draws back slow, almost all the way out, then slides home again, and the drag lights every nerve on fire.

when he slides back in it’s like the first sip of water after you didn’t even know you were dying of thirst. your hips tilt greedily without permission, chasing that feeling again, and you hate how obvious it is but you can’t stop.

a sob leaves you as your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him inside you deeper.

“like that?” he rasps, setting a careful rhythm, long strokes that have you seeing stars. “feel good?”

“yes—yes—harder alpha—” you don’t even und why you’re screaming for him to go harder, but everything in your body is asking for more.

he obliges, hips snapping a little sharper, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room.

your slick is everywhere, soaking the sheets, dripping down his balls, easing the way until he’s fucking into you relentlessly.

you turn your head without thinking, mouth finding the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and bite dow. blood floods your tongue, and you taste iron.

it’s not romantic, it’s animal and desperate and the most honest thing you’ve ever done with your mouth—claiming him before your brain can talk you out of it.

you don't know what made you feral enough to do it, but the wolf in you seems happy.

“fuck—did you just—” he pulls back to stare at you, a perfect ring of your teeth blooming red on his skin.

“i’m sorry!” you whisper, a little horrified now that he's noticed. “i didn’t mean—i just needed—”

“no, baby, no.” his laugh is breathless, and leans in to capture your lips, kissing you fiercely, tasting his own blood on your tongue and groaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever had. “you marked me. you've claimed me. means i’m yours now, my little wolf.”

your heart flips. “really?”

“really.” he nuzzles your throat, scent glands pulsing, licking over your pulse point like he’s already planning where to bite. “want me to mark you back? make it even?”

“yes,” you breathe. “make me yours. please, alpha.”

a possessive growl rips off him, and he strikes. his teeth sink into the soft spot where neck meets shoulder.

pain flares, but then melts into pure bliss, a rush of warmth flooding every vein, your pussy clamping down so hard he curses into your skin.

his bite lands and the pain is bright but then it is gone, replaced by a rush that pours straight down your spine and pools between your legs.

suddenly, you understand why people write songs about this exact second. you also understand you’re never going to be just “you” again.

you come with a scream, walls clamping down on him, milking his cock as pleasure crashes over you in waves.

bucky's pace falters, like your orgasm triggered his too. “shit—gonna knot you—can’t hold—”

the base of his cock starts to swell, catching on every thrust, and stretching you wider.

you feel it grow and thicken, a delicious pressure that has you keening.

you gasp even though you know what exactly is happening. the feeling is nothing and everything like he'd described.

“knot, omega,” he grits out,like he's confirming in case you were still confused. “gonna lock us together. fill you up, baby.”

it pops fully, sealing you tight, and you hiss at the sensation. you're stuffed so full you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

the knot throbs inside you, stretching your walls until you feel every pulse of his heartbeat.

his rhythm turns shallow, and then he’s coming, hot pulses deep inside, so much it floods you instantly.

spurt after thick spurt paints your insides, your belly rounding with it.

“take it,” his voice breaks. “take every drop—fuck, look at you.”

dazed at the sensation, you stare down between you, hand pressing over the little bulge.

when you press, you feel him pulse, another hot spurt, and the skin stretches under your hand. the possessive little wolf that lives in you purrs 'mine' so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it.

“that’s me,” he whispers, covering your hand with his. “all in you. keeping you full.”

you come again just from that, weaker but deeper, a rolling climax that leaves you boneless and sobbing his name.

he collapses carefully, rolling so you’re on top, knot tying you together, his arms banded around your back.

he’s still leaking into you, little pulses every time you clench, and you can’t stop touching the swell of your stomach, marveling at how full you feel.

“feels weird,” you mumble into his neck. “good weird. like you’re part of me now.”

“i am,” he says simply, fingers tracing the bite mark on your shoulder. “and you’re part of me. we're mated. for real.”

you lift your head, tears fresh but happy this time. “even though i bit you like a feral raccoon?”

he snorts but kisses the tip of your nose. “that was just you being my my fierce little omega.”

the knot takes its sweet time, like it knows exactly how wrecked you both are and refuses to rush the moment.

you’re draped over bucky’s chest, cheek pressed to the steady thump of his heart, his arms locked around your back so you don’t slide off the swell of your own belly.

every few seconds one of you shifts and the tug where you’re joined makes you both hiss.

“think i look about three months along,” you mumble into his skin, poking the taut curve of your stomach.

bucky huffs a laugh that shakes you both. “try five. you’re carrying the barnes heir already, clearly i’m very efficient.”

“shut up,” you groan, but you’re grinning. “this is so weird. i look like i swallowed a something.”

sliding one big hand down to cradle the underside of the bulge, his thumb strokes soft circles. “never seen anything hotter in my life, swear to god.”

you hide your face in his neck again because the way he’s looking at you—like you hung the damn moon and then painted it gold for good measure—makes your chest ache in a brand new way.

time blurs. snow ticks against the window like it’s trying to get in on the secret.

eventually the pressure eases, the knot shrinking by slow degrees until you feel him slip a fraction inside you.

“here we go,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “gonna be messy, baby. you ready?”

you nod, and then the last of it deflates and he slides free with a wet sound that should be obscene but mostly just makes you whimper at the sudden emptiness.

you feel it leave you and panic for one stupid heartbeat that he’s leaving too, until his arms tighten and you realize the mess is just proof he stayed.

hot and endless cum follows immediately, gushing out of you in a rush that soaks the sheets, his thighs, everything.

mortified, you try to clamp your legs shut, but he’s already laughing softly and holding you open with gentle hands.

“let it happen, sweetheart. look at that—fuck, that’s all me.” he sounds awed, staring between your legs where it keeps coming, pearly ropes painting your thighs, pooling under your ass. “you took so much. proud of you.”

“it’s everywhere,” you whisper as you feel head flood your cheeks. “the bed’s ruined. dad’s gonna kill us.”

“worth it,” he says, still watching like he can’t believe his eyes. “christen the guest room properly. he’ll just think i spilled milk or something.”

you smack his chest weakly. “that is not what this looks like.”

he finally tears his gaze away to grin at you. “no, it looks like i bred my omega six ways to sunday. which is accurate.”

the word bred sends a fresh shiver through you, aftershocks rippling up your spine.

he places a wet kiss to the side of your jaw, and moves away from you, so he can grab the water bottle from the nightstand. but even that half a second absence pulls something deep off your chest.

when he presses the bottle to your moth without any preamble, you guzzle half of it without sitting up. and then hand it back with a sheepish smile.

he drinks the rest, and a drop slides down his chin that you lean over and lick away without thinking.

“thirsty little thing,” he teases, but his voice is so soft.

he disappears to the bathroom, comes back with a warm washcloth and a towel that has definitely seen better days. you try to take the cloth but he bats your hand away, kneeling between your legs again.

“let me,” his voice gentle but firm nonetheless. “part of the deal.”

he cleans you slowly—thighs first, then careful swipes over your swollen folds, murmuring apologies when you flinch at the oversensitivity.

the cloth is warm and smells faintly of your old detergent, and the care in his hands makes your chest ache.

“you don’t have to,” you whisper.

“want to,” he says simply. “always gonna take care of you now.”

when he’s done he tosses everything toward the hamper but misses by a mile, earning a laugh from you.

he sits up and scoops you into his lap, and you curl into him immediately, resting your head on his shoulder.

“bathroom,” he decides. “then food. then more cuddling. in that order.”

you make a pathetic noise. “can’t walk.”

“wasn’t planning on making you.”

he scoops you up before you can protest about the mess, carrying you to the bathroom like you weigh nothing.

the shower’s ancient and takes forever to heat, but he holds you under the spray anyway, washing you slowly and thoroughly. his hands are tender between your legs, cleaning away the evidence with a softness that makes tears prick again.

every gentle pass of his hand feels like apology and worship at the same time.

you’re sore, swollen, raw, and still you find yourself canting your hips into his touch because even wrecked you’re greedy for him.

you lean on him like you're boneless, letting him shampoo your hair, rinse the sweat from your back, kiss the bite mark on your shoulder until it tingles.

you let him do whatever he wants, and what he wants is you.

“still with me?” he asks quietly, thumbing soap from your collarbone.

“barely,” you admit, voice hoarse from all the screaming. “feel like i got hit by a truck.”

he snorts, turning you to rinse your back. “sexy horny truck.”

back in the bedroom he strips the ruined sheets with military efficiency, muttering about evidence disposal, then wrestles a clean set from the linen closet while you sit on the edge of the mattress wrapped in a towel with your legs dangling, watching the muscles in his back flex.

he crawls in beside you once it’s made, pulling you down so you’re both face to face now, noses brushing each other.

“hey,” he whispers.

“hey yourself,” you whisper back.

you study each other in the dim afternoon light filtering through the blinds. his hair’s a mess, lips swollen, eyes soft in a way you’ve never seen on anyone.

“i love you,” you say, simple as breathing. because it is. nothing had ever felt this good, this right. he looks exactly like everything you've been searching all your life.

you catalogue the tiny things nobody else ever gets to see: the faint freckle just under his left eye, the way his lashes stick together from the shower, the tiny scar on his lip you suddenly want to kiss every day for the rest of your life.

the list feels endless and you’re stupidly grateful for every single item.

you feel his breath catch. “yeah?”

“yeah. think i started falling the second you looked at me like i was something worth looking at. downstairs, when i walked in and you smelled me and didn’t run. maybe even before that, from all dad’s stories. but definitely then.”

metal fingers trace the curve of your cheek as he finds words. “i love you too. terrified me how fast. thought i was having some kinda stroke when your scent hit me. like the world narrowed to just you and i hadn’t even seen your face yet.”

you laugh. “romantic.”

“i’m a romantic guy,” he deadpans, but his voice is softer when he adds, “you’re it for me, sweetheart. mated or not, marked or not, you’re it.”

you kiss him slowly, tasting the truth of it. when you pull back you rest your forehead against his.

“so what happens now?” you ask.

you’re both sticky and wrecked and you can feel a bruise blooming where he bit you and you’ve never been happier to be in pain.

because it means tomorrow when your dad asks why you’re walking funny you’ll have to lie to the man who taught you 'honesty is the best policy' and honestly the irony is delicious.

his thumb strokes your mating mark. “now my rut kicks in for real. been simmering since your heat hit, but the knot triggered it proper. gonna be… a lot. more intense than this. might get growly and possessive, want to keep you in bed for days. you sore?”

“little,” you admit. “but not bad. i want you, alpha. want all of it. however you need me.”

his eyes darken, when the weight of your sentence reaches him. “careful throwing that word around, baby. might not let you out of this room till spring.”

you nip his bottom lip. “promise?”

rolling you under him again, a delighted growl leaves him, “gonna wreck you all over again.”

hours later, bucky’s face is buried in your neck, beard scratching the bite mark every time he exhales.

you’re tracing lazy circles through the sweat on his back with one finger, counting the little scars you find like constellations, like if you memorize them all you’ll never lose him.

the quiet is perfect until it isn’t.

your dad’s truck is gonna crunch up that driveway in like… two hours max. maybe less if the plows are feeling generous.

the thought lands between you like a live grenade and you feel bucky tense the exact second it detonates in your head too.

“shit,” you whisper into his hair.

“yeah,” he mumbles against your skin, voice a little rough. “shit’s a good word for it.”

your heart starts jackhammering so hard you’re surprised he can’t feel it through your ribs.

telling your dad.

jesus.

the man who still calls you “trouble” and kisses the top of your head like you’re ten. the man who taught you how to throw a punch and how to change a tire and who once cried when you left for college. you’re about to walk downstairs and tell him his best friend just mated his daughter.

you’re going to break his heart or make him break bucky’s face and you’re not sure which is worse.

“we’re gonna have to tell him,” your voice is quieter than you mean to be.

bucky lifts his head just enough to look at you, blue eyes still blown wide and soft around the edges. “you want the fun version or the realistic version?”

“gimme both.”

he flops onto his back, dragging you with him so you’re sprawled across his chest like a blanket. his heartbeat is thundering under your ear and it’s the only thing keeping you from spiraling.

“fun version: we walk downstairs holding hands, i say ‘hey pal, remember that time i pulled you outta that burning hut? cool, i just knocked up your daughter, we’re even.’ then we run.”

you snort so hard it hurts, but it’s almost a sob too. “and the realistic version?”

he sighs. “he shoots me in the face, buries me in the backyard, tells everyone i wandered off drunk into the blizzard.”

you smack his chest weakly. “buck, be serious.”

“i am serious.” his voice drops. “your old man’s got a twelve-gauge and the muscle memory of a guy who once killed a dude in the dark.”

you picture it for one terrifying second—your dad’s face going blank the way it did when he came home from deployment and didn’t talk for three days —and your stomach flips so hard you taste metal.

you prop your chin on his sternum, trying to breathe. “he loves you.”

“he loved me when i was just the guy who sent you disney gift cards and fixed his truck. he’s gonna love me a lot less when he realizes i just spent the last six hours balls-deep in his only kid.”

you groan and hide your face between his pecs. the smell of him—sex and pine and you—makes your eyes sting. “god, don’t say it like that.”

“how do you want me to say it?” he’s smiling, you can hear it, but it’s thin. “should i go with ‘we discovered a profound emotional connection’?”

“shut up.” you bite his collarbone just hard enough to make him hiss, then lick the spot in apology. “i’m freaking out here.”

he softens immediately, hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, thumb rubbing that spot that makes your whole spine melt. “hey. breathe, baby. we’ll figure it out.”

you want to believe him. you do. but the idea of your dad looking at you like you’re suddenly someone else’s daughter makes something inside you crack.

you peek up at him. “together?”

“together,” he says, like it’s the easiest promise he’s ever made. “but i gotta be real with you—i’m not letting him shoot me until after i get more of that chili. i’ve earned it.”

you laugh despite everything, and somehow he always knows exactly how to yank you out of your own head. “he’s gonna smell it on us. both of us. the whole house reeks.”

bucky wrinkles his nose. “yeah. smells like a mated pair just invented sex. real subtle.”

you sit up a little, straddling his hips, sheet pooling around your waist. you feel the evidence of him still leaking out of you and it’s equal parts mortifying and possessive and you want to keep it there forever.

“we could… shower again? open all the windows? say we were burning incense or something?”

he arches a brow. “incense that smells like cum and desperate omega? bold choice.”

you flick his ear. “i’m workshopping.”

he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, eyes serious now. “look. i’ll take the lead, okay? been through worse firefights than one pissed-off dad.”

“you ever had a firefight where the enemy taught you how to ride a bike and made you pancakes when you were hungover?”

“fair point.” he exhales through his teeth. “maybe we ease him into it. i’ll start with ‘hey, remember when you said if anyone ever hurt her you’d skin them alive? funny story—’”

you drop your forehead to his. your voice comes out smaller than you want. “we could just… show him the bites.”

bucky goes very still. “you want me to roll in there shirtless like ‘surprise, i’m your new son-in-law’?”

“it’s honest.”

“it’s suicidal.”

you chew your lip until you taste blood. “i don’t want to lie to him. not about this. not about us.”

his whole face softens so fast it’s unfair. “yeah. me neither.” he brushes your hair back, tucking it behind your ear like you’re something fragile and priceless. “okay. no lying. but maybe… we put clothes on first. and i stand slightly behind you. like a human shield but sexier.”

you roll your eyes, but it’s watery. “why’s the shield standing behind— oh, you coward.”

“smart,” he corrects. “there’s a difference.”

you lean down and kiss him slowly, tasting the both of you on his tongue. when you pull back his eyes are dark again.

“stop that,” he mutters. “we’re trying to adult here.”

“can’t help it. you’re all… biteable.”

he groans and flips you suddenly, pinning you under him again. “keep talking like that and your dad’s gonna come home to round two and a locked door.”

you grin up at him, reckless and terrified and stupidly in love. “it’ll be worth it.”

he kisses you once more, hard, then rolls off and sits up. “come on. food first. then we face the firing squad.”

you watch him stand, all long lines and scars and the bite you put on his shoulder still red and perfect. your chest does something complicated—like it’s too small for everything trying to live inside it.

“bucky?”

he glances back. “yeah?”

“whatever he says… i’m not giving you back.”

his smile is small and crooked and yours. “good. ‘cause i’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. never.”

outside, the snow keeps piling up. inside, you know you're bound to each other in ways no one had ever been to anyone else.

my masterlist .ᐟ

extras. guess who deleted the whole draft this afternoon and crashed the fuck out? anyways, it all worked out, i think. i am quite proud of how this turned out, especially the moodboard bc seb looks absolutely delicious there! taglist. @devililithh @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment + to get added to the taglist .ᐟ

“I’m giving my brain a break,” you tell him for the third time, phone tucked between your ear and your shoulder as you make a fresh cup of coffee at four in the afternoon.

“You’re becoming nocturnal,” Bucky replies sternly on the other end.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Sunlight’s good for a person.”

‘I’m looking at sunlight right now.”

“Sunset,” he corrects. Sure enough, the light is fading quickly, street lamps powering on outside of your window. Damn daylight savings.

“Oh, whatever,” you dismiss. “It’s not like it’s forever — I promise I’ll go back to a normal person’s sleep schedule after the new year.”

“I don’t like waiting around all day to hear from you.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you say, gentler. “I don’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“I know,” he sighs, resigned. “It’s just boring without you.”

You bite your lip, an idea blooming in your brain. “You know what’s not boring?”

“What?”

“Malibu.”

He exhales, long and deep, dragging it out.

“Alright,” he relents. “Fine. But when we get back, you’re gonna start going to bed at a normal time like a well-adjusted person. I’m tired of eating lunch alone.”

“Ok, grandpa. I promise.”

He picks you up an hour later when you’re still zipping up your suitcase, dressed like a Tom Ford ad with a cashmere scarf and designer pea coat draped over him, face appropriately disgruntled but eyes bright with adventure as he holds the car door open for you. By six, you’re buckled into the seat next to him on the private jet. By midnight, you’re touching down at Santa Monica Airport.

Sun, sand and ocean breeze occupy your next forty-eight hours. Bucky’s house in Malibu boasts floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Pacific, a waterfall pool set to the perfect temperature, and a large back deck to soak in the sun while eating breakfast. Bucky scrolls the morning news on his phone, shades on and shirt unbuttoned to his naval, while you sip mimosas and try not to stare.

That’s a difficult ask when you’re finally getting an unobstructed view of the chest hair that teased you so long ago.

The first day, you hop in his vintage convertible and drive up the coast to his sprawling vineyard. He gives you a tour of the grounds while you catch a buzz taste testing all the wines he’s made. You’re flushed and giggling by the time you head back, and Bucky’s smile seems like a permanent fixture on his face. Dinner is a seafood feast at a small restaurant right off the beach, where the owner welcomes Bucky like a son and calls you stunning at least five times. The night ends with a glass of wine in front of the moonlit ocean, curled up on a blanket with oversized sweatshirts to block the wind. Whispers back and forth about childhood dreams and failed first kisses; favorite books and most embarrassing moments. You feel light as a feather by the time you float off to bed, a warmth that has nothing to do with the wine settling deep in your chest.

The next day, Bucky rouses you from your sleep before the sun’s fully up, claiming you “need the practice” and muttering that it’s already 9 in the morning back home when you prove difficult to move from the guest bed. When you’re finally up, the two of you walk the beach with the rest of the early risers, sipping travel mugs of extra strong coffee and making fun of runners who stumble through the sand.

The ocean’s coming alive at this time of day, and for a few minutes, the two of you stop to watch it do its thing. Waves crash, shells tumble. Not far from the coast, dolphins jump through the air, chasing fish and playing.

It’s the calmest your mind and heart have been in ages, and the feeling makes you smile, face tipped up toward the sun. When Bucky reaches for your hand, you thread your fingers through his and squeeze.

Later, you take a dip in the pool while Bucky makes a work call. The sun beats down on your skin relentlessly like it’s never heard of winter. You’re starting to doze on your floating lounge chair when you hear a small splash, and waves lap at your skin. You push your sunglasses up and look around.

Bucky breaks through the water at the other end of the pool. You blink at him.

When he spots you, a wicked smile crosses his face. Before you can say a word, he’s ducked under again and streaking towards you like a shark.

“Bucky—“

You’re tossed overboard, the sound of Bucky’s laughter the last thing you hear before you hit the water. He’s still laughing when you emerge, drenched and in disbelief. You answer his laugh with a sharp splash right to the face, scowling. His smile turns evil after he shakes the water from his eyes.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart.”

You splash him again because he fucking deserves it. Then he lunges.

You shriek, making a break for the edge of the pool, but he’s got you by the ankle before you even touch the wall. He yanks, sending you spiraling underwater again.

You’re sputtering when you come up, but it’s game on now. You throw yourself at him, hands pressing down on his shoulders to give him a taste of his own medicine, but he’s immovable to your touch. Wasting no time, he grabs you by the waist and tosses you several feet across the water. You launch another attack when his head’s turned, coming up from behind and wrapping your arms around his neck to drag him down with you. He goes willingly this time, but his hands maneuver you easily so that you’re thrown over his shoulder when you break the surface. You writhe and wrestle him to let you go, but he’s got an unbreakable grip across your legs; he carries you through the shallow end while you whine about unfairness, fists beating at his back. He crosses the deck quickly and suddenly, you’re airborne.

Until you smack the water in the deep end.

You gasp for air when you come up. “You’re a fucking bully,” you cough, throat raw from the unprecedented amount of water you inhaled. “You win.”

“You started it,” Bucky lifts his hands helplessly. Then, without warning, he gives you his best smile before cannonballing directly next to you. You scream as another wave of water brings you under.

You have half a mind to shove him back down when he reemerges, but his unbridled laughter is possibly one of the greatest sounds you’ve ever heard in your entire life. You greedily take in the arch of his neck as he throws his head back, and the way his nose scrunches in delight.

After he accepts your white flag, he helps you to the wall, a hand on your back pushing you gently. He hoists himself out first, and suddenly the water in your nose isn’t the only thing making it difficult for you to breathe.

Rivulets trail down his broad back, emphasizing the isolated muscles used to push himself up. They’re large, but sharp, clearly built by hours spent in the gym. When he turns around to offer you a hand, you can’t look him in the eye. The front of him is downright obscene, a replica of any Greek sculpture you can think of. And with his hair slicked back, swim trunks clinging to his muscular thighs, and the chest hair on full display— the chest hair—

He lifts you one-handed out of the water. You scurry away before you can make a bad decision — like lick the water from his chest.

Dinner is sushi on a private deck with the stars shining down on you. He’s placed his jacket around your shoulders, the scent of his cologne and something innately him smothering you in the best way possible. Bucky’s chatty tonight, talking about work, talking about the vineyard, talking about old friends from college. You only absorb every other word, too busy sneaking lingering glances when he’s not looking.

His posture is more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it, and his phone — his usual stressor — is nowhere in sight. The ocean breeze ruffles his hair but he doesn’t bother to fix it. When he meets your eyes, he offers a smile that says he’s right where he wants to be. Like he could do this for the rest of his life.

But all good things must come to an end eventually.

New York is a tundra wasteland when you return. Your timing was impeccable because you just missed the biggest snowstorm of the season. Bucky’s grumbling about the cold the minute you step onto the tarmac, drawing the collar of his coat around his ears despite the car idling thirty feet away.

The drive into the city goes by too quickly. Malibu fades more into a memory with each mile you put between you and the plane.

You think you must be sleep-deprived and jet lagged, because when Bucky presses a parting kiss to your forehead once you’re in front of your building, tears spring to your eyes. You’re out of the car before he can get a chance to see them.

But as soon as you step foot in your apartment, you’re missing the warmth of California, the beautiful Malibu home, the smell of the ocean, and Bucky by your side. It’s not exhaustion that brought the tears — it’s longing. Heavy, irrational, unfiltered longing.

You force yourself to take a nap anyway.

Eventually, the holidays are here, and Bucky gets into the spirit by sparing no expense.

Two days before Christmas, he rents out the entire top floor restaurant of a skyscraper and presents you with a solid gold, heart-shaped locket in the middle of the quiet, candlelit room. It’s vintage, it’s supposedly priceless, and it’s everything you never knew you wanted but now can’t live without. You’re stumbling over your thank yous as he helps you put it on. His fingers are warm and confident as he hooks the clasp, and trail down your neck unintentionally as you turn, giving you goosebumps.

“Beautiful,” he says quietly. Your skin flushes and your heart soars. That’s all you need to hear. You can’t help but touch it repeatedly throughout the night, and Bucky notices, hiding his smile behind his drink.

He’s over the top with giddiness when you give him his gift. A vinyl for his collection, a one-of-a-kind collector’s album of his favorite band that took weeks to track down. And it’s something you purchased with your own meager savings — you know you didn’t have to, but it means something to you to have given back even a minuscule fraction of what he’s given you.

Later that night, when you’re getting ready for bed at your own apartment, you take the locket off and unclasp it.

It pops open easily, revealing two empty frames.

Despite the incredible night, your heart can’t help but sink.

You don’t know what you were expecting — Bucky’s hardly the type to put a photo of himself in a locket, he barely looks in the mirror in the morning. But something inside of you was obviously hoping for it. A small sign of possession. Of claiming this relationship, no matter how it started or what it’s defined as.

You set the locket gently on your bedside table. You fall asleep looking at it, mind sifting through what’s real and what’s imagined.

Christmas day is a quiet event with an estranged aunt that makes the effort to keep family in your life. It’s an awkward affair, with stilted small talk and pauses long enough to make you sweat, but you don’t have the heart to tell her no each time she comes around.

Bucky’s unusually silent throughout the day, nothing from him except a text in the morning wishing you a merry Christmas. It’s a strange feeling for you when most of your day is spent in contact with him. You’re not sure where he is, or if he’s with family, or if he has any. Somehow, you haven’t asked, and he hasn’t volunteered that information yet.

But as the day goes on and you still haven’t heard from him, the curiosity is starting to burn you alive.

Or is it jealousy? Jealousy for whoever’s taking up all his time, time that’s normally dedicated solely to you?

You’re probably being overdramatic, but this feels like the first taste of what your life would be like without him, and it’s turning you inside out. Your usual detachment tendencies are nowhere to be found, instead making room for a frantic need to confirm his existence. You have to battle with the urge to call him three different times before your aunt gives you a stiff hug and heads out.

Once it’s just you and Lucky, the silence is a bitter enabler. You’re ringing him before you know it.

He picks up just before it goes to voicemail. “Hey,” he answers, voice hushed.

“Hi,” you say. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart. How’s your aunt?”

“She’s good. She made cookies and then we ate them in silence while watching Rudolph.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like a heartwarming Christmas tradition.”

“I know. She’s trying, at least. She just left, actually…how’s your Christmas?”

“It’s good.”

There’s a pause as you wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.

“Good,” you croak. “I-I’m glad. I was afraid you’d spend it in the office.”

“Even I know when to take a day off, unlike some of us.”

Your smile is automatic as you recall the conversation from months ago. “Hey, some of us didn’t have a choice.”

“I know,” his chest rumbles, “but now you do.”

“I don’t have a job, Bucky.”

“So you can take as many days off as you want.”

You giggle. “I don’t think it works like that.”

“It works whatever way you want it to, doll—“ He cuts off when a voice in the background calls his name. A woman’s voice. High and lilting, musical. Your blood runs cold, like you’ve been dropped into the Hudson. “Hey, listen, I gotta go,” Bucky says, low and rushed. “But I’ll call you first thing tomorrow, okay? We’ll do something. Don’t sleep in.”

Your mouth’s open to reply but he’s already hung up. You stare at your phone until the screen goes black. Lucky jumps off the couch next to you, disappearing into the other room and leaving you to deal with your new fears alone.

Bucky makes good on his promise to call you the next morning. In a strange twist of events, you wake up early, probably because you were tossing and turning all night after the abrupt end to your call.

“Hey, doll,” he says cheerfully.

“Hey,” you breathe, praying you hide the hint of relief in your tone.

“Feel like ice skating today?”

Famous last words.

Much later, when your feet are numb from loss of circulation and the cold, and you’ve tired of grumbling at Bucky about how effortless he is at skating, you stare down over the city from his penthouse windows. He has the fireplace lit, Christmas tree lights on, a Bing Crosby carol playing on the vinyl; your hands are wrapped around a hot tea, its steam warming your face. It’s peaceful and serene.

Bucky falls into place beside you on silent feet.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

Your mind conjures up the phone call, the woman’s voice on Bucky’s end.

You smile. “That I missed my calling as a figure skater.”

Bucky’s laugh is low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine and makes you shiver.

“I was thinking the same thing. You could’ve had a gold medal by now.”

“A dream deferred.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Bucky reaches for you, pulling you closer by the hip. You can smell his cologne again, and it momentarily deprives you of all other senses.

“I had fun today,” he tells you. “Skating was my favorite thing to do as a kid. I couldn’t tell you the last time I went.”

You hum and look up at him. “What made you think of it, then?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says slowly, taking a sip of tea. “I guess I was feeling nostalgic.” He meets your eyes. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Thank you for taking me. It was surprisingly fun to embarrass myself in front of all those people.”

He scoffs. “You were a lot better than you think. You just need practice.”

“Sure. But let’s save that for next year when there’s a better chance that people don’t remember me.”

“Whatever you say, doll.” He pauses. “What are you doing for New Years?”

You blink. “Oh, uh — nothing, I guess.”

His head tilts. “Up for another fancy party?”

Five days later, you’re draped in silk and diamonds, hair done and skin glowing. Bucky’s hand is dragging lazily up and down your back as he listens to a board member’s hypothetical on splitting shares. You barely hear a word he’s saying.

When the man walks away, Bucky leans in. “Having a holiday work party on an actual holiday is already dickish, but talking about work at the holiday work party? Unbelievable.“

“The nerve of him,” you whisper back. He sends you a wink before leading you to the other side of the room.

Before the end of the night, Bucky gives a speech to the partygoers. He thanks everyone for coming before humbly acknowledging the company having another record-breaking year. Cheers erupt all around; everywhere you look, people are smiling at him with respect and admiration. Bucky calls out a few people in particular for exemplary performance, then reminds everyone to arrange for rides home before cracking a joke about who will be the first one in HR’s office after tonight.

He’s charming, he’s magnetic, he’s impossible to look away from. And when he steps off stage and heads directly for you, your heart nearly goes into cardiac arrest.

During the countdown to midnight, Bucky has you pressed against his side, eyes twinkling as they take in the room. Meanwhile, you’re barely breathing, desperately wondering if Bucky will respect the age-old tradition of a kiss to ring in the new year. Just as the clock hits twelve, and you turn your face to his, Bucky leans down and brushes his lips to your forehead. Gentle, steady.

And not at all what you wanted.

“Happy New Year, honey.”

You exhale softly. “Happy New Year, Bucky.”

It takes everything in you to keep those floodgates right where they are.

After the party’s ended, you agree to go back to Bucky’s. He’s rubbing the marks of your heels from your feet while you recap the night, massaging the stiffness out of them; you’re bundled up in his sweatshirt and sweatpants, and he wears the same.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” he says.

“Of course. It was a really beautiful party.”

“Agreed. I’m looking forward to signing off on that bill on Monday.”

You laugh. “You know, your employees really love you. I could see it on their faces.”

Bucky shrugs, but his ears go pink. “They’re good people.”

“I think you’re good people.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he says with a smile. You attempt to push his chest with your foot, but he holds your ankle steady, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“I also think you don’t give yourself enough credit,” you continue softly, voice lowering. “You work hard, you fight for things that’ll make the company better, and you care so much. These people see it. They’re lucky to have you and they know it. I know I am.”

His hands pause. When his eyes find yours, they’re wide, vulnerable. “Thank you,” he whispers.

You shoot him a shy smile. “You’re welcome.”

Your phone lights up just then, an alert from your cat camera detecting movement. But Bucky’s gaze is drawn to the time.

“Christ,” he swears, “it’s already three. Think it’s time for bed.”

You follow him toward the bedrooms, fighting off yawns; he turns to you in front of his door, sleepy smile already stretched across his face. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, turning the handle.

A thought occurs to you. A very selfish thought.

“Bucky?” you blurt out.

He turns.

“Yeah?”

“Can I, uh — can I sleep…in your bed? With you?”

Bucky’s silent, eyes blinking. You feel the heat creep up your neck and more words rush out of your mouth in response. You’re looking everywhere but at him.

“Just for tonight, I — um, I just mean, it’s a holiday and, you know, you spend holidays with people…You totally don’t have to say yes, oh my God, I probably crossed a line—“

“Sweetheart.”

Bucky holds the door to his room open, standing aside to allow you to pass. Your mouth opens and closes without a sound, but you scamper by him when he raises an eyebrow. The lights are off, the bed made; you unfold it together, like you’ve done this before a million times, and slide under the sheets.

Lying down, you face each other, eyes dancing over the other’s features softly illuminated by the lights of the city through the window; there’s only a few inches of space between you — it feels too close yet not close enough at the same time.

“Thank you,” you whisper to him. A soft smile flits across his face. Wordlessly, he reaches out and curls two fingers around yours, then his eyes flutter shut.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

You watch his breathing slow, getting comfort from the steady rise and fall of his chest. Like this, you’re free to stare. You drink him in, every inch you can see, from the strands of hair falling in his face to the outlines of his legs underneath the sheets. You wish you could see all of him, every freckle, every line, every angle, so you can greedily commit it to memory. So you can be one of the lucky few to have known Bucky Barnes so intimately.

It isn’t lust, it isn’t want —it’s something much deeper than that. Something much more devastating.

You’re eventually lulled to sleep by the pulse in his wrist beating against yours.

January is cold and brutal. February is no better. March finally brings a taste of the sun, but you’re too busy buried up to your neck in school that you hardly step outside to savor it, unless Bucky’s there to drag you out the door.

With finals on the horizon, sometimes you have to make the hard decision to decline Bucky’s invites to dinner, or a show, or another charity gala. The guilt and pressure cut so deep after you say no that you burst into tears as soon as you get off the phone with him.

To his credit, Bucky doesn’t push — he’s your number one champion for you getting your degree — but in your weakest moments, when a headache throbs at your temple and you’ve gone cross-eyed from staring at a screen all day, you think about the woman’s voice on Bucky’s phone. It’s like your brain is punishing you for overworking it day in and day out, pushing nasty propaganda about losing him to a faceless woman as you try to fall asleep.

Dark circles under your eyes become a constant. You live off of electrolytes, coffee and takeout that Bucky has delivered to your apartment. You’re too tired to even doomscroll when you allow yourself a five minute break. It’s a very isolated existence.

Bucky comes by when he can, bearing groceries and ibuprofen and looking larger than life in your little one bedroom flat.

When he’s with you, he shows absolutely no signs of there being another woman in his life, patiently listening to your complaints about thesis formatting and unproved data formulas, gently making you eat after you’ve paced a ditch into your floorboards, holding you close on the couch until your body finally relaxes.

But your brain is a vengeful motherfucker. It torments you for choosing school over Bucky in between writing papers and compiling research. It convinces you that he’s faking every sweet word of encouragement that he gives you. It blends your reality until you believe that he’s cozied up at dinner with someone new, working his effortless charm on your replacement while you sit at home in the dark with your textbooks.

Unsurprisingly, you reach a breaking point.

Now, a sane person would pick up the phone and talk to him about it. But you’ve been entertaining a mild psychosis for days, brought on by stress and fatigue and pathetic amounts of yearning, so — naturally — you decide to show up at his home.

It’s half past midnight when you stumble out of the elevator into his dark penthouse. You bump into a side table as you struggle to find the light switch, sending it to the floor with a crash that could wake the dead, i.e., Bucky. Sure enough, you hear his bedroom door open and the sound of feet rounding the corner. The light flips on.

“What the fuck?”

He’s wearing nothing except his briefs, hair mussed from sleep but eyes wide and alert. He looks like he’s seeing a ghost. You certainly look the part — your clothes are soaked through from the rain, your teeth chattering and lips blue.

“H-hey,” you say weakly.

He says nothing, a tense moment passing between the two of you, before he crosses the room and pulls you into his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he demands. “Are you okay?” He pushes you back to scan you from head to toe. Your fingers curl around his forearms.

“N-no, I’m f-fine. Just c-c-cold.”

He yanks you back into his hold, arms like pythons around your waist and shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” he breathes against your hair. “I thought you were asleep.”

Your sigh brushes against his collarbone; your body is melting against his already. “I t-tried, but…I m-missed you.”

Bucky stills, just for a second. Then his arms pull even tighter around you.

“I missed you, too.”

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” you whisper.

“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you’re here.” He lifts his cheek from your head, taking in your wet clothes. “Did you — did you walk here?”

You have the grace to look guilty.

“Fuck,” he hisses, leaning down to meet your eye, “don’t ever do that again. I don’t want you walking around the city alone at this time of night — either call Bob or call an uber and charge it to my card. You don’t walk. Do you hear me?”

The tone of his voice is new and startling to your already-vulnerable psyche. Tears spill over before you can stop them. He exhales deeply, hands coming up to cup your face.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softer. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. You just…scared me.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, sniffling.

“Says the woman who walked God knows how far in the pouring rain at midnight.” His eyes search your face. “What’s going on?”

Your lip trembles. ”I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Shhh. Tell me what’s wrong,” he urges, and all of the ugly thoughts rear their heads inside your brain.

“It — it’s stupid…”

“It can’t be if you came all this way. Just tell me.”

He waits in silence for you to answer. You struggle to find the words, sifting through scraps of explanations while your head and your heart duke it out.

“…I guess I was…afraid,” you mumble, unable to hold his gaze.

“Afraid of what, sweetheart?” His thumbs brush your cheekbones soothingly.

“Of…losing you.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

You take a sharp, rattling breath. “I keep saying no to doing things with you because I’m so worried about school, and I — I haven’t made any effort at all to make up for it. We’ve barely seen each other in weeks — I didn’t realize until now how much I’ve been pushing you a-away. It made me scared that you’d see that I was choosing school over you and…y-you’d get tired of me, or want someone else…”

For the longest minute of your life, he says nothing. You watch as a thousand different emotions cross his face, from anger to sadness to relief. He settles on a blend of happy and pained, jaw clenching but eyes calm as ever. Bucky brings you closer, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Sweetheart, you’re not losing me.” He speaks softly, melodically. “I told you a long time ago that I wanted you to be able to focus on what matters to you, and I meant it. I’m so damn proud of what you’re doing, it makes every second I’m not with you worth it.”

He tilts your head up so that you meet his gaze. It’s warm, tender, almost pleading.

“And I could never get tired of you, even if we go days, or weeks, or months without seeing each other. You bring so much joy to my life just by being in it. Just by being you. Why would I ever want anyone else?”

In the back of your mind, you know you’re sobbing, but you don’t care. A hundred pound weight has been lifted off your chest and you think you might float to the ceiling if you weren’t wrapped up in Bucky’s arms. Whimpering, you bury your face into his chest, clutching at him with all your might. Bucky’s hands spread across your back, pressing you closer.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his skin. His lips brush your hair in a soft kiss.

The other floodgate cracks open, as inevitable as the sun rises. This time, you don’t fight it — you push the door all the way open, standing aside to let the oncoming rush of feelings flood your heart after they’ve been locked away for so long. It hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt. Especially when Bucky’s holding you through it.

He only pulls away once your tears have turned into the occasional hiccup. “Come on,” he says gently, “let’s get you warmed up.”

He steers you into his bathroom, turning on the shower and placing a hoodie and boxers next to the sink. He leaves you to it, and you spend a good amount of time scrubbing at your face and regaining feeling in your limbs.

When you open the bathroom door, drowning in his clothes and smelling like his soap, he’s waiting for you, dressed in a hoodie of his own. A tiny part of you mourns the loss of seeing his skin. He helps you climb into his bed, pulling the covers up to your chin as you settle against the pillows. He flicks the light off before sliding in beside you, shuffling over until his cold toes touch yours, and his hand slides down your wrist and grabs your arm, pulling you in to close the distance between you.

A faint noise escapes you as you tuck your head against his shoulder. You’ve never been this close to him before — it feels like coming home after a long time away.

You’re drifting off in minutes, Bucky’s arm a comforting weight around your waist. Your dreams start sweetly when you hear his voice saying, “I’m all yours, sweetheart.”

When you receive the email that late April morning, you’re lying in Bucky’s bed scrolling on your phone. Even though Bucky left for work hours ago, you have a habit of drawing out your mornings from the comfort of his king mattress. As soon as you get the notification, your heart stops. You shoot up quickly, opening the email with shaky fingers, and read.

On behalf of the faculty and administration, we extend our sincere congratulations on the successful completion of your Master’s degree in Business Analytics.

This message serves as official confirmation that your degree has been conferred. Your academic achievement reflects a high level of dedication, discipline, and commitment to your field of study…

You scream before erupting into a fit of laughter, scrambling out from under the covers to jump on the bed until your legs give out. You fucking did it.

Breathless, you collapse onto the bed, immediately dialing Bucky. He picks up in one ring.

“Your ears must’ve been burning ‘cause I’ve got a bone to pick with you, doll, you took all the covers from me last night arou—”

“Bucky. I did it. I got the email.”

Silence for the length of a heartbeat. Then, with a smile in his voice, “That’s my girl. Congratulations, sweetheart, I always knew you’d do it.”

“Thank you, Bucky — I-I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Nah, that was all you, smarty pants.”

You giggle, smushing your face into the pillow to hide your blush.

“It doesn’t feel real,” you muse, blowing hair from your eyes. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel different or what.”

“That’s because you need to celebrate. You worked so hard for this, your brain isn’t out of school mode yet. You need to show yourself that you earned it. That’s when it will sink in.”

Your smile grows. “I like the way you think, Barnes. What do you think our odds are of getting into Minetta tonight?”

There’s a pause on his end, the sound of his keyboard the only thing you hear.

“Actually, I was thinking of something a little further away than Minetta.”

You know that tone. You sit up straight.

“Bucky. What are you planning?”

You’ve never seen water so blue in your entire life. Not even the beaches of Positano hold a candle to the sea surrounding the Maldives.

Bucky offers you a hand as you step out of the car. You take it gratefully, squeezing tightly just to make sure he’s real, that all of this is real.

“Welcome to One&Only Reethi Rah, Mr. Barnes. We’re so happy you could join us here.”

Bucky pulls you close, an arm slung over your shoulders, as the guide takes you across the grounds and to the docks where several large huts are built over the turquoise water. He shows you to the door of yours and Bucky’s villa, prattling off the agenda Bucky’s already set with the staff. You just barely register the words “snorkeling” and “private dinner” while you wander. It’s a long structure with an open concept, you can just see the end of the bed past the dining table; all of the walls are windows that are open to let in the breeze; on the far end, a large sundeck faces the ocean.

Bucky speaks with the guide while you weave in and out of the rooms. Two bathrooms, a small kitchen, a pool, and one bed. A small smile stretches across your face as your fingers brush over the comforter.

“What do you think?”

You turn, finding Bucky leaning against the wall across from you. Your smile grows and you let out a squeal, scrambling up and over the bed in your hurry to wrap your arms around him.

He smiles back, crushing you to him. “I’ve never heard that sound from you before. I’m guessing you like it?”

“Bucky — I love it. This place is a dream!”

“Glad you think so. Not a bad spot to celebrate getting your Master’s, huh?”

You laugh. “Way better than Minetta.”

The celebrations start with — of all things — a nap, because the twenty-four hours of traveling catch up to you once the adrenaline wears off. You stretch out on the bed next to Bucky, his hand carding through your hair, feet dangling over the edge, the sound of the ocean lulling you to sleep.

You feel like you’ve just closed your eyes when he nudges you awake. His hair’s all over the place in the most endearing way possible, so you reach up and muss it up even more; he grabs your wrist and holds it tight, warning you that you’ll be swimming in the ocean sooner than you think if you keep it up.

The sun’s just kissing the horizon when you head toward the beach, where another member of the resort staff escorts you to a private table set up for dinner. You sit through six courses of the freshest seafood and sweetest fruit you’ve ever had, sipping Bellinis while you and Bucky talk about nothing and everything at once.

At the end of the meal, after you can’t eat another bite of the desert, he pulls out a small black velvet box. Inside is a pair of earrings of your birthstone, shined till they gleam. You give him an earful for buying these when he’s already brought you here, but he smiles through it until your chastising turns into an endless stream of gratitude.

The next morning begins with a huge breakfast spread out on the sundeck, where Bucky insists on sunscreen first thing. You laugh at him for his responsible antics, but when you take turns putting it on each other’s backs, his big hands touching parts of you he hasn’t touched before, you can’t think of a more beautiful invention than sunscreen.

Bucky looks like God’s gift to women lounging next to you in the sun chair, sipping coffee and eating berries in a linen shirt he doesn’t bother to button, like it’s his birthright, like he was made to do it. You’re thankful for the heavy tint on your sunglasses concealing your wandering gaze.

Later, the two of you set off on a private yacht tour of the islands. You sit leaning against him on the front of the ship, pointing out dolphins that flip through the air and waving at passing boaters. With the roar of the wind and the motor, Bucky has to lean down and speak directly into your ear so you can hear him, and every time his lips brush your skin, you’re melting further and further into him.

You know you’re not being as subtle as you’d like — a small voice in your head wonders if he notices.

Dinner is back at the villa, where a private chef prepares choice cuts of steak and lobsters the size of your arm. The chef is entertaining, cracking jokes and flipping knives, and as you laugh through his horrible impression of Gordon Ramsay, you catch Bucky watching you from the corner of your eye.

He smiles shyly when he sees he’s caught, but he doesn’t look away. You feel a flush of warmth drag down your spine, limbs tingling in anticipation of something you don’t know the name of.

That night, you’re facing each other in bed, heads propped up by elbows so that you can reminisce on the day. You’re raving about the miles of rainbow coral you saw when Bucky reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger longer than necessary, much longer than appropriate, and it takes everything you have to keep going like his touch didn’t just send your heart into a frenzy. You take note of his half-lidded gaze locked onto your face — it could be from exhaustion, or it could be from something else.

You try not to let your mind spiral into the possibilities.

But when he has you cuddled close to his chest, just like every other night, you can hear his heart pounding through his thin t-shirt.

The rest of your week in paradise is a balance of dream-like activities and tension-filled moments. One minute you’re snorkeling, the next, Bucky’s undoing the back strap of your bikini and retying it with slow, concentrated precision. One minute you’re learning how to sail, the next, Bucky has you laid out on his chest, every inch of you on him as you take a nap in the sun.

You tell yourself that this is just Vacation Bucky, that nothing’s changed for him when it comes to what this arrangement is.

But his eyes follow you everywhere, he follows you everywhere, a hand lingering near your skin at all times.

It’s enough to make a rational person snap. And you do.

You’re getting ready for dinner after hours spent in the ocean. Bucky’s already cleaned up, now rummaging through his suitcase for something to wear while you’ve slipped into the connecting bathroom. You absentmindedly slide the door shut behind you, and it doesn’t quite connect with the frame; instead, a sliver of space is left open, just enough that, when you reach to close it all the way, you can see Bucky moving about the room.

The idea arrives unbidden, and it makes your stomach swoop low. Do it, the devil on your shoulder urges. The angel on the other shoulder stays silent.

You wait until he’s directly lined up with the crack in the door, then you turn your back to him.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Remind me what we’re doing for dinner again.” There’s a brief pause.

“We’re heading inland,” Bucky says. You think he sounds like he’s directly behind you.

Wasting no time, you take the ties of your bikini bottoms and pull them loose — they crumple to the floor.

“Do you know what they’re serving?”

Then you turn to the side, reaching up to untie the knot at the back of your neck; slowly, your bikini top slinks down your torso, exposing your breasts to the warm, night air.

You want to look — you really, really want to look — but you know you can’t. You can’t risk what comes after catching him looking. And what if he’s not looking? What if he’s done the decent thing, like the decent man he is, and walked away? You’re not sure how you’d be able to shoulder that feeling for the rest of the trip, not when you’re bartering your firstborn to the higher powers above for him to be looking.

You realize that Bucky hasn’t said anything.

“Bucky?” you call out, reaching to undo the last of the ties, and the bikini top lands on the bottoms, leaving you completely naked before the crack in the door.

“Yeah,” you hear. Low, rough, distracted.

Don’t fucking look—

“The food,” you reply, forcing an amused smile. “Do you know what it is? I don’t think I could eat another tartar with a gun to my head.”

There’s a pause before he speaks, sounding further away. “You’ll be fine.”

His words sound final; you think you hear the slide of the door leading out to the water. You bite your lip before turning for the shower. The boldness you were feeling before is quickly shrinking into nothing, leaving you with an empty feeling in your stomach and a knot of guilt in your chest.

Back in the room, Bucky nowhere in sight, you sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your chest, damp hair clinging to your skin.

“Fucking idiot” you whisper to yourself. You think you might actually be insane. Or tremendously stupid. Or both. Who tries to seduce their best friend, their supportive, respectful, gorgeous best friend, with a fucking strip tease?

The words are like a knife to your chest as you sit with them. It’s the first time you’ve acknowledged Bucky being your best friend, and it’s right after going down in history as the shittiest friend ever.

…but are you?

Your mind replays every crooked smile he’s sent you, every dirty joke he’s laughed at, every hug and cuddle and forehead kiss, every second of this damn trip. You’re analyzing all of it frame by frame in pursuit of a sign that he wants more.

Because you sure as hell do.

It’s no question that things have changed completely for you, as devastating as a religious reckoning. You want him. You love him. You’re fucking head over heels for him.

But until you get that sign. The sign that he wants more, too. You can’t tell him. Not without risking everything — and you’d rather die with your love a secret than destroy what you have with him now by saying it out loud. Yet another tragedy to add on to your already pitiful life.

Bucky’s out on the deck when you emerge from the bathroom, wearing a flowy white linen dress that allows your skin to breathe.

“Hey,” you call out, voice on the wobbly side, heart fluttering nervously. “You ready?”

He turns from staring out at the ocean. When his eyes land on you, he stills.

“What?” you can’t help but ask as the silence stretches. “Should I change?”

He shakes his head, taking a step toward you. “Please don’t. You look…you look like an angel.”

The new compliment sinks deep into your heart, making you blush. Your answering smile is shy. “Thanks, Buck…so, are we going or what?”

You watch as Bucky’s shoulders move up and down in a deep breath; beyond him, the dark ocean cradles a strip of silver in its endless surface, the moon’s mirror image. It lights up the side of his face, exposing the soft look he’s wearing as he drinks you in. You’re hit with a sudden wave of what you can only describe as reverse déjà vu, like you’ve just come across a moment you never want to forget, a moment you want to come back to, time and time again.

You reach out your hand.

Bucky takes it.

The dinner is beautiful, no surprise there; you, Bucky, and a few other guests sit in a treehouse-like structure while aproned servers bring around plates of local dishes that melt on your tongue and introduce you to flavors you could only dream of. There’s live music in the corner of the room, a light breeze that cools your skin, and the ambiance is the perfect mix of cozy and seductive.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s giving an Oscar-worthy performance of everything being perfectly fine and normal. He smiles at you over his drink and lets his hand wander over your back. He laughs at the server’s joke and encourages you to get a second desert. He seems calm. Content. Happy.

But his eyes are dark and distracted. You catch him staring off into the distance more than once. And when you say his name to brink him back, his gaze burns into yours like a brand.

Back in the villa, the two of you get ready for bed quickly, the day getting the better of you both. You’re fighting through a fifth yawn when you finally collapse on top of the bed, spreading out over the covers in a small tank top and matching shorts to fight off the heat of the night. Behind you, Bucky emerges from the bathroom; the sound of his footsteps stop suddenly near the end of the bed, where you’re on full display to whoever passes by. They start up again before you can turn and look, and then Bucky’s pulling back the covers and sliding into bed.

“Budge over, doll,” he murmurs, stretching out his legs beneath the sheets. You sigh and roll over and off the bed so you can join him. He reaches over to turn off the light, and then it’s just the two of you and the moon’s reflection on the ocean.

“It’s so pretty,” you whisper. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of this.”

“Me neither,” he says. You turn on your side to look at him, a hand propping up your head.

“What’s been your favorite part?”

A faint smile flickers across his face. “The eel.”

You laugh. “Oh, I’m so glad you found my fear so entertaining.”

“I’ve never seen anyone swim that fast.”

“A moray eel crossed right in front of us and you’re saying you didn’t almost shit yourself?”

He shrugs before flipping onto his side. “They don’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that for next time.”

“And maybe next time you won’t push me toward it while you’re trying to get away.”

You cover your face with your hand. “Okay, that was shitty of me, I admit it.”

“Just shitty?” he repeats. “You were sacrificing me to save yourself! I started questioning everything I thought I knew about you.”

Your jaw drops open. “That’s not fair! I’d love to see what you’d do to me if a big fat spider crawled up the bed.” Bucky shudders for effect. “And what happened to ‘they don’t bother you if you don’t bother them’?”

“They’re territorial, doll — you pushed me into his reef.”

“And he didn’t do anything because he could sense your hippie-dippy, ‘respect the ocean, it respects you back’ manifesto. Point is, you’re fine.”

“Yeah, physically. Emotionally? I’ll never recover.”

“Drama queen.” You shove at his shoulder to push him out of the bed.

Quick as a whip, he seizes your wrist and pushes you back. You can’t help but laugh as your plan backfires, his strength overtaking yours by a long shot. He rolls you closer to the edge of the bed, restraining your other wrist easily. You push back with all your might, slipping one wrist from his grasp and pushing at his chest, locking your leg around his to keep you anchored. Your giggles and his huffs of laughter fill the room as you struggle to push each other out of the bed.

And then something shifts, like a light switch turning off; Bucky’s eyes, bright with laughter, turn darker, steadier. His breath hitches.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he murmurs, voice rough. With no effort at all, he grabs both wrists in one hand. His other hand grips your bare knee, unhooking it from around his thigh and placing it on the mattress.

Shocked, you slide your leg down beside the other, your skin burning where his hand touched. He keeps your wrists.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He says nothing, breathing deep as he stares at your hands. You shake them in his hold. “Bucky.”

He sighs softly, just a push of air from his lungs like he’s come to a decision but hates the choice he made.

“I need you to stay there, sweetheart.”

You gape at him. “What? Did I — did I hurt you?”

“No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Bucky—“ you start, inching closer, but he pins your wrists to the mattress, pressing firmly to make a point.

“Please.”

You watch with wide eyes as he slowly turns from his side to his stomach, resettling into the mattress with a fleeting wince.

Is he…?

He can’t meet your gaze, and there’s a flush to his neck that wasn’t there before, that you suspect is not from the heat. His hand over your wrists tightens imperceptibly. You stay silent until he has no choice but to look at you, and all you see is blown pupils.

He is.

You nod and he releases you, but you can’t look away from him. Not when he looks like this. Not when he’s the most vulnerable he’s ever been in front of you.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

He makes a faint noise in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t move.

Eventually, his breathing levels out and so does yours — you hadn’t realized it had picked up when he held your hands down. The waves crash again and again, a tropical white noise to chip away at the tension.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice screams at you that this is it, this is your moment to let him know exactly how you feel.

You think about crossing that symbolic six inches of space between you and kissing him. You think about touching him softly until he relaxes for you, until he welcomes you over to him. You think about forcing him over and straddling him before he can say a word.

What stops you is the look on his face. He isn’t embarrassed, like you expected — he’s disappointed, remorseful, pained, like he violated your trust as his friend and decided it’s unforgivable.

It makes your gut sink, remembering the bait you dangled before him earlier. A conflicting mix of emotions crowd your heart, vying for priority, the biggest battle between sweet satisfaction, and crushing guilt.

You can’t do it. Not like this. Not when he looks so broken over it. You take a deep breath, strands of hair floating into your face.

Without a word, and giving you all the time in the world to stop him, Bucky reaches over and tucks the pieces carefully behind your ear. Your eyes flutter shut.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” he whispers.

Your lips part. Your eyes open. He’s staring at you.

“You too, Buck.”

All you want is some water and to clean yourself up before heading out onto the floor, but your manager decides now is as good a time as any to give you a lecture on tardiness.

Your lungs are still struggling for air as you endure his power trip, your teeth grinding together over the fact that he hadn’t let you clock in before launching into his tirade. His ruddy face and the drool collecting at the corners of his mouth would’ve made for a comical sight if you weren’t already fuming over your situation. By the time he tires himself out, he’s eaten away at seven additional minutes you could’ve been paid for.

Safe to say, there’s a black cloud over your head when you finally emerge onto the floor. Cleaning yourself up had been futile — there was nothing you could do about your hair, and you’re putting a lot of faith in the ambiance to keep the sweat stains on your uniform indiscernible. And not only are you sticky with dried sweat, smelling of the cheap drug store body spray and year-old deodorant you borrowed, but blisters are beginning to form after your uncoordinated run in heels earlier. You have a feeling you’ll be cleaning dried blood from them at the end of the shift, and until then, every step will be torture.

That is until you see the floor map at the host stand, then you don’t even register the pain anymore. The hostess fidgets nervously beside you as you double and triple-check what you’re seeing.

At first glance, it looks like it always does. You have the same tables every night with the same people filling them like clockwork, because this place thrives on consistency and it’s common knowledge that regulars have the deepest pockets. Everything looks normal…except for one table. And once your eyes catch on it, it makes your heart seize.

Your Friday night 8:30 p.m. regulars is missing — the group of eighty-something year-old men that like to compare you to their granddaughters and fuss over your wellbeing and always tip like it’s their last day on earth are no longer in their usual back booth. No, the long-standing reservation under ‘S. Lee’ is off in another corner of the screen. In Melissa’s section. In her booth.

“This has to be a mistake,” you say out loud. The young girl playing hostess for the evening squeaks, curling in on herself.

“I’m sorry, he made me,” she whispers urgently, and you know she means your manager. “You were running late and he didn’t want them to wait, so he had me put them at Mel’s table next to the piano—“

You tune her out, a hand covering your eyes to block out every sensory input you could. The missing table of your best regulars feels like the death blow to your optimism, your hope, your last chance. With debt collectors clogging up your voicemail, you haven’t thought about anything but this shift for the last week. A lot was riding on it, and not just the tips or the wages — tonight was going to be the night you swallowed your pride and pitched your sob story to the table of Warren Buffet clones. It’s a gamble — one that risks your job if you don’t play your cards right — but after months of buttering them up with winks and pats and an endless amount of patience for repeatedly-told stories, you figured at least two out of the six might crack open their wallets for a charitable cause of a motherless young woman with crippling medical debt.

But now you would never know. The thought hurts a lot worse than the blisters.

It takes great effort to slap a smile on your face and act like you didn’t just miss the last lifeboat on the sinking ship, but every time you pass the empty booth, a cold chill runs down your spine. Deadlines, due dates, and late notices swirl in your brain while you take orders or fake laughter. Your mind has catalogued everything you think the repo men will take first when they come knocking next week. It’s a dark and winding internal spiral.

But just when you think it can’t get any worse, your black cloud becomes a roaring thunderstorm.

You know the hostess thought she was helping — you’ve been catching her apologetic looks from the corner of your eye throughout the shift. But when she creeps over to you cautiously, a small smile on her face, and says she found the perfect replacement reservation for you, you’re about ready to dump a pitcher of water over her head.

“Replacement” rings alarm bells in your head. “Replacement” means reservations outside of the regulars’ time slots. “Replacement” means snotty out-of-towners with connections or ignorant first-time club members. “Replacement” means trouble.

And trouble they are.

You assess your new group of gentleman from across the bar. There are seven of them in the secluded booth, all of them spread out and lounging comfortably like they’ve been patrons of your table for years. You don’t recognize any of them, and neither does the bartender, which confirms your biggest fears. You’re at risk of cracking a tooth.

But your manager appears out of nowhere, giving you the evil eye, so you have no choice but to relax your jaw and make your way over to the newcomers.

Your forced smile could power a small generator when you sidle up to the table.

“Welcome to The Alpine, gentlemen. How are we?”

Seven pairs of eyes snap to you, and you know what comes next: the head-to-toe look over and appreciative smiles that follow shortly after. The tall blonde in the middle has a particularly disarming curl to his lips that raises the hair on the back of your neck.

“Better, now that you’re here,” he quips, line of vision resting somewhere between your chin and your naval. The man beside him chuckles.

“Well, glad I could be of service,” you say brightly, eyelashes fluttering on command. Even if it kills you, you’ll flirt like hell with them if it means better tips. “What brings you in tonight?”

The blonde one speaks up again. “Our friend here just bought another nightclub,” he says, gesturing to a man to his right. “So we thought we’d celebrate him adding to his empire.”

Your smile never falters, but you feel your eye twitch.

“How exciting,” you manage to say.

It takes you much longer than necessary to get their drink orders. The blonde man — whose name you learned is Walker — doesn’t seem to know how to stop talking. Even if you shoved a dirty bar towel down his throat, you think he’d still be shooting off jokes. Probably about ball gags, after hearing the mouth on him.

As you walk away to put in their orders, you can just hear Walker’s nasty little comparison of a bouncy ball and your ass. Your eyes roll so hard they hurt.

When you return with their drinks, he once again zeroes in on your neckline.

“How long have you been working here, sweetie?” he asks your breasts, voice cutting through the others’ conversations. Your smile is blank and placid as you hand him his drink, ignoring the purposeful drag of his fingers over yours.

“Coming up on a year,” you reply. “Long enough to know when someone interesting walks in.”

You add a wink for good measure and he devours it. Sitting up straighter, Walker puffs out his chest.

“Interesting, huh?” he asks with a smirk that’s probably meant to seduce but instead summons vomit. “Sounds like I might be a new favorite of yours.”

Do not gag do not gag do not gag—

“Oh, I don’t do favorites. I just like my clientele to feel special.”

God, you might make yourself vomit—

“Good to know,” he drawls, “because I’ll be around a lot more soon. Barnes is getting me on the short-list next month, right, Barnes?”

Before whichever man named Barnes can reply, Walker continues. “So don’t go running off anywhere. Wouldn’t want you breaking my heart before I even get settled in.”

The cliche of it all has you actively fighting the urge to burst out laughing.

“And give up the chance to have you as a regular? Wouldn’t dream of it,” you soothe, smile cracking with your hidden mirth. The man at the end of the booth makes a noise somewhere between a snort and cough, but Walker beams like he won the lottery.

As the drinks flow, his audacity grows, which you find as shocking as it is endearing — which is to say, not at all. But you play along, because what other choice do you have? None when Walker’s giving all the signs that he’ll be footing the bill.

So you keep it up, the back and forth, the balance of flirty and dismissive responses; you can see the interest growing in Walker’s eyes as his sobriety shrinks. His friends are right there with him, and soon enough the energy of the table starts to shift in Walker’s direction.

“That vest really does wonders for you.”

“I like it when a girl shows a little skin.”

“That skirt looks like it was made for you.”

Your patience is wearing thin.

To their credit, a couple others at the table try to rein him in when they can, including the man of the hour, the club buyer, an attractive guy in his early forties called Sam. He makes pointed subject changes and laughs off the awkwardness when Walker makes a comment that lands just this side of perverted. Truthfully, you wouldn’t mind Walker running his mouth until you had grounds to have him removed, essentially destroying whatever chance he has at the “short-list,” or whatever the fuck that made up thing was. But you appreciate Sam’s efforts all the same.

And then there’s the other guy, the one on the end, who takes a more direct approach to shutting Walker up.

Walker’s in the middle of a slurred proposition for you to accompany him home after your shift when the man at the end of the booth lifts his head.

“Enough,” he says bluntly, suddenly; his voice is low and rough, direct. The tongue-in-cheek comment about sharing a bed immediately dies on Walker’s lips, his eyes flashing to his interruptor.

He doesn’t even bother looking at Walker, staring at his drink as he slowly spins it on the table, still his first one when the others are on their fourth or fifth. There’s a brief flash of something black and gold peeking from underneath the cuff of his suit jacket — a brilliant watch, clearly high-end and probably worth more than you’ll ever make in your life. A ring sits on his pinky, polished titanium. His charcoal suit fits his shoulders like every stitch and seam were custom made for his measurements — and maybe they were.

You see money in various forms all the time at this job, but occasionally you’ll stumble across real money. Big money. Stupid money. The kind that expresses itself quietly instead of boisterously like Mr. Short-List. It’s not always easy to spot, but you’ve learned how to over the last year, and when you do, it doesn’t fail to knock you on your ass every time.

One quick look and you know this man has real money. Your heart stutters in your chest, thoughts of your stack of unpaid bills wiping the smile clean off your face.

On the other side of the table, Sam disrupts the new silence by making a brave pivot to the stock market, something the rest of the group jumps on, even Walker. You’re attempting to swallow the lump in your throat, scrambling to grab empty glasses and old napkins, when you feel eyes on you.

It’s him, the man at the end of the booth.

His eyes are a startlingly bright blue that sends an electric shock down your spine. His face, looking like it was carved straight from Michelangelo’s private diary, stays neutral as you meet his gaze; you can see the years on him through scars and scruff and wrinkles around the eyes, but you wouldn’t guess him to be older than forty-five. His thick dark hair is swept back, threaded with silver near the temples that matches the silver around his chin.

He’s watching you like he’s waiting for something. Some sort of reaction maybe. His pink lips are parted like he’s about to ask a question. You have no idea what it could be.

Not giving yourself the chance to hesitate, the smile is back on your face with practiced ease. “Can I get you anything, sir?” you murmur quietly, trying to draw as little attention from the others as possible.

He blinks, breaking the undisclosed stare down between the two of you. “Just the check, please.”

“Of course. Can I get the name under the membership?”

“Barnes,” he says, holding out a black credit card for you to take. “James Barnes. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes find yours again and stare. You offer him one last smile before leaving.

Your fingers tap restlessly against the counter as you wait for the receipt to print. From across the room, you watch as the group at the booth begins to get up. Walker’s foot catches on the lip and he stumbles into his friend; Sam’s there immediately to usher them toward the door. You place the receipt in the black book and make your way back to the table, where James Barnes still sits, still staring at his drink.

Unfortunately, you have to pass Walker on your way over. With a sad excuse for a smile, you thank him for coming in tonight. He leans forward, into your personal space, reeking of liquor and leering at you.

“Left my number on the napkin if you miss me too much. We can pick up where we left off when you’re done with work.”

Clearly he thought he was bestowing a tremendous gift on you, from the way he winks and struts away. Your smile drops as soon as you turn back to the table, where you see James Barnes staring at you yet again.

Feeling caught, you offer him a sheepish look, a small upturn of your lips, and hand him the receipt.

“Thank you for coming in tonight, Mr. Barnes. We hope you come back soon.”

He hums, taking it from your hands; your fingers brush, and your brain has no choice but to acknowledge how different it feels from when Walker did it. He signs the receipt and offers it back to you before you have the chance to give him privacy, but when you grab it, he holds on to the other end, stopping you in your place.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes boring into yours again, “for what you had to put up with tonight.”

You blink. “Oh, that’s — it’s not a problem at all, your friends seem like a, uh — fun time.”

A smile flits across his face, crooked and devastating. “Fun? So, you enjoy getting asked to go home with your customers?”

“I—“ your blush lights up your face. “He didn’t mean it, I’m sure—“

“He did.”

“It’s fine,” you rush to say. “I get it a lot, comes with the territory. Call it a work perk.”

His eyebrow lifts.

“A work perk,” he repeats. “Sure. Some places offer health insurance, but you get to be flirted with by married men.”

Fucking dick bag, you seethe internally, your mind conjuring up a scenario where you curb stomp Walker until his teeth fall out.

You try to smile but it feels like a grimace. “What can I say? I’m living the dream.”

He chuckles, finally releasing the bill. His eyes sweep across your face.

“Are you?”

You pause. “Am I what?”

“Living the dream.”

“Is anyone, really?” you say with a quirk of your lips.

“I don’t know,” he allows, tilting his head. ”Maybe not. But we keep pretending we are.” His gaze drifts around the room before settling back on you. “Were late nights and putting up with guys like Walker what you always pictured your life to look like?”

You chuckle, but there’s hesitation in it. Images of your verbally abusive manager and meager paystubs flash through your mind. But that’s the darker side of the club that customers aren’t supposed to know about. As a server, your job is to slap a pair of rose-colored glasses over their eyes and keep them there. Yet he’s asking to take them off. It feels taboo.

He’s looking at you like he can read your thoughts, but he waits for your answer like he has all the time in the world.

“Uh, no,” you say slowly. “Definitely not.”

You glance over your shoulder like you’re expecting your manager to be standing there, red-faced and spitting again.

“Good,” James murmurs, “I was starting to worry about your long-term goals.”

“I’m…I’m actually in school,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “Grad school. Masters in Business Analytics.”

His lips do something similar to a smile, but his eyes are serious as he leans your way. “Impressive. What are you hoping to do with this degree?”

You shrug, feeling the full weight of his undivided attention. It isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy.

“Something with data. It kind of — I don’t know — speaks to me, I guess? I’m good with numbers. I can read an Excel sheet, which is half the battle. Interpreting data really isn’t that difficult when you dictate the right models and—“ You stop short and shake your head quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m boring you.”

His smile returns. “You’re not boring me.”

“I was rambling. You probably have better things to do than listen to me run my mouth about dictating data models,” you joke.

“On the contrary,” he murmurs, “I’d like to hear what you have to say about data models.”

You look to the floor as the blush blooms across your face. “It doesn’t make for very thrilling conversation.”

“We’re at The Alpine Club — I’m pretty sure data models make up ninety percent of the conversations around here. What’s one more?”

You laugh, bright and unexpected. “You got me there.”

He watches you for a moment, thoughtful.

“So,” he says, twirling his empty glass, “what kind of data are you hoping to manipulate around when you graduate?”

You blink as his question lands. It isn’t lost on you that he’s prolonging the conversation. Your weight shifts, you debate answering him; you have tables that haven’t been touched in minutes, you have side work that’s waiting for you in the back. Plus, your gut is screaming at you that this has gone a lot further than the average conversation between customer and server, especially when he’s already settled up. You should thank him for coming in and walk away.

“Manipulating data sounds corrupt,” you say with a small smile. The side work can wait. “It’s more like…making sense of it. Organizations collect all this information and half the time they don’t even know what to do with it. I like the idea of being the person who can look at a mess of numbers and data points and say okay, here’s the story.”

“Sounds like an art,” he says.

“Artists don’t use spreadsheets.”

“I think it still counts.”

Your hands tighten around the receipt book. “Not sure if I’ve ever heard someone call data analytics an art. Most people start disassociating when I mention Excel.”

“Most people are missing out.”

Your smile grows. “That sounds like a line.”

“It’s not,” he says easily, placing both hands on the table. “I’m genuinely interested.”

“In data?”

“In you.”

The words are a shock to your system. You feel heat climb into your cheeks again. Okay, that’s definitely a line.

That smile flickers on his face again, and he points toward his empty glass. “Actually, do you mind if I get one more from you? Please?”

You hesitate for a moment before nodding, turning for the bar again. When you return with his drink, he takes it from you with gentle fingers that brush yours.

“Do you think you’d be able to sit with me? Just for the drink?” he asks.

You freeze.

“If you’re busy, I understand,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

Chewing your lip, you chance a look at your section. It’s died down considerably — closing time is near, but your last few tables have yet to pay. He watches you in that patient way of his.

“No, it’s — I’m not busy,” you mumble. You’re about to move to the other side of the booth when he slides over deftly, leaving room for you to sit next to him with a healthy amount of distance left between. Your hesitation is quick, but obvious, although he says nothing when you eventually take the spot beside him.

“Where do you go to school?” he asks, like there wasn’t a break in the conversation.

“O’Malley.”

His eyebrows lift a fraction. “That’s a great school.”

“Ha. Thank you. Yeah, my mom nearly had a heart attack when I got my acceptance letter. Big school, bigger price tag.” Your nose wrinkles. “I guess you could say that’s part of the reason I’m here.”

You’re not sure what made you bring up your mom — you haven’t weaved her into conversation in weeks. While your brows furrow in thought, James shifts in his seat, suddenly, like a twitch but more intentional. He lifts the drink to his lips.

“Part of the reason?” he repeats.

“It’s a long story.”

He looks at you, eyes bright but calm.

“I have time.”

You exhale softly, unable to hold the eye contact. “It — well, it’s not a very good story either.”

He doesn’t say anything, letting you consider in silence whether or not to share. You don’t tell your story very often — in fact, you’ve tried running from it multiple times. Hence the reason the debt collectors were after you. Tonight was going to be a rare occurrence if you had actually ended up telling your table of regulars your tearful tale.

Sitting beside him, you can’t deny the pull to James, nor the urge to tell him; you want to chalk it up to being prepared for another audience, but deep down, you know it’s something completely different.

With a sigh, you start.

“I had a lot saved up. A good chunk of it from my dad’s life insurance policy. Car accident when I was sixteen,” you add, when James’ tilts his head questioningly. “It was…sad, but we got through it. My mom and me. I got the money when I turned twenty-two, just in time to graduate college. I worked at a bar part-time and made some money there, so I decided to take a year off before grad school. Travel. See the world…”

James clears his throat. “Where did you go?”

“Europe. Mostly Italy. I love the food, the history, how the country’s broken up by states and each one has its own culture…” You trail off, biting down on a smile. “I think it’s my favorite place in the world.”

Next to you, James shifts again, but he’s got a soft smile on his face as he watches the liquid swirl in his glass.

“But then my mom got sick,” you continue, your voice lowering automatically. “Stage 4 colon cancer. I came home right away, brought her to every doctor in the city, but they all said the same thing: that there was nothing they could do.”

There’s a sound like a hushed rumble coming from James’ chest. He sets his drink down and meets your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

A stab of grief shoots through your heart at those two words. You’ve heard them a million times over in your life, eventually growing numb to them — especially when they came from strangers. But the way he’s looking at you, the simplicity in the way he said it, causes a reaction you haven’t had in months. You quickly blink away the burn behind your eyes.

“It’s…thank you.”

He nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment and to continue. You take a breath.

“She refused to give up. She was a badass, but I also think that was just her being a mom. She didn’t want to leave me on my own in the world. So we used up every cent we had flying across the country, meeting with the best doctors out there and trying treatment after treatment. We spent a stint at the Mayo in Rochester, and for a moment, things were starting to look up. But she took a sudden turn for the worse, so we came back here. We came home.”

You rest your chin in your palm, eyes following his finger as it taps against his glass. You can feel him watching you closely.

“I tried to make her as comfortable as I could. Took the rest of my savings and poured it into her care. She hated that I did that, but there was no point arguing. Not when we only had weeks left. She passed last spring.”

James’ free hand twitches in your direction. You pretend not to notice.

“After the funeral, I looked around and realized I had mountains of medical bills to pay, a mortgage suddenly in my name, and a future full of student loans.” You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, untitled in emotion. “Despite everything, my mom made me enroll in classes as soon as we got home — she wanted me to have something waiting for me on the other side of it all. I thought she was crazy at first because I couldn’t think about anything but her, but now that she’s gone, I’m glad she made me do it.”

The silence after you finish is surprisingly light. It doesn’t feel tense or heavy like it usually does, when your audience isn’t sure how to reconcile all of that grief in one person’s lifetime. James sits beside you easily, absorbing your story with careful consideration and space.

“For what it’s worth, I think your mom would be really proud of where you are today” he murmurs.

The corner of your mouth lifts.

“Don’t speak too soon. I sold the house, but it barely made a dent in the medical bills. Whoever invented interest can suck my dick.”

James coughs and takes a large sip of his drink.

“Truthfully, I’m — I’m drowning,” you laugh breathlessly. “I can’t study because I’m constantly worried about having enough money to keep the lights on, and then that makes me worry that I’ll get kicked out of the program and lose my chance at a job that pays enough to make these bills go away. So I got a job here in the meantime because — well, everything’s outrageously priced and that means you get outrageous tips, which is literally the only way to keep my head above water.”

Your voice has raised in volume, pitch and speed, but you plow on, too late to bottle it up now.

“I ran the numbers a hundred times, set them against average incomes of thousands of jobs in the city, calculated inflation and costs, and it came down to either this or stripping. Which I don’t have anything against! But I can’t move like that, I can barely do a push up — so tips would be beyond sad for me, if I get any, and then I’d be back to where I started. So between that and The Alpine, I thought why not save myself the embarrassment and—”

You cut yourself off with a wince. You did it again.

You shoot a furtive glance his way. He’s turned completely in his seat to face you, jaw tight and eyes unreadable. Like this, you get the full force of him, the piercing blue of his eyes, the sharp features of his face; it’s unnerving, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like electricity’s dancing down your limbs. A brief look reveals a brush of chest hair peeking out from under his white button down, and your subconscious decides it would like to see the rest of it someday.

He appears to be considering something, mulling it over carefully in his head. He hasn’t looked away from you since you stopped talking, but you don’t find it creepy. Yet.

“Sounds like you have a lot on your plate,” James mutters.

“Yeah,” you say faintly, “sorry to unload all of that on you.”

He shakes his head quickly, throwing back the last of his drink in one large gulp. His lips press into a thin line. You’re kicking yourself mentally, thinking you’ve finally traumatized the poor guy with your unfiltered stream of consciousness, when he sets the glass down with a sharp klink.

“I could help,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Oh, you don’t — you don’t need to do that. I promise I wasn’t using my sob story to get you to kick me a bigger tip or anything—“

“Just listen, please.”

Your mouth shuts with a snap. The air hums with a level of anticipation that wasn’t there before. His eyes hold steadily onto yours.

“I’ll only say this once, and if it’s not for you, I won’t say another word about it ever again.” He tilts his head. “I believe two people can come together in an uncomplicated and beneficial way, like friends do, to help each other out. I’d like to make your life easier so you can focus on what actually matters to you. I’d be someone you can rely on, who values your time and wants to see you succeed…while also helping you with any roadblocks in your way. I could take some of the pressure off — financially — so that you can focus on your future instead of struggling to make things work today. And in return, I get your company. I’ve had a better time talking to you for the last twenty minutes than I’ve had with that group of guys for years. You’re sharp, you’re funny, you’re grounded…your time and your attention is all I would want.”

He lets that sit between you with a short pause. Meanwhile, the air has left your lungs.

“This requires trust. Discretion. Maturity. It’s not about rescuing anyone or buying affection. It’s more…intentional than that. Mutual.”

He pauses again, longer, as if he’s waiting for his words to sink in with you. They certainly have.

“Being my friend will never require you to be out of your comfort zone,” he continues softly. “It’s about making you comfortable. You’ll get support without strings, without owing anything, and without judgment. It’s not complicated, and it’s not about control. It’s about being a friend. I’d like to be your friend.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not a whisper of a sound. The corners of his mouth twitch up as he searches your face — you suspect you’re not doing a very good job at concealing your emotions.

“You don’t need to give me an answer now,” James murmurs, leaning back against the booth; his voice has dipped into a lower octave, and the sound of it sends vibrations up your spine. “All I’m asking is that you consider it.”

You’re silent as you turn his words over in your mind, your heart thrumming beneath your chest.

“We don’t even know each other,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies, “but I’d like to know you. This is a way for me to do that.”

You bite your lip. “If you’re saying all of this because of my mom, or — or ‘cause you feel bad—“

“No,” he says calmly, hand resting on the table near yours. “This isn’t because I feel bad.”

“Then why?” you ask.

“Because you’re beautiful, and I enjoy the sides of you that you’ve shown me tonight. And selfishly, I’d like to be your friend that makes things easier for you.”

Your gut swoops low. He called you beautiful. But there was an innocence behind it, like he was stating a fact rather than making a move. This settles over you like a warm blanket after a long day.

James watches you for another moment before reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a card. He offers it to you.

“Take some time. Think it over. If you have questions, call me. If you never want to hear from me again, say the word and I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re interested in what this could be, let me know.”

You take the card without a word, absentmindedly pocketing it while you get to your feet. Your body has overridden your brain, moving you through the motions. James rises after you, and his frame towers over yours as you finally stand next to him. His bright eyes scan your face, assessing every detail. You swallow hard, his eyes track that as well.

“I hope to hear from you soon,” he murmurs, dipping his head down to your eye level. You nod breathlessly.

With a pointed look, he nudges the receipt book closer to you, where it had been abandoned on the table after he asked for another drink.

“It’s—it’s on me,” you say weakly. He raises his eyebrows, hands shoved into his pockets; you wave vaguely in front of you. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you,” James says politely, and with a small dip of his chin, he turns away for the door. You watch as he crosses the room at a relaxed pace, dark hair bouncing gracefully, suit swishing perfectly. He doesn’t look back as the door is opened for him like a king and he exits the room.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Holy shit.

Later that evening, when you stumble home with ruptured blisters, smelling of stale sweat and cleaning products, you collapse onto your couch and pull out the card.

James B. Barnes, Chairman of the Board

Barnes Group, Inc.

The last name should have given it away, but to be fair, you were blindsided by the smooth talking and how good he looked. Barnes Group, Inc. is a quiet but major asset management firm that dominates the Financial District. They hold their weight against the big ones despite being around for less than twenty years. They’re well-respected and popular, from what you’ve heard around The Alpine. Your instincts proved correct once again — he really does have real money.

Your mind whirls. How cliche is it for one of the wealthiest men in the city to offer an arrangement like this to a younger woman? Very — there’s no beating around that bush.

But the way he framed it had broken through your initial judgment, hitting you in a place that was dark and dusty and unused for ages. Friendship.

You couldn’t remember the last time you spoke to someone you could call a friend. All of them had slowly disappeared after you buried your mother, and for valid reasons; you made it impossible to keep in touch, dodging phone calls and ignoring texts like it was your job. But you’re still human — even if you push everyone away, that doesn’t mean you’re immune to loneliness. And with hardly any family left, that doesn’t leave you with many options for human companionship.

His words had shined a spotlight on that gaping hole in your life, intentional or not. Maybe he could see that on top of flirting with poverty, you’re lonely.

Maybe he’s lonely, too.

You rub your eyes viscously with your knuckles, willing the day to seep from your bones. Your cat, Lucky, hops onto the couch and curls up beside you.

You can’t believe it, but you think you need to consider this. While several true crime documentaries could show you the downfall of trusting the wrong person, you can’t help but take James’ words as they are. Perhaps that ity, bity, tiny sliver of hope you allow to live on inside you has taken charge of your decision making. It would explain your sudden deviation from enormous dislike for the rich.

You sigh, stroking Lucky’s back. “If this is real, I’d be an idiot not to,” you say to him, like you have no other choice. Lucky yawns his affirmation.

So you think on it. A lot. A lot a lot. Pretty much every minute of the next three days, you’re thinking about James. His words replay over and over in your head until it’s an automatic loop of noise.

I’d like to be your friend.

It’s distracting, thinking about him and his offer. Which means you’re distracted at work, you’re distracted on the subway, you’re distracted folding laundry. You even answer a debt collector by accident because your mind is in two places. You’ll never do that again.

…He could make sure you never do that again.

It comes to a head when you’re taking your break during your shift. The August night is hot and humid, the sky bragging of potential thunderstorms. The cigarette in your hand shakes as you inhale greedily.

The same two things circle your brain: how long would you let this go on for? And what would your mom think?

Both questions hold great weight, yet both are unanswerable to you — at least for now. Just when you start going down that road, your brain screeches to a halt in some sort of self-preservation tactic, distracting you by throwing mental memories of James’ soft smile, his quiet empathy, or — even worse — his chest hair.

It makes it a lot easier to pull out your phone than you think. The card is slightly crumpled from taking it out and holding it so often, but the numbers read clearly as you punch them in.

He’s offering you a way out of this mess you call your life. Just because he wants to. And all he asks is for you to smile and thank him for it over dinner every now and then. Either he’s dealing with a lot of guilt over having money, or he truly wants to see your life get easier because of him. Maybe it’s both. Either way, it’ll change your life.

For the better. Right?

The line rings three times before he answers. “James Barnes.”

“James,” you croak, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “It’s me. From The Alpine. Hi.”

Something shifts in the background, like he’s sitting up straighter or moving something around. It sounds like sheets against skin. “Hi,” he says back, neutral. You glance at the time on your phone.

“Shit,” you mutter, “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about how late it is. I can call you back—?”

“No,” he cuts in. “Now’s fine. How are you?”

You chew on your lip. “I’m good. Busy, but…I’ve been— uh, I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, soft and loose like it’s a knee-jerk response. Your gut swoops low.

“About what you said,” you choke out. “About being…friends. I…I have some questions.”

“I have some answers.”

“I was wondering if we could meet. Soon. So I can ask you the questions. And learn a little more about…what this will be like.”

There’s a pause on the other end, not even a rustle of fabric or a brush of his breathing against the receiver to be heard. Then he clears his throat.

“How about tomorrow night? 8 o’clock at Pepper’s.”

“Yeah— uh, yes. That works,” you breathe. There’s a moment of silence where all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart.

“Would it be presumptive of me to bring a few documents? Unless you’d like to have a lawyer look over them—”

Your mouth goes dry. “No. That’s okay,” you say. “You can bring them.”

He makes a soft noise, something pleased. “I’m glad you called,” he says, voice low and warm. “I was starting to think I wouldn’t hear from you.”

The hand holding your cellphone spasms. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He shushes you quietly. “It’s okay. I’m glad you took your time. You seem like the type of person who wants to know exactly what she gets herself into. I admire that.”

You hum, because words are elusive as ever right now.

“Are you working?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“It’s almost midnight. Isn’t The Alpine closed by now?”

“Yeah, well…side work’s a bitch. I’ll probably be here until one.”

He grunts. “Let me send a car to get you home.”

“James, I—“

“Please. It’ll let me sleep tonight. Worrying about you walking around New York at one in the morning in the rain will do the opposite.”

Your foot taps restlessly. “Okay,” you breathe.

“Okay, doll.”

A flush runs through your body, from the crown of your head to the tip fo your toes. It leaves behind a wave of tingles that tickle your skin.

“Yeah, uh. I’ll let you— uh, I’ll let you get back to it then. I’ll see you tomorrow, James.”

“Tomorrow,” he vows. And the line goes dead.

You adjust the straps of your dress again, pulling them further back on your shoulders so that they frame your chest just right. It’s your favorite dress — or, more accurately, your only dress — and your one item of clothing that’s acceptable enough for the five star restaurant you’re meeting James at.

He’s sending another car — he texted you this time, brokering no argument over it, just a time and the driver’s name. You’d be put off if the ride last night hadn’t cut your usual hour-long hike home down to ten minutes and saved you from a torrential downpour. Private cars have their benefits, apparently.

The driver, Bob, picks you up at half past seven. He weaves in and out of traffic flawlessly, leaving you with very little time to fix your makeup and call on every shred of courage you have.

When he pulls up to the curb, he hops out of the car and opens the door for you, helping you to balance on your heels that don’t entirely cover the bandaids on the back of your ankles. You thank him for the ride as he ushers you into the restaurant.

James waits at the table tucked into a secluded corner at the back of the room, hair parted perfectly, scruff a little longer than before, and dressed in a suit of midnight black. His shirt is a shade lighter, the top three buttons undone and exposing even more chest hair than the last time. You take a deep breath as you approach.

He stands immediately when he spots you, eyes appraising you gently, like his favorite person in the world just showed up.

“Hello,” he says, coming around to hold out your chair for you.

“Hi,” you mumble, blushing as you sit. He holds eye contact as he resettles into his own seat, a small smile on his face.

“You look breathtaking,” he admits, a twinge in his voice that could pass for pained, like the way you look is so devastatingly beautiful, it hurts.

“Thank you. You look very nice, too.”

His smile grows. “I’m glad you could meet me tonight. I have to say I’ve been a bit restless since our talk last night.”

“Oh?” is your dumb response. Your pulse flutters as his smile grows crooked.

“I guess you could say I’m eager to hear your questions.”

“Oh, um…yes. I have a few…”

He gestures to the table. “Do your worst.”

You were prepared for this, but it still makes you feel light-headed as you pull out the small slip of paper from your purse. He watches you carefully as you unfold it, pieces of the ripped edges fluttering to the floor. Maybe you were expecting a bit of small talk, but what’s there to talk about when you hardly know each other? You can appreciate cutting to the chase, even if it makes your mouth dry.

“First, I…I just want to say thank you,” you begin quietly, shyly meeting his gaze. “For listening to me. And for not making it a big deal. It was the first time I’ve told that story that I didn’t feel like a tragedy after, and you made me feel that way.”

His shoulders seem to relax a little, his expression gentle. “You’re welcome.”

“That being said,” you continue shakily, unable to meet his eyes any longer. “I’m wondering what kind of help you want to give, and if there are things I can say no to.”

He nods, his face becoming serious. “Of course. I want to help, not intrude. If there are things you don’t want me to touch, then I won’t. You get the say in that.”

“So, if I say I don’t want any help with my student loans…”

“Then that’s that. I won’t push you about it either.”

You nod, fingering the edge of the paper nervously. The silence stretches.

“Would it be useful to give you a summary of what I will and won’t help with?” he asks, leaning back in his seat. You nod again, motioning for him to continue. He settles into his seat, clearing his throat. “To start, I won’t help with the circumstances of friends or relatives, unless they’re direct dependents of yours, which it doesn’t sound like you have anyway. This arrangement is for us, so it stays between us. And I won’t help with any legal troubles either. If you end up in jail, I won’t pay for bail, I won’t pay fines, and I won’t pay for legal counsel. If you’re charged with anything, this arrangement is void.”

His voice is level, almost monotonous, like he’s said this a few times. You gulp.

“But I will pay for everything else, if you’ll let me,” he remarks, growing softer. “You’ll get my card for the day-to-day things. Groceries, coffee, transit, take out. Anything you do when you’re not at work. I also want to pay for the things you couldn’t do before. Expect appointments booked for the spa, massages, hair, nails — whatever you decide. My assistant will help with that.”

“Okay,” you breathe, feeling just a little dizzy. God, when was the last time you got your nails done?

“I’ll also pay for your rent. Or, if you want to move, I’ll buy you a new place. Apartment. Condo. Brownstone. Up to you. I want you feeling comfortable and safe when you’re not with me.”

Your mouth falls open to protest. Buy a brownstone? For you? The girl he just met? You crumples the paper in a reflex reaction, but he holds up a hand before you can speak.

“You don’t have to, I’m just giving you the option. Remember, you’ll never have to go out of your comfort zone with me.”

He scans your face — you’re sure you’re a shade paler than before.

“Where do you live now?” he asks gently.

“Queens.” He smiles.

“Then I’d at least argue for you to use my driver.”

“Makes sense,” you murmur distractedly.

The server comes over then, placing a whiskey in front of James and asking what you’d like to drink. You order a white wine, cringing when he asks if you have a preferred bottle, but James answers for you, naming a brand you’ve never heard of, his eyes on you the entire time. The waiter returns a minute later with your glass, and you take a greedy sip as soon as it hits the table.

“I also like to give gifts,” James says, picking up where he left off. “That could mean jewelry, bags, cars, vacations—“ you choke on your wine, he politely ignores it. “Whatever I’m feeling that day.”

“Oh, is that all?” you say weakly. He chuckles, genuine and soft.

“It may change, depending on what I think you’d like. And what you tell me you like.”

“I’m picky,” you attempt to joke.

“I like a challenge.”

The air shifts subtly, you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. He crosses his legs effortlessly at the knee, looking every bit composed while you’re pinching yourself to keep from hyperventilating.

“Ideally, you’d quit your job,” he begins slowly. “Not for me, but because you won’t need to work anymore. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you’re in school, and it’s clear you love it. I want you to be comfortable enough to focus on that. Put your time into studying. Not dealing with men like Walker.”

You huff a soft laugh because you aren’t sure what else to say. Quitting your job hadn’t even crossed your mind through all of this, but now that the seed’s been planted, it takes root quickly, despite the voice in your head telling you not to let it.

James must be a mind reader, because he leans forward, making sure you meet his eyes.

“I’d like to spoil you, because I think you deserve it. Not because of what’s happened to you, but because of what you’ve done since it happened,” he says, voice pulling you in with the husky lilt to it. “I think you’ve earned the right to feel taken care of. It can be on your terms, of course, but trust me when I say there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t help with. Including the medical bills and the debt. Including the loans. But I will respect whatever you wish to keep separate from this.”

For a moment, you’re not sure what to say, but you end up on, “Thank you, James. I…I’ll think about it.”

He nods, businesslike. ”What other questions do you have?”

You blink, looking down at your list. “Well, you answered a couple of them, actually…um, I guess my next question is—“ You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. “When you say friendship, what does that…include, exactly?”

He leans back in his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink.

“I meant what I said about being friends,” he offers, “and I meant it in the traditional sense. This isn’t a “friends with benefits” situation. Holding hands, a light hug, or sitting close together are all reasonable to me. But touch isn’t required by you — you’re welcome to do whatever you’re comfortable with, and I won’t withhold anything from you if you aren’t comfortable with it. And I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but I will say I’m hoping to earn that right eventually.”

Something loosens in your chest, an unnamed tension releasing.

“I understand,” you say slowly. “I think those are reasonable, too.” His eyes flicker across your face for a moment. “I appreciate you clarifying that for me. It was on my mind a lot over the last few days.”

“That’s why we’re here,” he answers calmly. “Any more questions?”

“Yes, um. How does this…start?”

The smile returns to James’ face, sweet and relaxed. He waves two fingers in the air, and a server comes hurrying over with an official-looking envelope, setting it before him. James pulls out a small stack of documents and finds a pen in his suit jacket.

“It starts with a couple signatures. These are NDAs stating you won’t talk or publish anything about our time together, and the same goes for me. I’m held to the same principles you are. If I say a word about us to anyone without your permission, you have every right to sue me for all I’m worth. I hope it tells you how serious I am about this.”

It actually says a hell of a lot more than just how serious it is, but he’s already shuffling the papers aside, picking up the one on the bottom.

“This is an agreement on what I’m allowed to pay for. Like the rent — I’ll need to know where to pay to. There’s also a place for your bank account information, in the case of moving large sums of money. I’d like it wired safely and securely.”

You must show signs of panic, because he quickly tucks it away and says, “You don’t have to decide on anything today. You can add whatever you want to this as time goes on.”

Your breathing evens. He taps the pen against the stack of NDAs.

“Anything else?” he asks quietly. Your pinching grows stronger.

“Are you…friends…with anyone else right now? Or is it just me?”

His lips quirk like he was expecting this question. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and holds your gaze steadily.

“Just you. And I can promise that I won’t need any other friends as long as I have you.”

Oh.

“But you’ve…had other friends before. In the past.”

His eyes go blank for a moment. “Yes, I’ve had other friends before. A few.”

“They’re not still your friends, though?” you ask.

“No,” he answers. “There came a point when it was time for them to explore other…friendships. Start different lives. It always ended amicably.”

You hesitate. “So, if one day I decide I want to…stop being friends, that would be okay with you?”

“Of course. I’m here as long as you’ll have me. Or until we both decide it’s time.”

“Okay,” you whisper, meeting his gaze. There’s a roaring sound in your ears, like the ocean on a stormy night, but your hands are surprisingly steady as you reach out your hand toward him. “Okay. Can I borrow your pen?”

James smiles, the biggest smile you’ve seen from him yet. He offers you the pen and the first document, pointing out where to sign and initial. You do so quickly, conscious of your climbing blood pressure, but the adrenaline leaves a sweet aftertaste as you write your name with a flourish. Or maybe it’s him, beaming at you while you sign up for this new chapter of life with him.

Once the documents are signed, he proposes a toast. “To friendships,” he says. You clink your glass to his. “And, by the way, call me Bucky.”

“Bucky?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

“It’s what my friends call me.”

It starts immediately.

The next morning, you’re greeted with a jungle of flowers waiting outside your apartment door. Flowers of all shapes and colors, some tropical, some simple, and all of them make you smile. You’re placing the last of them on the counter when there’s a knock on your door — a dozen freshly-made croissants from the Parisian cafe in Midtown. Impossible to get into, impossible to order out from, yet here’s a box full of their best-selling pastries, still warm from the oven. You indulge in one too many, but it’s worth it.

Throughout the day, Bucky texts you. It’s something he mentioned off-handedly, probably meant to give you a choice, but he likes to talk during the day. A lot. He likes check ins, he likes updates; he wants to hear about anything and everything.

At first, it’s odd having someone to talk to so consistently again — the last person you spoke to like this was your mom.

But Bucky keeps it unforced, easing the conversation along with the right questions and dry comments that actually have you smiling at your phone. When you get to work that night, he wishes you a good shift. No mention of you quitting. You appreciate this so much that you have half a mind to quit anyway.

Not today, you tell yourself. You need to wait to see if Bucky actually puts his money where his mouth is first.

It isn’t long before he does.

Less than a week after you signed the papers, he asks you to join him for dinner on your night off. He makes the reservation early because he knows you have an exam in two days that you’re stressed over, leaving you with the rest of the evening to study. You’re grateful for his mindfulness, but equally grateful for the distraction he’s providing. He’s waiting outside the restaurant when Bob pulls up, offering his hand to help you out of the car.

“You look beautiful,” he states plainly, like only an idiot would argue with him. Your answering smile is wide and uninhibited.

Inside, the two of you are seated at a booth mostly concealed from the other diners. He sits beside you, much like he did that first night, close but with enough space for you to breathe easily. He asks you about your day, he encourages you to try something strange on the menu, he compliments you again and again and again.

Your whole body is flushed from the wine and his attention by the time the desert arrives. You’re licking chocolate syrup off the spoon, regaling a work story involving your meathead manager and another server.

“He just chooses to ignore anything that makes us seem human to him. No emotions allowed. No personal problems allowed. You show up for your shift, you do your job, and that’s it. Leave your life at the door, God help you if you don’t.”

You sigh, your spoon clattering loudly onto the plate. Bucky fidgets with his own spoon, eyes on the corner of your mouth. He shakes his head a little, like he thought better of something, then points to the corner of his own mouth, smiling. You blush, taking the hint, and wipe a dab of chocolate away from your skin. Bucky’s still smiling as he takes another sip of his drink.

“Might be because he lacks his own personal life,” he muses. “People are always going to project what hurts them.”

You consider this. “Now that you say it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take a day off.”

“That can do some fucked up things to a person.”

“Tell me about it,” you whine. “I haven’t taken a day off in months.”

His eyes slide lazily to you, glass held loosely in his hand. He smiles wryly, and you understand what he means before he says a word.

“I know, I know. I just…” You take a breath. “I need to know this is real first. Before I start cutting ties.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Tomorrow’s the first of the month,” he says. “Have you thought more about allowing me to help with your rent?”

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper. He hums, eyes sparkling with something bright and ambiguous.

“And what have you decided?”

“I think…it would be a show of good faith…if you helped me out.”

“Good faith,” he laughs. “Sweetheart, I’ll buy you the moon if it means you’ll believe me when I say I’ll take care of you.”

The next morning, you get the email at 9 a.m. — your rent has been paid, utilities as well. Your stomach had been in knots when you wrote down the information for him, but seeing the confirmation makes you feel like you’re floating.

It only takes you another week until you’re calling your manager and quitting. To celebrate, Bucky rents out the Met for the night, and you explore and observe and admire to your heart’s content as he stands quietly and steadily by your side. He knows an impressive amount about art, surprisingly, but then he starts making things up when a specific piece stumps him, and the rest of the unguided tour is spent inventing made-up artists and their tragic backstories. By the end of the night, you can’t resist anymore. You quickly lean in and wrap your arms around his waist.

It’s clear he’s shocked, that you’ve caught him off guard. But he recovers quickly, mirroring your grip and resting his cheek on top of your head. It’s strange, it’s new, but it’s…comforting.

Quitting your job means a lot more free time, but Bucky is adamant about you dedicating much of that time for school. So to keep a balance between time spent studying and time spent with him, Bucky proposes you come by his office between classes. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes to take a break, sometimes to set up camp on his leather couch, nose to your laptop screen as you research data sets and monitor the market while he quietly works at his desk.

It’s calming and oddly motivating — he’s the perfect person to work next to.

When you’re not studying, Bucky’s supplying you with appointments that fill up your calendar. You have a new contact saved in your phone — Inga, Bucky’s very Dutch, very cheerful assistant — because she calls you at least twice a day, arranging your schedule and finding time you didn’t know existed to fill.

A certain Thursday brings a yoga class from 7:45 to 9, then a massage from 10 to 11:30. After that is lunch with Bucky at his office (take out sushi from a place you’ve only ever dreamed of going to), followed up by a nail appointment from 2 to 3 and a virtual meeting from 3:30 to 4:30 with your old therapist that you had to abandon when money got tight.

Once you get past the catch up, your therapist says you seem a lot better than you were the last time you saw her. Crazy concept, to agree with a therapist, but you actually do.

You’re about a month into the arrangement when Bucky clears his throat at dinner, making you pause while twirling your pasta on your fork. You’ve slowly graduated to sitting closer, and his arm rests on the back of the booth behind you, its presence warm and obvious around your shoulders. You look up at him, waiting.

“I’ve got this thing tomorrow night,” he begins, voice a little on the gruff side. You’re shocked to realize he’s being shy, and poorly hiding it. “It’s a gala. The black tie kind. It’s for charity — Children’s, I think. If you’re up for it, I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

You smile slowly. “I’d love to. Just need something to wear.”

A stack of hundred dollar bills is on the table in seconds. Inga accompanies you the following morning to ten different stores, all designer, all with prices that make you feel faint, but she is quick to shoo you away from the price tags and push you to try on the dresses that make you sigh dreamily. Maybe that’s the reason Bucky wanted her with you.

You pick something bold, something you’d never see yourself in unless you had it on your body. It fits like a glove and reminds you that you’re a woman, not just a cog in the wheel of the working class. You only panic a little when you hand over the entire wad of cash Bucky gave you.

After that, you’re dropped off at the salon, where a facial and a blowout get you glowing like the sun. Bob picks you up and brings you to your apartment where your dress is waiting for you, courtesy of Inga. At 9 o’clock, Bucky’s waiting for you outside. The late September breeze ruffles his hair and swishes your dress as you come face-to-face.

He takes in every inch of you, from your painted toe nails to your shiny hair, and he sighs.

“You look…unbelievable.”

Later, when you’re buried deep into a crowd of people you don’t know, Bucky’s anchoring you to him with a hand on the small of your back, thumb brushing the skin there. He leans in, nose nudging your temple, and whispers, “I’m very lucky to have you here with me.”

Just like that, something inside of you breaks. Not in a sad way, but in a revolutionary way. Like a floodgate’s been cracked open, and what’s been locked inside is beginning to trickle out.

When he pulls back, your eyes linger on him. He flashes a movie star smile for the people that approach, but when he meets your gaze again, he gives you his crooked grin. Meant only for you. His warm hand pulls you closer into his side.

And that’s when it begins, right there at that gala. Your appreciation for Bucky has opened up into something larger, still undefinable, but growing in magnitude.

You find yourself sweating under the lights of the ballroom, not from the heat, but from the unknown shift. It shapes itself a little more when Bucky runs into a colleague and introduces you as his friend. He’s been doing it all night, but this time, it doesn’t feel right. It feels…off. Generalized. Misplaced.

Not that you’d ever tell him. Bucky was clear about your arrangement being a friendship — to question what he calls you would be to question where you stand, and you don’t want to make it seem like you can’t hold up your end of the bargain as his friend.

So you smile through it, focusing on the feel of his hand on your skin, and push it down. For now.

You’re a couple months into the arrangement when Bucky opens his home to you. It’s a penthouse suite hundreds of feet in the sky, offering breathtaking views of the city sprawled below. The apartment is big and modern, with plenty of low lighting and soft colors. You find out right away that he’s messy, which you think is more endearing than it is a nuisance, even if that means throwing sweatshirts and belts and books off the couch just to find a place to sit.

He apologizes constantly, but it never gets better each time you come over. You don’t mind.

With classes gearing up for finals, your time is more limited than before, leaving you with just a few windows of opportunity a week to be with each other. Most of these fall late at night, past 10 p.m., or early in the morning before he leaves for work.

So you start staying over.

It happens accidentally the first time. He picks you up and takes you back to his place for Chinese take out and binge watching trashy reality TV (of which he is a secret super fan), but you end up passing out minutes after he turns the show on.

The next morning, you wake in a soft bed, surrounded by oversized pillows and silk sheets. Bleary eyed, you stumble into the kitchen to find him dressed for work, sipping a coffee at the kitchen island and scrolling on his phone. He sets both of them down when he sees you, standing as you shuffle over.

“Morning,” he says, stretching out a hand to catch your sweatshirt clad waist.

This is par for the course these days — soft, grounding touches that don’t linger for too long, cuddles on the couch that don’t get too pretzel-like, barely-there kisses against the forehead when you say something that makes him smile a little too hard. All friendly, all innocent.

“Did I — did I crash?” you ask, suppressing a yawn. He chuckles, offering you his coffee.

“Didn’t even make it to the elimination. Steve R. went home.”

“Fuck, I liked him.”

“Me too.”

You look up at him, suddenly shy. “I’m sorry. Thanks for carrying me to bed.”

“Only threw out my back for it. No worries.”

You slap away his hand on your waist, but it’s teasing, playful. He withdraws, taking a seat again so you’re eye level with him. A look takes over his face, something caught between serious and hopeful.

“You know, that room can be yours, if you’d like.”

You pause mid sip of coffee. “What?”

“The room. It’s yours. For when you want to crash. Or just don’t want to go home.”

“Really.” It’s not a question.

“Really,” he repeats. “Don’t ever feel like you have to stay, I’ll take you home any time of night. But if you do want to stay, it’s there for you.”

“That’s…really sweet of you.”

He smiles a little. “Not too much?” You shake your head. “Good. ‘Cause I like knowing you’re close. Think I slept better. And I like waking up with you here.”

The feeling from the gala returns with renewed force. It almost drowns you, leaving you reeling in its tidal wave of emotion. It defines itself a little more as you picture sharing mornings with him, pouring travel mugs of coffee and shoving pieces of toast in his mouth as he races out the door.

But he’s watching you closely, expecting an answer, so you beat the feelings down until you’re numb. Sending him a smile over the mug, you say, “Okay.”

And that’s that.

The first time you sleep over intentionally, Bucky’s not in a great mood. Which is a rare occasion in and of itself. You know he’s only human, but you’ve barely seen him annoyed, let alone upset.

He makes an effort to hide it from you, greeting you with a soft kiss to the top of your head when you step out of the private elevator that opens to his floor. He all but forces you to relax on the couch while he cooks dinner, so you do, cracking open your textbook and stretching out lazily while he cooks. But even from the living room, you can feel the negative energy radiating from him.

He throws pans into the sink with a little too much force. He answers a call with a sharp bark of “what now?” He mutters to himself like a cranky old man.

His face is drawn and stony when he hands you a plate and joins you on the couch — pasta with red sauce, simple, and a family recipe, he claims. But the way he eats it, you’d think he hates it.

“Bucky,” you say after watching him stab his food with homicidal intent. He grunts. “Bucky,” you try again.

“What?” he snaps, sneering. Immediately, his eyes go round with guilt before you even have the chance to react. “Oh, God — I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—“ He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply; when he opens his eyes again, his expression is calmer, more open. “Jesus. You didn’t deserve that. Forgive me.”

“Always,” you say like it’s second nature. “What’s going on?”

He sighs, setting down his plate. “Work,” he mutters, “is killing me. Someone fucked up a deal with a really, really important client. They aren’t happy, so I had to step in to clean up the mess. But now they’re playing hard to get, so all day I had to suck their dicks and call them pretty just to get a reply.”

You giggle. He tilts his head at you.

“You think that’s funny?”

“A little. But I can’t imagine anyone not getting on their knees for you immediately.”

Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, something darker that doesn’t fit the conversation topic. It’s quick, brief, but you see it. He smiles before you can think twice about it.

“Not these guys. They like to test me. And I don’t like being tested.”

“I can tell,” you comment. “Want me to help?”

He side-eyes you. “How?”

“You can take all your anger out by…rubbing my feet?” Your smile is saccharine as you slide your legs into his lap. He laughs, one loud sound, but takes your left foot in his hands anyway.

“How sweet of you,” he coos. “How’d you know this is exactly what I needed?”

His mood improves for the most part, although his phone buzzes a few times and sets his jaw ticking. But whether it’s to keep him sane or to keep the easy vibe of the night going, he ignores it. Reality TV is watched, cookies are eaten (he has five), and you’re feeling satisfied for having turned his night around just as you start to yawn.

He notices it immediately.

“Alright, doll. You’re tired. I’m taking you home.”

“I might stay here tonight, if that’s okay with you.”

He freezes as he reaches for his keys. Slowly, his arm lowers, and there’s a slightly dazed look in his eye.

“Sure, yeah. Whatever you want,” he breathes.

He sets you up with a tooth brush and towels, an old shirt of his and boxers. While you’re brushing your teeth, you wander over to his bathroom and find him doing the same. You stand beside him, laughing through the toothpaste as he gets his all over his mouth and chin. Unintentionally, though he’ll deny it.

He walks you to your room like he’s dropping you off at the end of date. You try not to think too much about that.

“Sleep tight,” he says softly, leaning against the doorway, smiling at the too-big shirt and boxers. You smile back, sleepy and content.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He’s gone before you wake up the next morning, but the note on the counter thanks you for being there with him last night. It makes your heart flutter much too fast for having just started your day.

When you get back to your own apartment, your phone alerts you to a new email. The name on it makes your stomach sink: the debt collectors. They’ve been quiet for a while since you’ve been able to offer them bigger scraps of money, so what do they want now?

Thank you for your payment. Your bills have been reconciled and your current balance is at $0.00.

The room tilts. Your breathing stops. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills, gone overnight.

Bucky.

It was only a week ago that you had shyly asked to amend the document on what he could help pay for. You weren’t even sure that he looked at it yet.

Well, now you know he has. And in one fell swoop, he banned the debt collectors from ever bothering you again. Your mind can hardly wrap around it, can hardly wrap around Bucky, and his generosity, and his promises, and his follow through. All of it is a murky, muddy emotional mess inside of you. For the first time in months, you break down and cry.

Later that night, when the tears have finally dried and you’re sitting next to him at your favorite little Italian spot, you place a hand over his and just squeeze. You meant to say words, but they’ve disappeared on you.

But Bucky doesn’t need the words. He knows everything that you’re saying with the simple touch. He squeezes back, smile soft, posture relaxed as he nudges your shoulder with his.

The floodgate inside of you swings open wider.

sammy speaks again: wowowowowow ok that’s a wrap on part one. part two coming almost immediately! I tried to fit it all into one but tumblr doesn’t like 30k word posts I guess :/ don’t forget to let me know what you think, I appreciate all of you for making it this far 🤍

Someone is watching you. You can feel it, prickling on the back of your neck and making your stomach do odd, little flips. Like it’s trying to pull you in the direction of the attention, even though you can’t think of one good reason for someone to be looking at you.

You’re hiding at your desk, head down, typing fast enough to make the clacking sounds almost louder than the music in your ears. Nobody bothers you when you’re focused like this. People don’t really bother you period. Not at work, when you’re purposefully drowning everything else out. 

But you can feel someone. 

And when you pause, just to scan around the office and check that you’re not insane, everyone’s eyes are on their own computers or each other. Jimmy and Lois are having a low conversation near the coffee. Cat is examining her nails while snapping at someone on the phone. Steve is laughing at something on his phone—a little too loudly, in the boisterous, fake way that always makes you pretty sure he’s not actually seeing anything funny, and just wants someone to come talk to him—while Perry watches the TV with a focused frown, and Clark stares at his computer. 

Just stares at it. Doesn’t type. Doesn’t scroll.

He’s probably just reading something, very intently, over and over. 

You look back to your own computer, and call it paranoia. 

That would be why your skin feels raw, when you start to type again. Nobody’s watching you—and you check again, just to make sure—and you’re just paranoid. 

You’ve been oddly paranoid lately, so it’s tracking. You’re checking the locks of your windows and doors three or four times before you go to bed, like you’re in Gotham. You keep running back up the stairs after you try to leave for work, just to make sure you closed the door. When you walk down the street your gaze lingers on longer shadows, and you look up to the sky as if you’re checking for something. 

You’re not. 

You don’t even know what you’d be looking for. 

All you do know is that you feel like someone is watching you, but they’re not. That you’re paranoid, but it’s likely lack of sleep. 

You haven’t really been sleeping, either. Your bed has felt too cold, lately. Too empty. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to even lie in it for more than twenty minutes at a time, resorting to trying to sleep on the couch. 

Which is probably why your back always hurts, now. 

It hasn’t been a good few weeks. Everything has felt off.

But it’ll pass.

Hopefully. 

It’s not, but hopefully, it will. 

Someone taps on your shoulder, and you almost jump out of your skin, hand flying out in a faster reaction than you can process. 

You smack Jimmy in the jaw, and he stumbles back with wide eyes.

“Oh my god, I’m-“ You yank off your headphones, reaching out nervously. “Jimmy, I’m so, so sorry, you scared me, I’m- I don’t know why I did that, I’m so-“

“Jesus, stop apologizing.” Jimmy gives you a small grin, dropping his hand from where a red mark is starting to form. “I’m alright. Made of steel, you know me.”

You blink at him, and suddenly feel a little dizzy.

“You don’t need to get me a band-aid, sweetheart. They don’t say I’m made of steel because it sounds cool.” 

“I, um-“ You shake your head, giving Jimmy another apologetic look. “Do you want some ice?”

“Nah. That sounds cold.”

“It’s ice-“

“Yeah. Cold. I’m a big boy,” he says your name with a shrug. “I’ll live, you know?”

“I guess, but-“

“Can I ask you a question?”

You blink, and Jimmy’s staring at you with an odd intensity. “Yes?”

“Did you guys have a fight?”

“You… guys?” You shake your head, spinning your pencil nervously between your fingers, and Jimmy nods. 

“Yeah. You and Clark.”

“Me and-“ Your eyes dart over to Clark’s desk, and he’s still staring at his computer. He’s scrolling now, though. Typing a few words, then scrolling again. 

You haven’t spoken to him all morning. And he doesn’t look all that bothered. His hair is messy, and from his side profile you can tell his glasses are a little askew, but that’s just Clark.

“No?” You look back to Jimmy. “Why would we have had a fight?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” He shrugs, looking over to Clark himself. “Poor guy just has been looking bummed. I thought someone yelled at him, but he hasn’t even really been talking to anyone. Which is weird, right?”

Jimmy looks at you like you’re supposed to agree, and you give him a tight smile. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Jimmy nods to himself. “I mean, he’s Clark. He talks. We all talk. And I don’t know- Maybe I should set him up on another blind date. He hasn’t said yes to me in like, a year, but now- Poor guy might be feeling the loneliness.”

Something tugs on your heart. It’s sore and hot and makes your skin fucking itch.  

Your pencil flies across the room, as you accidentally fling it from your fingers. Hits Steve in the back of the head, making you wince. 

“Damn, you’re on a roll, killer.” Jimmy grins as Steve glares around to see the culprit. You quickly pick up another pencil. “Is there something going on with you I should be worried about? Are you secretly a vigilante

“No, I’m just…” You take a deep breath, glancing back over to Clark. 

You don’t know why you keep looking at him. It’s like you’re looking for some kind of reaction, and you don’t even know to what.

“It’s just a bad week.” You mutter, and Jimmy nods.

“Right, first one back from vacation. Those always suck.”

“Huh?” You’re not really listening, mostly just staring at Clark. His leg is bouncing. 

That means something. 

You can’t fucking remember what. 

“Your vacation. How was it, by the way?” Jimmy bumps your shoulder with his coffee, and you blink.

“How was… my vacation?”

“Yeah. Cuba, right? Or… Cairo. China? It was somewhere with a C. I think. I don’t know.” Jimmy laughs to himself. “Clark did tell me you were going, so maybe I’m just thinking of him.”

“Oh.” You swallow, and Clark’s leg is still fucking bouncing. 

“You’re doing it again.” You smile at him, poking your foot against his shin, and he blinks up at you. 

“I, uh- I’m not doing anything-“

“You were listening to me. I know you were.”

“But I didn’t even look-“

“I know.” You smile at him. “I just know you. Do you think we should do Rio?”

He turns a little red, eyes darting around the office to make sure no one else is watching, then places his hand on the back of your thigh. Squeezes gently, and gives you a small smile. 

“I’ll go where you want, baby. But if you’re asking-“

“I am-“

“Then I’ve been thinking we could go to-“

“Redwood park.” You mutter, looking back to Jimmy. “I think I just went to see the Redwoods, Jimmy.”

“Oh. Well, California starts with C.” Jimmy glances over to Clark. “You should’ve brought Clark with you. He’s always wanted to see those things. Don’t know why he hasn’t. We get plenty of vacation time.”

You nod. “I- I don’t know why either.” You whisper, and Clark’s head turns. 

For a split second, your eyes meet. And something flashes over his handsome features that you can’t quite place. 

Then he looks away, and his leg stops bouncing. 

Your head sort of hurts. 

But it’s just been an off week. Jimmy leaves you alone, and you can’t do anything but stare blankly at your computer screen, hoping your fingers will remember how to do anything but spin a pencil, and your brain will clear of this strange fog. 

You don’t even remember going on vacation.

And it feels like there's a massive fucking hole, in the center of your chest. It’s got an odd shape. It hums and kicks into a loud gear—like an echo through a cave, a ghostly replication of something that had been there before—whenever you feel it again. 

Someone is watching you.

Your pencil flies out of your fingers again.

But when you look around to see if anyone noticed, they haven’t.

It’s like nothing ever happened at all.

The day moves fast, but the strange feeling doesn’t fade. It only gets more and more pressing, until it feels like there’s something iron wrapping around your lungs. Maybe you should go back to therapy. You’re not sure why you left it in the first place. 

There’s just a faint impression of it not working. Of something on your tongue you couldn’t let go, that was holding you back from saying anything at all. 

But it’s gone now.

You just wish you’d known what it fucking was. 

There are a lot of things that are making you feel that. Like you’d had something in your hands, and it had been taken away. Leaving your skin covered in a soot or stardust you don’t know how to wash off, because you can’t even fucking see it. And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still paranoid. It’s all you’ve been, lately, and there’s no reason for it to just vanish when you go to work. 

It’s almost certainly the paranoia. 

It will be a whole lot easier, if it’s just the paranoia. 

If people have noticed you’re acting differently, they don’t say anything. You fumble your coffee when Lex Luther comes onto one of the TV screens, and Lois gives you an odd, worryingly gentle look, but helps you clean up. Perry talks to you about your article about international metahuman law, and you type slowly, struggling to remember where you found any of your sources. Superman has another save—a kitten, in a tree, and for some reason that makes you feel fuzzy—and you stare at the screen for a little too long. You only stop staring because Cat hits your arm, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

“He’s cute, right?”

“I- Superman?” You can feel your cheeks heat, and this shouldn’t be making you flush. It’s Superman. Everyone thinks he’s cute. 

“You think I’m cute?”

“Don’t get a big head.”

“I can’t. Ma raised me better than that, sweetheart. And my head is already huge, but it’s mostly just facts about cows.”

“Yeah? What kind of facts?”

“All of them. Did you know people used to use “cow” as a compliment?”

You smile at him, and there’s something earnest on his face that always makes it hard to even play fake mean. “How the fuck would you use cow as a compliment.”

“Like, uh- You’ve got cow eyes, baby.” He squeezes your hip, and you giggle. 

“I have cow eyes?”

“Yeah. But you’re my cow.” He pauses, then frowns. “I don’t like that. It makes seem like, I don’t know, I won you at a county fair.”

You lean down, mock-pouting at him. “So you don’t think I’m a prize?”

“No, I just-“ He sighs. “Can we pretend I never said anything?”

“Nope. I’m your cow, Mr. Kent.”

He groans. “Gosh, no, don’t say that-“

“It’s too late. Live with the consequences of your actions.”

“But I regret this action, I regret it a lot, I should have just told you how to milk a cow- No.” He gives you a firm look, and you’re giggling so much you might fall over. “I know that face, baby, no.”

You shake your head, pushing your words through the laughter. “Were you going to do a demonstration, farm boy? You’ve milked me before.”

“Alright. Come here.” 

A large, warm hand glides up to your waist, and you’re still giggling when he pulls you forward. He doesn’t look cute anymore. He just looks handsome, darkened eyes on you, lips curled in a small grin as he watches you-

Cat says your name, waving a hand in your face.

“Sorry, I- Um-“ You look around, and the room isn’t spinning, but all the color seems to be washed out. Like there should be a reason for them to be vibrant, and you can’t find it at all. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” Cat shrugs, looking back to the TV. “Weird thing to tell me, though.”

“Yeah, um- Sorry.”

You almost run away from her, and your stomach feels like it’s rising up your throat. Something is wrong. It’s paranoia, but it still feels wrong, and you don’t know where you’re going but you know it needs to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere nobody can touch you, or see you, or say your name. Somewhere in the dark, where your chest won’t keep trying to pull at something you can’t name, where you can put a hand on your throat and just breathe- 

You’re only watching your feet, as you walk, because you need to walk in a straight line. You’re not dizzy. It just feels like you’re wading through mud, and if you’re not counting every step you’ll fall over.

So when you turn the corner, you don’t see him until it’s too late, and you’re slamming right into his chest. 

“Hey, woah.” Clark's arm wraps around your waist, and your fingers fly to grab the lapels of his suit jacket. 

You stare at each other. There’s that same, strange look from before, and it’s everywhere. In the slight, worried pout of his lips, the furrow of his brow, and somehow in the strong line of his nose. His eyes are burning into you, and that buzzing feeling starts to push up your throat, spreading and spreading until the hollow in your chest stirs, and Clark’s hand flexes on your back- 

“Taste it.”

He frowns at your offering, a finger covered in frosting. “I know what frosting tastes like, sweetheart. You just slipped, I want to look at your knee-“

“What are you, a doctor?”

“No, but I think I’ve learned enough to know if need to take you to the hospital, and I can x-ray for free-“

You cut him off with a strange noise. It’s as if it’s coming from underwater, muffled and strange. You can’t really hear it at all. “It’s just my fucking ankle. Look,” you swing it dramatically, and his frown deepens. He doesn’t let go of you. 

You poke his nose with the frosting, and giggle as his eyes cross to look at it. 

“Geez, you really want me to try this frosting.”

“Well, I made it, and I want your opinion.”

He nods, tongue shooting up to lick it off. And it takes a few seconds of ridiculousness for him to get it, but he does. Because he can do fucking anything. 

And your heartbeat is in your ears, now.

“That’s really good, baby.” He looks at you with a proud grin, and you don’t give a shit about the cupcakes anymore. 

He can see that. 

His throat bobs, and his ears turn red as his voice drops. 

“You’re sure your ankles okay-“

“Yes.” You cut him off quickly, and his lips twitch.

“May I please have a full cupcake, after we finish?”

You nod, a little like a bobblehead, and he grins at you like he won the lottery. 

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He leans down until your noses are bumping. “But just so you know, you’re still my favorite dessert.”

“Are you okay?” Clark says, and it jumpstarts your body. 

You shove him back quickly, eyes wide, and try not to think about how he looks like a wounded puppy. 

He says your name gently, like he’s trying to soothe a feral animal, and you take another uneven step back. 

“I- I’m- I don’t-“

Clark’s voice becomes a little more urgent. “Come here, sw-“ He swallows, syllables sliding together. “We need to get you sitting down-“

“No- No-“ You take a ragged breath. You don’t want him to touch you. Your whole body is leaning to him, like he’s got the gravity of something more than a man, but if Clark touches you, it’s going to hurt deeper than your skin. “I- I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Clark doesn’t look convinced by your repetition. “I know you might feel okay, but- You were staring at me for five minutes, I- Uh- I just think you should rest-“

“I’ll rest. I can rest.” You nod, taking another unsteady step back. The whole earth feels like it’s sliding below your feet. “I might have, like- Food poisoning? Maybe? I’m just- I’m not feeling well, Clark-“

“I know, we can go to the doctor- I mean, not we, but- You and someone-“ The strangeness flashes over his features again. “It can be me. I can drive. I’m good at it, sweetheart, I can drive you-“

“No, I’ll take the subway, I’m- Can you just tell Perry I got sick. Please?”

“I-“

“Thank you, Clark. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

You don’t wait for his response, don’t look back as you almost scramble out of the hallway.

It’s still just the paranoia. You’re just off, and maybe you did get food poisoning. You’d eaten some strange, old pastries that had been at the back of your refrigerator last night. You didn’t even remember putting them there, and they’d tasted fine, but maybe it was a fake fineness.

No. It’s all fine. 

There’s still that carved-out, empty feeling in your chest, but you’re fine. 

You’ll take a day. Maybe get back with a therapist, or install new locks on your door and windows. Everything will be fine.

Everything was not fine. 

You’re having nightmares. And they’re of strange things you’ve never even seen before, like colorful, lava rivers and infinite blackness and odd, jagged edges of strangely shaped cliffs. You’re having nightmares of a gun to your brow and a shining light in your eyes and so much cold. You can’t really feel anything in the nightmares, but you can feel cold, and it makes you wake up shivering and screaming until your voice goes hoarse. 

The one day you took off didn’t do much—you mostly just stared at the ceiling, and tried to will everything into being better, which obviously didn’t fucking work—and the moment you’re back at work, everything starts to move too fast for you to catch your breath. 

You were gone for three weeks, on a vacation you don’t remember. There’s work that needs catching up on, informants and sources you apparently forgot to tell about your vacation that you need to reach out to, and a lot of time that needs to be wasted on the floor of the bathroom. 

It still feels like someone is watching you, in the office. Still feels like something vital is missing from your chest, like an organ that’s been removed. With the nightmares, your sleep doesn’t get better. The paranoia only grows, until you beg Perry to give you a desk that has your back to the wall. 

He obliges, with a frown and muttered weird kids. 

And you’re slightly calmed, by being able to see everyone who comes in and out of the room. Nobody can surprise you, anymore. When you feel like someone is watching you, all you have to do is look up. 

“Just look up.” He says, fingers tracing slowly over the bare skin of your arm. “All you ever need to do is look up, and I’ll be there.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” you say the noise you can’t hear. “What if you’re in Kansas, or- I don’t know, France-“

He cuts you off with a deep, slow kiss that makes you dizzy. “Then call my name.” He mutters against your lips. “And I’ll come for you.”

You rub your eyes, and all the lights are a little too bright. You might need to start wearing sunglasses to work. Inside. Like you have a permanent hangover. 

It certainly feels permanent. All these strange, invasive phantom thoughts.  

Nowhere is safe from them. It’s why you like the bathroom so much. Sparse and quiet and lonely—which is only making the nightmares worse—but without anything to set you off. 

Because fucking everything sets you off. 

“Shit.” You mutter, wrinkling your nose at the fridge, then checking the time on your phone. “Shit.”

“What’s shit?” Lois asks, standing over your shoulder, and you slam the door closed. 

“I- fuck-“ The sound echoes through the room, and it was too big for such a tiny little thing.

It hums at you. Tauntingly. About how you can be as mean and crude as you want, but it’s still solid. It’s not melting apart at the seams. 

You kick it, for good measure, and grunt as it refuses to budge. Stupid fucking fridge.

Lois laughs softly. “I think you beat it.”

“Thanks.” You mutter, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “It’s too late anyway.”

“Too late?”

“I forgot my lunch.”

“Seriously? That’s what you tried to murder the fridge over- Right, sorry.” She smiles apologetically at your glare. “Not just a joke, this time. Didn’t read that one right.” 

“No, it’s-“ You let out a slow breath, and you’re so fucking tired. “You’re right, it’s stupid-“

“It’s not stupid, it’s just kind of insane.” She gives you a small smile. “Forgetting food sucks. I’m sorry I laughed at your plight.”

You huff, just through your nose, but with everything feeling a little lighter. It sucks. It’s not the end of everything. 

“Who forgot their food?” Clark says, and you turn to see him frowning at you and Lois with an odd intensity. “Lois, you ate earlier, you got taco all over my keyboard-“

“No, I didn’t. That was Jimmy.”

“But Jimmy said it was-“

“Jimmy is a liar. And I didn’t forget my lunch,” she says your name, and all of Clark’s attention seems to hone in on you. It makes you feel fucking dizzy. “She did.”

“You did?” There’s a depth to the concern in his voice. Like you’re swimming into the ocean, when it was just supposed to be the deep end of the pool, and now he’s worried everything is going to sweep you away. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” You try to hold his gaze, as you speak. It’s shockingly difficult. As if you’re staring at the sun, instead of clear, blue eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well. Must have thought I grabbed it, then didn’t. I’ll be-“

Clark cuts in, voice earnest. “Do you want mine?”

“No, yours looks like it was made out of dead fish guts.”

“Huh.” He frowns at his spaghetti, still in the white take-out box. “I think it’s just like- Gooey pasta.”

“Wrong, fish guts.” You keep his arm around your shoulders, holding one of his large hands in both of yours, playing with his fingers as you examine dinner. “Why couldn’t we just do pizza?”

“Because Pa taught me to treat a lady-“

“To fish guts?”

“To fancy food.” He kisses the side of your head, dropping the food onto the plate. “If it tastes bad, I can hold your hair back while you vomit.”

“What if you vomit,” you say the noise you can’t hear, and he grins at you.

“I don’t get sick, darling.”

“Maybe. But look at this, I’m sure it could do the job, even on you-“

He kisses you, and your words fall into a loud, long moan. He smiles against your lips, and you wish he’d never figured out this trick for shutting you up. It’s playing dirty, for someone who always follows the rules. You think he justifies it to himself with how you try to chase him when he pulls away, and how he always asks you to finish your thought. As if the kiss was just to kiss. 

This beautiful, sweet man might really believe it is just a kiss. 

Something low shines in his eyes, though, when he finally gets you to come up for air. 

And he fucking knows. 

“Gosh,” he mutters, looking over to the food. “You think this will make me sick?”

“Maybe.” You blink at him slowly. “I don’t know.”

“Huh. I mean, I don’t mind pizza. If you don’t mind. I can go get it, right now, but, um- Only if you think this will make me sick-“

You say the sound you can’t hear softly. “I know you worked hard to get this, you don’t have to-“

“No, I think I want pizza.” He leans down, holding your gaze. “Do you want pizza, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” You smile at him, planting a small kiss on his nose. “Please.”

Clark says your name, and you swallow. You don’t feel hungry, anymore. Only sick. 

“I’m good, Clark.” You mutter, ripping your gaze down to your shoes. “Thank you.”

You almost run back to your desk, and start talking to people at work less and less. They seem to always set it off—the empty space, the echo—more than anyone else. And avoiding them isn’t a permanent solution, but it should ease the vastness of everything feeling like it’s just fucking wrong.

It should. 

But as long as you’re where people can say things to you, it doesn’t.

“You look nice tonight.” A guy with dark hair and darker eyes grins at you, taking a slow swig of his beer like you’re supposed to respond. 

You turn your glass in your hands, and give him a small smile. He’s pretty. Not that pretty, but enough to make you not hate looking. And in the dark—once you’re one drink deeper and everything has been numbed a little more—it won’t fucking matter. 

“You end up here often?”

You smile, and try not to make it too many teeth. Just be easy, and you can forget better. “Here, or at a bar?”

He laughs. Not a bad sound. Just sort of flat, like there’s an element of it that’s missing. “Either, dollface.”

“Well, I’ve been here a few times.” You try to keep your voice light and breathy. You feel fucking insane. “But usually, I’m just soliciting.”

“Yeah? For what?”

“Mormons.”

The man laughs again, and you try to make your smile wider. The drink can get you halfway there, easily. 

It’s the rest of you, that’s always the problem.

You end up in a booth, half on the lap of your bar man—Jack or Jax or Max or Miles or Martholomew, but it really doesn’t fucking matter—and with your tongue shoved down his throat. You’re grabbing at his shoulders and dragging him forward as you try to grind down, but it feels like trying to start a fire with soggy driftwood.

There’s just not enough of him. This man is nice enough, but there’s something shaped like the hole in your body that’s missing. His hands are possessive, but they should be teasing and gentle as well. As if you’re a delicate work of blown glass, that’s stronger than it looks but still needs care. He should let you play until you get tired, and he eagerly jumps in to take over. He’s supposed to have slightly longer hair, and bigger hands, and wrap around you as he kisses, as if he’s more shield than man. 

You don’t have any idea where you got those fantasies. 

No one has ever touched you like that. Kissed you like that. Been enough that you’d hold them higher than the sun. 

“Yeah, doll,” the man grabs your ass as he drawls. “You’re such a dirty girl, aren’t you.”

You frown against his lips. That’s not right either. He’s supposed to say- 

“There you go.” He keeps your legs spread apart easily, pushing a finger in until it’s knuckle deep. “Yeah. That’s it. Oh fuck, you’re soaked.”

A loud, desperate moan tears through your lips, the word fuck maybe the most sinful thing in the world, when it’s from his lips. “Please, I- I need it, just-“ You try to roll your hips forward, grabbing at the sheets. “Please-“

“You’ll get it, baby.” He kisses your inner thigh, rubbing the sensitive skin in firm circles. “I always help you, don’t I? I take care of you.”

“Yeah, yes, you do, but- Fuck-“ You moan the sound you can’t hear, grabbing at his wrist. “More-“

“Can you relax, darling? For me, please?”

You go slack, and he grins. 

“There you go. That’s my good girl.” 

For a moment, as the bar comes back into focus, you’re frozen. 

Then the man grunts from below you, and you almost vault off his lap. 

Wrong. 

Everything, everywhere, is so fucking wrong. 

You leave with rushed apologies and a twenty-dollar payment for two drinks—too much, but you just need to go so they can keep the tip—and try not to trip over yourself running home. 

And you check the locks, twice. Close the windows and keep all the lights on, even as you get ready for bed. 

But it’s not safe. 

Not anywhere. 

You’re digging through your underwear drawer, and your fingers brush over a thick, warm fabric. When you pull it out, it’s a flannel that smells of stale amber and wood. It feels right, on your fingers, but you don’t have a clue where it came from, or why it’s here. 

But it’s warm. Even after months at the bottom of a cold dresser, it’s so warm. Like an ember. Like something clinging to a flickering fire that just refuses to die. That sparks, just when it’s about to go out. 

That keeps you warm. 

“Put it on, baby. Please.”

“No.” You raise a hand, blocking him from your view. “Puppy eyes don’t work on me,” you hum the noise you can’t hear, grinning out at the field. “I am perfectly warm. I’m basically a furnace. I think I could power the eastern seaboard, with how warm I am.”

“I, um- I don’t think that’s how energy works, sweetheart-“

“But maybe it does.”

He sighs, even as the heavy sound is laced with affection. “Okay. That can be how it works, but- Please. Put it on.” He pauses. “For me?”

You drop your hand, and glare at his pretty, innocent face—which is a fucking act, because he was face deep in your pussy like three hours ago—and hopeful, clear eyes. He just smiles at you nervously, still holding out the flannel, and you roll your eyes. 

“I hate it when you play that card.”

He blinks, looking honestly confused. “What card?”

“Shut up.” You grab the flannel out of his hand, and he grins.

“Yes, ma’am. Do you want help putting it on?”

You nod, shuffling closer to his side. If it were anyone else, they’d get a biting, harsh no. You can do it yourself, it’s just a flannel, and—because you’re not fucking seven—you know how sleeves and buttons work. 

But it’s him. And you want a reason to be as close to him as possible, so you can figure out how to crawl into his lap after. Be as surrounded by him as possible, and run your fingers through curly hair as he breathes against your neck. It makes you shiver, the feeling of his lips grazing sensitive spots on your throat while his hands splay over your back. 

“I’m not cold anymore.” You mumble in his ear, and you can feel his lips curve into a smile.

“Sorry, darling, but- I thought you weren’t cold at all?”

“Don’t be mean.” You whine the sound you can’t hear into his neck, and he chuckles. 

“I’ve been learning from the best. And she,” he kisses a spot behind your ear. “Is also so smart, and cares so much, and never lets anything hold her down-“

“That’s not true.” You grumble. “I let a lot of things hold me down.”

“Yeah, but you never give up,” he pulls back, holding your face gently in his hands. His thumb traces over your cheek, and it feels like he’s taking you apart. “You’re strong.”

You laugh dryly. “You’ve been through more.”

“Yeah. Once a goat ate my favorite shirt, and- Gosh, sweetheart, remember how the ice cream place didn’t have the flavor I wanted to show you.” He grins, kissing your cheek. “I’m basically going to hell and back.”

“I’ve had banana splits before-“

“Not like these, though-“

You sigh the sound you can’t hear, and he falls silent. “You know what I mean.”

Something blurs. Like you’re scrubbing through film footage. The world moves fast, and you’re being pulled like a puppet. Saying something, but not having a clue what. Like your voice was taken from your throat. Then it slows down, the world resuming, and your voice resumes.  

“I just think- It’s not the same-“

“I know it’s not the same.” He mutters your name, kissing your knuckles. At some point, his hand had taken yours during the blur. You hadn’t even noticed. “But you still get through a lot of stuff, baby. I think it would make most people fall.”

You smile at him sadly, voice dropping to a whisper. “I think it makes me want to fall, sometimes.”

“Well.” He folds his fingers through yours, and the sleeve of his flannel flops slightly. It looks like you don’t really stop at all. You just continue. Right into him. “I’m pretty freaking grateful that you don’t.”

The flannel gets shoved back into the underwear drawer. 

You stop looking around at things.

And it’s not fine. Nothing’s fucking fine. You’re not talking to anyone, really. Not going anywhere. Hiding in your own bed, just knowing that something is so incredibly off, as the echoes continue to grow, but you don’t have a word for it. And if you tried to find one, you’d sound fucking bananas. At best, you’re just having hyper-realistic daydreams that are freaking you out way more than they should. At worst, you have a brain tumor. 

You’ve explored all the options, in your new favorite place, the bathroom floor. And you’ve settled on a very sustainable do nothing until you either drop dead or someone pins you down and makes you get help. It’s a strategy that’s worked well this long, and nobody has managed to get you pinned down at all. 

“You’ve got a flu, sweetheart, you need to stay in bed-“

“You can’t make me,” you sing the sound you can’t hear, spinning in a wide circle, all the colors neon and pastel around you. “You’re not my boss, and you’re not bigger than me. I am,” you wrap your arms around his neck. “Bigger than a mouse.”

“Well, that’s not wrong.” He sighs, and picks you up as if you weigh nothing. 

“Wow.” You poke at his muscles, squirming in his arms. “You’re strong. And big.”

“I, uh- Thanks.”

“And hot. It’s so hot.” You whine the sound you can’t hear. “Why is it so hot?”

“That’s the fever, darling.” He sounds amused, but kisses the side of your head so gently. “I’ll text Perry from your phone, okay?”

“Okay.” You mumble, clinging to his shirt when he tries to set you down. “Can you stay?”

He sighs, scanning carefully over your face. “I have work, and- You know, the other thing-“

Everything blurs again. But this time, all of his words blurring together while you’re stuck in a static. Then it all resumes, and it’s as if nothing happened at all. 

“Please?” You pout, and he nods slowly. 

“Yeah. Okay. I mean, I can’t make a promise about that, but- I swear to you I’ll see what I can do-“

“Yay.” You beam, and flop back down onto the mattress. “I love you, Martian Man.”

“Different guy. And, um- Wrong planet.” He kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter shut. “But I love you too, my cow.”

You hum. “Would you buy me in an auction?”

“You know I’m not answering that, pretty girl.” He mutters, and he’s using the other voice. The deeper, smooth one that always makes you listen to whatever you say. “Go to sleep.”

The lights are getting long. The shadows of the small, Daily Planet bathroom feel longer. 

Your eyes are stinging with tears, and you wipe them with the thin corporate napkins. 

Spend a little too long looking in the mirror. 

Apparently, your thoughts aren’t fully safe anymore either, even in the quiet.

And you’d never said I love you. To anyone. 

But you said it to him.

The man who just lives in your head, who you can’t even afford to give a name, pulls love out of you in a way that feels bigger than the hole in your chest. In a way like a tree. Always growing and growing and taking deeper root, until it’s embedded in the Earth.

And he loves you back. 

But only in your fucking head.

“I’m not saying it’s weird.” Steve is almost shouting at Jimmy and Lois, and you poke your head over your computer to watch. “You know I’m a big fan of the guys, Lois, I’m just asking questions! Isn’t that our job?”

“To… learn about Kryptonian biology?” Lois snorts, taking a sip of her coffee. “No, I think that’s up to scientists, Steve.”

“Well, they have nothing to study-“

“Neither do we, dude.” Jimmy’s grin is shit-eating. “It’s not like Superman is in this room, so we can ask him questions about his penis.”

Clark coughs loudly, and you frown at him. His leg is bouncing, and his ears look a little red. 

Lois sees it as well, and calls across the room, “You alright, Clark?”

“Uh, yeah- I’m, yeah.” Clark clears his throat, shooting to his feet and walking over to join their group.

Which is gathered near your desk. 

It’s not making you nervous so much as wired. With every step Clark takes across the room, you feel more and more like electricity is humming under your skin, sparking up in that emptiness and just making everything very fucking confusing. 

Then Clark looks at you.

Only a quick glance, with that same worry in his brow and odd shine in his eyes. It’s the only way he’s been looking at you, lately. 

You flush, and look back to your computer with everything in you feeling like it’s on fire. 

“Um-“ Clark’s words are low, and you see him shake his head in your periphery. He’s looking at you. For too long, you can see the clearness of his eyes, feel them singeing on your skin. 

Then he looks away.

And you just feel cold. 

“What are we talking about?” He asks the group, and Steve scowls.

“I don’t want your thoughts on it, Kansas, I’m looking for the big leagues opinion-“

“Steve wants us to give Superman a pat-down.” Jimmy says quickly. “The full TSA. He says it’s for science.” 

“Which is a ridiculous claim.” Lois adds. “But also pointless. Because what, are you going to just call him out of the sky and start asking him questions?”

“I mean...” Steve pauses. “Isn’t that just what you and Kent do?”

“No. Or, well-“ Clark coughs. “Sort of, I guess. But we’re asking him important questions. About world politics.”

Jimmy raises his hand. “Didn’t your last interview with him consist of only questions about cows and breakfast.”

You peek over your computer again, and Clark is blushing. 

“I- He had a hard few weeks-“

“Or you’re just a pussy, right?” Steve laughs, raising his hand for a high five, and Lois gives him a flat look. 

“None of us are high-fiving that, man.”

“Whatever.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Why does Kent get to work with Superman and not me.”

Jimmy laughs. “You write sports, dude-“

“I’m sure he has opinions! The people want to know who he is! What baseball team he’s rooting for this season!”

“Yeah,” Lois shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s what people want to know about Superman.”

“I know.” The wind is biting at your skin, and you’re glaring at him in the dark.

This seems like it’s from a long, long time ago. The air is hotter, your shirt one you think you lost months ago. When you reach up to nervously run your fingers through your hair, that’s different as well. And he’s across from you, something different in his clear eyes. 

Different from all the other flashes. 

The same as it seems to be now. 

He sighs, taking a large step forward. “Can we not do this on the roof, please? I’m worried you’re going to catch a cold-“

“I’ll live.” You snap, raising your chin. Which is a mistake—the wind only bites you harder now—but you’re not going to back down from it. You’ll see this through. “I want you to tell me.”

“Tell you what?” He frowns, and winces slightly under your withering look. “I can’t say it. You know I can’t. If I tell you, then that’s on me-“

“What’s on you, the truth-“

“No, what I’ll be doing to you-“

“You’ve done a lot worse-“

“This isn’t a joke!” He shouts your name, taking a large step forward. “You could get seriously hurt, if you actually know! And if you get hurt, and I can’t save you, I’m-“ He shakes his head. “No. I’m not telling you.”

“I already fucking know-“

“Then just know, don’t make me tell you-“

“No, Clark! I know what it means that I know! I-“ You take a ragged breath, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “I’ve known for months, you dummy. I just- I sort of-“ You swallow, choking on the sob forming in your throat. “Never mind.”

You turn to walk away, and the world is blurring from tears in your eyes, but everything is also getting sharper at the same time. Like a camera lens, coming into a focus you hadn’t even known was off.

“No, wait-“ Clark shouts your name, grabbing the crook of your elbow. “Don’t- Shoot-“ 

He moves in front of you as you yank your elbow away, blocking your path off the roof. 

“Move.” You mutter, and he shakes his head. 

“You said you wouldn’t never mind me, baby.” He’s using the deep, commanding voice. The Superman voice. It’s cheating. “You promised. I always want to know what you’re thinking. Please.”

You shake your head, staring at his shoes. “It’s stupid-“

“No.” He grabs your chin, gently angling it up. Forcing you to meet his clear, bright, affectionate gaze. When you don’t speak—not out of spite, you’re mostly just trying not to cry—he prompts you gently. “You’ve really known for months?”

“Yeah.” You whisper. “I knew like, the first week I met you.”

His eyes widen. “How-“

“You wear your suit under your clothing, Clark.” You smile at him weakly. “You stretched. I saw. That was sort of it.”

“Oh.” He sighs, glancing down at that same suit, then back to you with a guilty expression. “Shoot.”

“Yeah. But nobody else has noticed, I promise. I asked around in a very covert way and the only other person who’s seen is Jimmy. But he said he asked you about it, and you said it’s just a weird compression shirt. Which, by the way, we need to come up with a better lie, Clark, because that one is-“

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” He mutters, and you swallow. 

“I wanted you to tell me.”

“Oh.” Clark nods, then says your name gently. “Why were you looking at my shirt, darling?”

You flush. “Don’t- This isn’t about me-“

“Really?” He grins. “Because I kinda think most things are.”

“I- Well-“ You sigh, dropping your face into his chest. “You’re cute.”

“Cute?” You can hear the grin in his voice. “You think I’m cute?”

“And… other stuff.”

“What other-“

“We’ve fucked, Clark!” You shove away from his chest. “You know I think you’re attractive, don’t be mean-“

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” He catches you easily, pulling you back into his body. “I just like hearing what you think about me, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

“You said I’m sorry twice.” You grumble, and he kisses the tip of your nose. 

“Well, I am very sorry. And I love you. You’re the only cow I’d ever want to love.”

Your eyes widen. “You- Clark-“

“You don’t need to say it back,” he mutters your name, moving to kiss the corner of your mouth. “But I do. And I need to tell you something.”

You stare at him, and he grins at you, swiping his thumb over your lip.

“I’m Superman.” 

“Oh.” You can’t stop your stupid, wide smile. “Cool.”

“It kind of is, right?” He laughs, and pulls you up into a deep, full kiss. 

The long, dramatic kind of kiss. Where there might be music swelling in the background, and spotlights angling down to make the whole focus of everything just you and Clark. He’s dipping you down slightly, and your foot kicks into the air, and you’re dizzy and breathless when he finally pulls you upright. Still giving you smaller, softer kisses as you find your balance. 

“Just, um-“ He sighs, still holding you tight to his chest. “Please don’t call me Clark when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.” 

You giggle, murmuring against his lips. “I won’t if we can use it for sex stuff.”

“Oh. Uh-“ He blushes, but nods, dipping down to kiss your throat. “I think we can do that. You know you might be the death of me, right?”

“No. You’re not allowed to die.” You kiss the side of his head, and he sighs. 

“Yeah. But you aren’t either.” He pulls back, a deep furrow in his brow. “I’m serious. I really don’t want you to get hurt because of this-“

“I won’t.” You smile at him. “I promise.”

Someone says your name, and you blink to see Lois waving a hand in front of your face.

“Um, yeah?”

“Are you okay?” She frowns at you, scanning over your face. “You’ve been staring at the same spot for like, ten minutes. If you need, I can bring you to the hospital-“

“I don’t need a hospital.” You say quickly, looking back to your computer. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

And when you say it that time, it sounds even more like a lie than before. Lois isn’t convinced, even when you manage to talk her into just getting you some ice. You’re not convinced, because you can feel it. Even your computer doesn’t seem to be convinced, the screen so bright it feels judgmental. 

But most of all, Clark isn’t convinced. 

He’s not looking, when you do your routine scan to make sure nobody is watching. He’s just sitting at his desk, leg bouncing. 

Which is something he does, when he’s listening.  

You don’t know how you know that. Why you know that. When you learned that. 

But you know it’s Clark. 

That in your head, it’s Clark. It’s always been Clark. 

Or it’s never been Clark, and you’ve just lost your fucking mind. 

You don’t know anymore. What’s real. Why your brain has decided Clark is Superman, and why he’d ever say he loves you, or why this is happening to you. 

Something is more than wrong. Something is broken. It’s that massive fucking hollow in your chest, and it’s making your heart skip in all the wrong ways. Like you lost your metronome. Lost the beat. Can’t find it again, and now you’re falling and drowning on steady ground. 

Everything is so, so wrong. 

And when you don’t know what’s broken, you don’t know how to put it back together. 

You’re not even sure it can be put back at all. 

You have to ask him. 

It’s eating you alive. 

Clark sits across the office, and you squint at him until his face is a little more blurred, trying to blend it into the man of the echoes. You spend hours staring at your computer screen—decidedly not doing work—listening to his voice imagining him saying things to see if they match. 

Every night you watch shadows move over your ceiling at night, trying to organize every single strange moment into its place. 

Every morning, you stare at the flannel and try to remember something more. 

It’s a puzzle you can’t stand to finish, but need to or everything feels like it’s going to crumble apart. It’s a game you don’t want to play, but can’t bear to lose. 

There’s no logical reason for it to be real. You’d remember if you’d been kissing and dating and in love with Clark. Someone else would have known, someone would have said something, Clark wouldn’t have just let you forget if you had the love that seems to run under your every memory of him. 

And you’d think about it all the time if you knew Clark was Superman. 

You know, because you do think about it all the time. You’ve crunched the numbers. Built Rome in a day then tore it down, outlined the case and solved it with a pipe—anxiously chewed-up pencil—in your mouth. 

Clark is Superman. 

He’s always vanishing randomly, in the middle of the day. He’s always oddly invested in conversations about Superman, for someone who claims not to care much for superheroes, only ever commenting that they do good work before going to back to scrolling on his computer. He’s never sick, but when he is, it’s right after Superman’s had a really bad fight. His leg bounces when he’s listening to conversations he shouldn’t be able to hear. 

He has the same fucking face.

When you look at Clark, then down to the photo of Superman you pulled up on your phone, it’s the same fucking face.

But in the echoes—you’re afraid to call them memories, because that makes all of this too real—you’d told him you figured it out. 

It seems like, when you lay it all out on cluttered paper, you’d been dating before you told him you knew. 

You don’t know how you started dating. 

You’ve stared at him, and every corner of the office, and every single item you own, trying to will the answer into your existence. 

Then the building shifts, something clatters in your kitchen, and you shriek. 

The paranoia hasn’t gone away. 

You still don’t know where it came from in the first place. 

And you have to. You have to know. This isn’t something that’s going to pass. It’s only going to build and build and get worse and worse until you’re drowning in the vacuum of it all.

One person has the answers to your questions. And he’s at his desk, tapping on his phone and glancing up at the TV every few minutes.

It shouldn’t be that hard to talk to Clark. He’s your friend, and all you have to do is ask a very carefully calculated question that doesn’t make you sound crazy, but does invite him to tell you what you need to know. 

You can’t figure out what that question should be. 

So you’ve resorted to eavesdropping. 

You shuffle over to the copier, paper crumpling slightly in your fingers, and act as if you’ve never seen a machine before in your life. You’re not sure what you’re hoping he’ll say—maybe, oh, my coworker fell and hit her head and we’re all very worried, but she seems to be alright—but it’s a better plan than just driving yourself insane. 

You’re probably still going to end up doing that. It’s the plan you committed to first. 

This is mostly so you can say you tried.

And maybe, just maybe, so you can be a little closer to him. Hear his voice. 

See if anything at all comes back. 

“Ma.” Clark mutters into his phone, and you press a random button. “I’m coming home soon, I promise.”

There’s a pause as another voice crackles through the speaker, and Clark sighs. 

“No, I’ve told you, we’re not- Uh, it’s- Ma, it’s complicated- Yes, I know love shouldn’t be, but it’s not the feeling, it’s- Um-“ His eyes flick you, and he clears your throat. “I know I love her, Ma. But- I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it, please. Yes, I’ll wait for Pa.”

The line goes quiet, and he’s still looking at you. It’s like you’re being set on fire. 

You give him a weak smile. “I entered the wrong thing. To be copied.”

“Oh.” He returns the smile, and his looks so soft and real, it makes your throat ache. “They’re, uh- It’s still going?”

“Yeah, I, um- I figured other people might need some.” There’s an awkward moment of silence—he won’t stop looking at you—and you clear your throat. “Relationship problems?”

“No.” He says softy. “Nothing was ever a problem.”

You flush, looking back to the copier, and something really fucking stupid bubbles out of your throat. “Do you like cows, Clark?”

“Yeah. I love them.” He’s still fucking staring at you. “Do you?”

You shake your head. “I’ve always been more of a dog person.”

Ma Kent—with kind eyes and wrinkled hands that just finished touching pretty much everywhere on your face—laughs. “Oh, well, Clarkie was a dog boy, too, y’know. He liked to run around with the shepherds, and fly them up into the-“ Her eyes widen suddenly, and her eyes shoot to Clark. “Oh, I mean- He was just. flyin’ kites with Pa-“

“I would fly the herd dogs up into the sky.” He tells you, hand rubbing on the small of your back. “They liked being up there. Seeing all the birds. Made them happy, so I kept doing it. And it’s alright, Ma. She knows.”

“Oh. Wonderful. Did ya tell her, or did she figure it out.”

“I figured it out.” You beam, standing a little taller, and Clark sighs.

“That’s true. She did.”

“Oh, a smart girl.” Ma tilts her head at you, reaching up to cup your cheek once more. “Do you like pastries? Pa made too many, and I don’t got it in me to eat them all myself.”

You beam at her, leaning into Clark’s side. 

She likes you. 

The majority of the ride was spent with you working out every possible reason she might not like you, just to be ready. Clark had said you were just nervous, and she’d adore you. You’d told him that it wasn’t about you, it was about him.

You’d never think anyone was good enough for him either. 

He’d blushed, and muttered that you felt pretty good for him.

You’d made a sex joke. He’d blushed more. 

The goal had been to get them all out of your system before you arrived, because lewdness and vulgarity were on the list of reasons Clark’s parents might not like you. Even if Clark said they didn’t judge other people who swore, you hadn’t been about to take any chances. 

But it didn’t matter. 

She likes you. 

And when Ma Kent starts to lead you into the kitchen, you tug on Clark’s sleeve until he leans down, allowing you to whisper in his ear. 

“She likes me.”

“I know.” He chuckles, diving down to quickly plant a kiss on your lips. “Probably cause I love you.”

The paper you’d brought over is shredded on the floor, and Clark is saying your name. 

It’s with more and more worry every time, and he’s dropping the phone from his ear. Trying to reach for you. 

You can’t let him reach for you, because then he’ll touch you. Trigger another series of sparks in your chest. And it will keep slipping through your fingers too fast, when you still don’t know how to hold on.

But Clark’s a little faster than you think, for a guy his size. 

He moves forwards, and catches you by the wrist. “Sweetheart-“

“You’re pushing it.” He murmurs in your ear, and you lean your head back on his chest. “I thought you were tired?”

“I am.” You turn your face, pressing it into his shoulder as you sit in his lap. 

He holds you like he couldn’t bear to let go, even when you’re just in bed. Kisses your nose like you’re something sweet, when you’ve been all but grinding down onto his crotch for the last five minutes. But you can feel him, pressing through his sweats and rock hard. And if he just keeps dragging against your thighs and clothed core, you’re going to burst into tears. You need him inside of you.

Now. 

“If you’re tired, darling, we can go to bed-“

“Clark.” You whisper, turning your head to meet clear, slightly hooded eyes. “You could cut glass with this.”

You grind down onto him again, and he hisses softly.

“Don’t do that, it’s not fair-“

“Do you want me to stop?” You pout at him in a picture of innocence, and he groans.

“You know I don’t. But-“ He sighs, watching you carefully in the dark. “You’re tired. You sleeping is more important than me, you know-“ He thrusts up, and your lips fall over with a broken moan. 

Clark’s eyes widen at the reaction, and he’s quickly grabbing your face, angling it around to check for damage. 

“Shoot, baby, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“

“Clark.” You whine, leaning into his touch. “Please.”

His throat bobs, and his thumb drops to slowly trace your lips. “You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired.” You mumble. “I want you.”

“Well, you kind of always want me- Christ.”

You take his thumb fully into your mouth, sucking on it with a lidded, sweet and drunken gaze, and you know you’ve won before you even let your tongue flick over the pad of the finger. 

He used a grown-up curse word. 

You’re getting what you want. 

“You want it?” He mutters your name, voice rough and low, and you hum around him. “Yeah? Can you please use your words, darling?”

You pop off of his thumb, and lean forward until your nose is bumping against his. “Can you please fuck me, Clark. Pretty please?”

He smiles, tangling his fingers in your hair. “That bad?”

You nod, and he raises his brows. 

“You going to let me take care of you?”

“Yeah- Oh-“

Your words die with a happy squeak as Clark drags you forward into a deep, long kiss. You’re too lost in the haze of it—of him, lips moving heavy and demanding over yours, teeth grazing your lips—to really notice how he’s moving you, until the angle is one you can’t hold the kiss in.

“Clark- Mmm-“ Your head falls against his shoulder, as he palms your breast with a large hand. “Don’t tease-“

“I’m not teasing.” He hums, slowly guiding your legs apart with his ankles over yours. “I’m taking care of you. And you like it, don’t you? This,” he rubs your nipple between his fingers. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” You whisper, and he grins.

“I know. Just feel it, darling.” He kisses the soft skin of your neck, and his hand wanders down between your thighs. “Can you feel it?”

You nod, grabbing his forearm as his massive fingers start to play between the folds of your pussy. You’re not sure when he got your clothes off. You don’t really care. 

“Yeah, there you go.” He’s cooing in your ear, and your free arm tries to reach up and wrap around his neck. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re so wet, sweetheart, you want a little more?”

“Yes.” Your back arches as Clark teases over your entrance. “More. I- I need it Clark, I-“

“Can you say please?” He flicks your nipple, and you nod.

“Please. Please, Clark, god-“ You let out a loud, sinful sound as his fingers find your clit, and start to rub. Harsh and fast, back and forth while he keeps playing with your breasts, and it’s already too much.

He’s worshipful, on your neck. Kissing and sucking on your skin, all while his fingers continue to drive you insane. You’re staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, just trying to keep up with what he’s doing to you, and Clark just keeps kissing you and touching your breasts like they’re something holy. 

You writhe in his arms, and he just keeps you steadily pinned. You drive to drive your hips up or grind down onto his cock, he slaps your pussy once—lightly, just a sting that makes you gasp—and keeps going. Your arousal is dripping down, wet on your ass and inner thighs, and you fly off the edge without a warning. 

Clark doesn’t stop. You can’t manage to close your legs, against his strength, and when you whine for him, you just get the same, low whisper in your ear. 

“Need you soaked, darling.” He whispers, just his voice making you moan. “Need you ready for me. You know that. Just one more.”

One more turns into two more, and by the time Clark’s hand finally slows, you’re a shaking, wired mess. He lands light hits on your cunt as you float down, and drags two fingers through the mess with a satisfied groan. 

“There she is.” He turns your head, offering you a gentle, loving kiss. “You ready, sweetheart?”

You nod, and Clark clears his throat.

“Can I please do the, uh-“

“Yeah.” You breathe out, trying to worm out of his arms to help. 

He doesn’t let you.

Clark grins like he just won the lottery, catches you by the waist, and pushes you slowly down into the mattress. Your face presses into the sheets, your ass up in the air, and Clark runs his fingers back through your pussy. Spreads your arousal around, groaning as his forefinger dips slightly into your cunt, and you flutter around him. 

“Yeah. That’s good” He crawls over you to kiss your neck. “You ready?”

You nod, trying to wiggle back into him, and he grunts.

“Yeah, alright, you’re ready. Fuck, darling, you’re so pretty.” He kisses down your spine, slowly massaging your hips and ass. “There you go. Just relax. Oh- Shit-“

Clark pushes into you, the stretch burning so fucking good, and your hands fist in the mattress. 

“So good.” He groans. “Always so good and tight for me, sweetheart, you’re-“ He grunts, bottoming out. “So fucking perfect, like an angel, so fucking good. Take me so well, this pussy was made for me-“

“Clark.” You whine, clenching around him, and he ruts into you.

“Oh, God-“ He draws fully out, then slams into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. “Yeah, fuck- Doing so good for me, baby, taking my cock like a- Shit-“

Clark cuts himself off with a groan, and pulls out for a split second, flipping you onto your back.

He slams back in, crashing his mouth down over yours, and starts to fuck you at an animalistic pace. Your nails scratch at his back, your body already so sensitive from before, but it’s pointless. Clark always fucks you like he’s never going to touch you again. His cock hits every spot inside of you that lights you up, his hands wander and touch you in every way you love, because he has them all memorized. 

When he hits a sensitive one, and gets a reaction, he fucks you a little harder. You moan his name, and his tongue shoves down your throat.

But Clark still drives his hips in a measured, careful way, keeping himself on a tight leash until you’re shaking and pleading around him. 

Then his kisses grow sloppy. 

His thrusts become uneven.

And he gives in fully when you cum with a cry of his name, your orgasm rushing through your whole body. 

Clark groans, slamming home with a grunt and messy, hungry kiss. 

You’re a little dazed, when you float down, but you still manage to reach up. Trace his slack, adoring features with light hands. 

“The point of the doggy is that you can dirty talk, baby.” You whisper, and he sighs, dropping his face into your neck. 

He still hasn’t pulled out. He hasn’t even fully softened inside of you. 

He’s probably not going to for a while. Clark likes to keep himself buried in you for as long as possible, until you need to pee and he’s carrying you to the bathroom.

He also has a dirty fucking mouth, that drives you out of your mind, and he refuses to use it. 

“You’re tired.” He mutters. “Felt mean when you’re tired.”

You laugh softly. “You know I like it, Clark-“

“Yeah, but I love you. And you should get the best.”

“I have the best.” You smile at him, and his lips twitch. 

“Yeah. I have the best too.” 

Clark says your name, voice almost as rough as it had been in your head. 

But without any lust or need. 

Just worry. 

And the same, tangible fucking affection, as his fingers squeeze your wrist.  

“I- I have to go.” You whisper, pulling your hand out of his grasp. 

He lets you. 

Clark could so easily hold on, but he lets you go.

But when you stumble away, and turn to run, you can feel it again. 

Someone watching. 

And when you glance over your shoulder, this time, Clark doesn’t look away. 

He just watches you with something so fucking heavy in his eyes, mouth hanging open as his hand still reaches out. 

Like he wants to catch you, but can’t. 

Like he knows you’re already gone. 

You can’t sleep. 

If you get into bed, you look to the side and see Clark there. Lying next to you and grinning. Holding your hand on his chest, then kissing your knuckles before rolling on top of you with a laugh. 

Something you’ve never had before. 

That it feels like you never really had at all. 

And you don’t understand. 

You crawl out onto the fire escape of your apartment—curling into a little ball on the stairs and just trying to breathe in the fresh air—and you can’t fit all of it in your head. Where this all came from, why it feels so right, and why you would have ever forgotten it. 

If this is something that was real, and you’re not just going insane, then you would never have let it go. You would have climbed mountains and screamed at the clouds, if it got taken away from you. If Clark got taken away from you. 

But he was, and you’re just sitting on cold metal stairs.

At least, it feels like he was taken away from you. Something was taken away from you. Something that you needed and wanted has been turned into his gaping hole, and the only thing that seems to fit is Clark. 

He hasn’t said anything. Hasn’t treated you any different than you can remember—although you don’t really trust your own mind anymore—and just stares at you with that worry. 

As if he knows something’s wrong, but can’t fix it. 

Won’t fix it. 

If Clark knows it’s broken, he won’t fix it for you. And if it’s not just all in your head, you’re not sure he loved you at all. 

Then, you feel it. 

Something watching you. 

Your head shoots up, and the streets are dark. Quiet, for the city. Not too quiet that it’s heralding certain death, but quiet. 

There’s a shadow, in the alley across the street. Oddly shaped, and sort of suspended in the air. 

You swallow—if you’re wrong, nobody ever has to know—and whisper, “Clark?”

Superman darts out of the alley, landing across from you on the fire escape, and smiles. Soft. Confident and nervous all at once, with his shoulders relaxed but words gentle and gaze filled with that worry. 

And it’s Clark. You can look at him and know that better than anything else. You know his face, because it’s imprinted like a burn on your brain. It’s not strange to see him in the suit, because you’ve seen it a million times before. 

You think you’ve seen it a million times before. 

But you know you’ve seen the worry. The furrow of his brow and pressing of his lips that’s all Clark, and all for you. 

Like he cares. 

“I’ve told you not to call me that when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.” 

You pull your knees into your chest, blinking up at him. “I- I’m-“

He mutters your name, taking a step forward, and you curl into a smaller ball. 

“Why are you here?”

Clark sighs, throat bobbing. “I shouldn’t be.“

“Cl- Superman.” You correct yourself quickly, and it feels strange on your tongue. “That’s not an answer-“

“I was supposed to keep away.” He says suddenly, wincing slightly. “I really shouldn’t be here, I should’ve been avoiding you all together, but-“ He mutters your name, looking up with clear, sad eyes. “I have to know you’re okay, sweetheart. I need you to tell me you’re okay.”

You swallow, forcing your gaze to hold on his. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why do you need to know?” You whisper. “Why does it matter to you?”

His jaw presses together, and his attention darts out to the street. Mostly empty.

Something tugs on your head, and you can hear him muttering in your ears. Nothing’s ever empty enough. Safer than safe. Don’t want a mostly safe fence post, whole thing will go kaboom down.

Your lips twitch, because you remember laughing at kaboom. 

Everything hurts, because you don’t really remember it at all. 

“Can we go inside, please?” He points to your window, and you nod weakly. 

He reaches out to help you to your feet, but pulls away at the last second, and it makes your heart burn. He opens the window, and holds it up for you to go first. 

You want to reach for him, when he clambers in behind you. You can’t get yourself to move. 

The moment he’s inside, it hits you like a wave. 

Clark’s sitting with you at the table and holding your hand, because he refuses to let go. He’s spinning you around in the kitchen, and carrying a million plates while you giggle, worried he’s going to drop them. He’s hanging that painting on your wall and making your bed while you hug him from behind and kissing you on the couch because you couldn’t wait for the bedroom, but he won’t just take you on the floor. He’s painting your nails, because he spent hours practicing just for you. Kissing your cheek before he leaves in the morning, and looking back with a sweet, secret grin before he leaves out the window.

And it all feels so fucking real. It all fits so neatly into that space in your chest. It makes your heart beat the way it should, and the world seems to stop spinning at an off-kilter angle. 

You never would have forgotten that. 

But you did. 

And you don’t understand. 

Clark looks like he’s going to reach for you, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He should be out of place, in the bright, costumey superman outfit. 

But he doesn’t. 

This seems like somewhere he’s supposed to be. The walls feel closer, and it could be the shallowness of your breath, but it also might just be how they’re trying to reach for Clark. As if even they feel emptier without him. 

They shouldn’t know him at all. But they do. 

You do. 

And it makes the emptiness hurt even more. 

Clark says your name, watching you like you’re going to turn to dust before his eyes. “Please, tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m not.” You say it before you can think. 

You can tell him. 

You tell Clark everything.

He mutters your name, and you shake your head.

“I- I’m not okay, Clark, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what’s real, I don’t trust myself, I don’t trust anything, and I- I scared, Clark, please, I’m so, so scared-“

A sob chokes in your throat, and he moves in a flash. Pulls you into his chest, holding you tight and wrapping over you. Like he’s trying to shield you from every bit of harm. 

You hug him back. Your arms fly up because it feels like the only thing to do, and your face presses into his chest because there’s no other place for you to be. You fit so well there. 

You never would have let go. 

“I don’t know what’s real.” You whisper into his body, and he stiffens slightly. “Clark, I can’t tell anymore, please, I- I don’t know what happened, I don’t know,” you shake your head, words weak and broken through the tears. “Please.”

You’re not sure what you’re begging for. All you know is that Clark is running his fingers through your hair, and holding you the same way he looked at you. 

As if he’s afraid you’re going to vanish from his hands. 

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters your name, heavy strain in his voice. “I can’t tell you. It’s not safe.”

You sniff, clinging to him a little tighter. “But I- I think I loved you.”

There’s a long silence, and Clark’s voice is hoarse when he breaks it.

“You did.” He murmurs, and when you lean back, his eyes are shining with tears. “You really did, darling, but- You said it wouldn’t get you hurt.”

Something haunted flashes over his face, and in the very back of your head—pushed under something deeper than the emptiness, under something iron you don’t want to open and set free—you can hear it. 

Your own screams. 

“It got me hurt?” You blink up at him, and he gives a small, tight nod. “How-“

“Luther.” He mutters, and your blood goes cold. “He worked out I might not just be up in the arctic, all the time. He thought you knew my identity, about my family, my parents. He took you, and-“ Clark’s hands tense on your body, and a tear slides down his cheek. 

“Clark-“

“You never broke.” He whispers. “You were so, so strong, but- I can’t let you get hurt again. I- I’m not worth that. Ma and Pa, they wouldn’t want it, nobody should have to go through that just because of me, and I- I found you.” He shakes his head. “I’m never living in a world where I don’t find you.”

“You’d rather not have me at all?”

Clark sighs your name, and you shake your head.

“No, I- I don’t want to forget, you can’t just-“

“It wasn’t me.” He says glumly, reaching up to trace a hand over your face. “You were so worried about me. You said you’d already talked to Terrific about it, and he knew a guy who could wipe it. Everything about us. Everything about me being Superman. Oh, geez.” He laughs weakly. “He’s not going to be happy it didn’t work.”

You drop your chin on his chest, keeping your words soft. “It didn’t. At all.”

“When-“

“The first day I got back from vacation. I remember us talking about redwood trees. You’ve always wanted to go.”

He looks like you’re shooting him. “Yeah. I have.”

“That wasn’t a vacation, was it.”

“No.” Clark bows his head, brow pressing to yours. “It wasn’t.”

There’s a moment of silence as you just breathe each other in, then Clark’s fingers curl on your hips. 

“Do you want me to fix it?” He mutters. “Wipe you again?”

Your heart moves into your throat. “No. No. Clark, I- I just want you.”

He frowns, and takes a sudden, large step away. “But what if you get hurt again? It’s not- It won’t be safe-“

“I feel safe now.” 

You do. 

For the first time since the vacation, you feel safe. 

And you’re not going to let go.

“What about when you aren’t safe?” Clark shakes his head, still backing away. “What about when I can’t find you?”

“You will, I trust you-“

“I almost didn’t-“

“But you did-“

“What if I don’t?” His voice is rising, and he’s taking another step away. “Broken hearts heal, I- I’m not God, darling, I can’t put you back together-“

“I already feel broken.” You whisper, and he freezes. “Please, Clark. Please. I- I can feel it here.” You point to the center of your chest. “So much of my life is you, you’re everywhere, I- I’m never going to be able to forget, please don’t make me-“

“I- I’d never make you-“

“So let me stay.” You plead, taking a small step forward. “I still love you, I- I’ll wait forever for you to love me again-“

“I never stopped.” He whispers. “I still love you, of course I still love you, I’ll never stop, you’re- You’re everything to me, but- If you get hurt-“

“I’ll be okay.”

“But-“

“I’m okay now.” You give him a sad smile. “With you. I- I need to remember, Clark. Please.” You take a ragged breath. “Tell me it’s real.”

Clark’s eyes flash, and he shifts on his feet for a second. 

Then he’s moving. 

Lunging forward, and pulling you into his arms.

Kissing you. Long and deep, like he’s never needed to breathe, and you’ve never needed to breathe either because this is better. This is warm and safe and cared for, and it’s all around you in a way you know so well. Your arm slots around his neck and you trace his face as you get lightheaded, because you could draw him in your sleep. 

And the kiss sends so much of it flooding back. Clark’s warm, and he smells like amber and wood. Tastes like sweet pastries and coffee. 

Feels like yours. 

“It’s real.” He mutters against your lips, and his voice in your head is as clear as the rest of him. 

“Clark…” You mumble, and he nods, smiling against your lips.

“You and me.” Clark whispers. 

He’s not letting go either. 

“It’s always been real.”

Before you can even check in at the Pitt’s front desk, a woman with a too-white smile approaches you and pulls you aside. She smells of sharp antiseptic, beyond the hospital’s regular undercurrent. “You must be our newest resident. I’m Gloria Underwood, the hospital’s Chief Medical Officer. I’d like to have a quick word with you before the start of your first shift; would that be alright?”

Holding onto your backpack straps, you give a bubbly smile and confirm, “Sure, no problem.”

She guides you, a hand on your mid back like you might start running away, to a nearby office. You sit down across from each other and she puts on an expression that’s probably supposed to be comforting and genuine but comes across more like condescending and anxious. “I want to start by saying how thrilled we are to have you here at PTMC.”

Getting a sense of  what this is about, you sit up straighter and reply, “Thank you. I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity. I got a lot of rejections.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “A lot of people still hold backwards views regarding omegas in medicine; I’m sure you’ve experienced plenty of that firsthand. That’s what I wanted to chat with you about before you start working.”

Nibbling your lower lip now, you say, “Of course; I understand there are things we’ll need to talk about.”

“I took the liberty of drawing up this information packet for you with all of our hospital’s policies and procedures regarding your biological orientation,” she says proudly, handing over a thick manila envelope. She gives your knee an affectionate pat. “Basically, I want you to know that the hospital’s got your back. We had a board meeting with the attending physicians and key executives regarding your employment and education here, and everyone’s on the same page. If you have any problems with either faculty or patients, come directly to me. My personal number’s in the envelope along with contact information for your attending physicians and security personnel.”

It’s hard not to let your nerves get the best of you when everyone’s been talking about you starting your residency like you’re Martin Luther King Jr. or something. “Thank you, Dr. Underwood. I’m honestly just happy to have the chance to prove myself. I know it’s a big risk for the hospital; I mean I’m, what, the tenth omega in America to apply for a residency outside of pediatrics or OBGYN?”

“Twelfth,” she corrects nervously, and then adds, “First one in Pennsylvania.” Then she swallows hard and gives a confident nod. “But PTMC has never shied away from being on the forefront of medical advancement and, by our estimation, there’s absolutely no reason omegas should be excluded from the future we’re trying to build here.”

You give a smile that you hope doesn’t reveal how high your nerves are. “I really appreciate it. Is that all? I don’t want to be late for my first ever rounds.”

“Yes, of course.” She stands and opens the door for you. “Stick close to Dana Evans, the charge nurse. She’s good with everyone, but especially with the alphas compared to everyone else. She doesn’t let them walk all over people.” Then, sounding strangled, she adds, “And don’t forget to have fun!”

Right. Have fun.

You scamper out onto the ED floor.

Your first few shifts go better than you’d expected. Everyone’s polite with you (maybe a little too much; you can tell they were given a talking-to by HR before you started) and, for the most part, you’re able to focus on the medicine. Aside from a few asshole patients who request different (re: not omega) doctors, it’s about the best case scenario you could’ve imagined. Considering you’ve spent the last four years of med school being told a thousand times over that emergency medicine would eat you alive, it goes exceptionally well.

Except for your attending, Dr. Robinavitch.

It’s not that surprising, you suppose, considering he’s the one alpha you have to work in close proximity with. The others on day shift are either in and out like Dr. Garcia or other students like Dr. Mohan and Dr. Santos, so their presence isn’t as noticeable. It only takes an hour on the floor with him to wonder if he’s actually a prime alpha, even, bigger and badder than the others.

The problem isn’t that he’s weird around you. You’d been expecting that, for an alpha in a position of authority to freeze you out or make you uncomfortable. But, unfortunately, it’s the exact opposite. You’ve never been around someone who smells this good. When he reaches over you during a trauma, it’s a wash of eucalyptus and sandalwood that has you fantasizing about massages on the beach and cucumbers over your eyes. You have to rub a scent blocking gel beneath your nose in the morning to function during the first half of your shift while you get used to being close to him again. It’s beyond distracting and it’s so inappropriate.

So, naturally, you have to go and make it about a hundred times worse six weeks into working at the Pitt. Perlah taps you and says that you have a visitor at the front desk. You’re not even to the waiting room when your blood runs cold and you spin directly around. Your ex: Huge, imposing, looking like he’s ready to take someone’s throat out with his teeth.

Leaning against the nurse’s station, you take a few deep breaths and try not to start whimpering. You’ve always been called a crybaby and you’ve been working so hard not to cry at work.

Then, only a few seconds later, Robby’s exiting a trauma bay and beelining toward you as he snaps off his gloves and tosses them in the first bin he sees. His whole body is filled with the smell of spearmint and bitterness.

Omega distress. Yours.

Frigid and painful.

Everyone can smell it, but Robby’s by far affected the most as the only alpha on the floor. He tries to stop his brain from short-circuiting because of that awful, agonizing scent. It’s his job to be professional, to not make being an alpha a constant part of being the boss. But suddenly he’s so worried about you that he can barely breathe. He has to see you. Has to make sure you’re safe. Regardless of anything else, right now, you’re an omega under his care and he feels his responsibility to you viscerally in his gut.

Trying to keep his breathing shallow through his mouth, he touches your elbow gently and asks, “Are you alright, doctor?”

Robby’s alpha scent is absolutely flaring, cedar and ash flooding through your nostrils and slowing the pace of your thoughts. It makes everyone else tense, but it makes you calm. “No, actually, I’m not. Would- would you help me with something kind of personal?” 

Robby pretends his cock doesn’t twitch because the word ‘personal’ just has him thinking about your heat. Thankfully, before he can fall too far down that rabbit hole, you clarify, “My, uh, my ex boyfriend, Chris, just showed up asking for me.” You’re stammering, blush rising up in your cheeks. The pink spreads down beneath your scrub top. Fuck, he’s never noticed just how pretty you are when you’re blushing. He bets you’d blush just like that for him if he- “I- I know it’s so unprofessional to let my personal life into the hospital like this but I- I can’t handle-”

“Hey, slow down and breathe.” Robby straightens up, rolling his shoulders to try to contain the pure stream of his scent leeching out. Fuck, he’s kicking himself for not starting suppressants again as soon as the program told him he’d have an omega to watch out for alongside his other doctors. Now he’s going to make you uncomfortable by scenting all over you like a teenager and totally ruin his carefully crafted professionalism and respect with the rest of the hospital staff. Shit. Through gritted teeth, he tells you, “I’ve got no problem kicking someone out of my hospital if they’re bothering one of my doctors.”

With a sad little whimper, you try, “No, that won’t- He’s not-”

You’re crying despite yourself now, the stress strangling you as you think about too many scary moments with your ex, who’s only gotten scarier since you left him. It’s not uncommon for omegas to deal with stalking or intimidating exes after rejecting them as potential mates, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Robby physically can’t stop himself as he steps forward and pulls you into a hug. His huge arms wrap around your body and it’s like a micro dose of being in your nest back at home. Your harsh distress begins to dissipate as you nestle into his comforting eucalyptus embrace. The tears stop and you grip his hoodie in your fists like it belongs to you for a minute before finally willing yourself to pull away.

Eyes still averted to your feet, you rush out, “The thing is that the only reason he’s been leaving me alone is because I told him I’m seeing an alpha at my new hospital but- but I don’t actually have one to- to protect me right now and you can make him leave today but he’ll still show up here tomorrow and at my apartment and- and-”

You collapse back into sobs and this time Robby’s hug is crushing. Like he’s trying to build a brick wall between you and danger with his body. His fingers run through your hair as your breaths deepen and steady out. The rumble of his voice is like perfectly comforting. “There you go. Just breathe.”

Into his chest, partially grateful that you don’t have to make eye contact, you whimper, “This is so embarrassing but you’re- you’re the only alpha here right now. W- would you pretend you’re with me? Just so he gets the message to leave me alone? Like, five minutes. Please?”

Robby hasn’t had an omega flutter their eyelashes at him in a very, very long time. He clenches his fist in his hoodie pocket and nods tightly, agreeing before he can think it through. As he marches through the ED toward the front door, you follow close behind him.

Without even breaking his long stride, he grabs your ex by his elbow and drags him through the doors, shoving one hand to the center of his chest. “Chris, is it? You need to leave. Now.”

Chris looks right past Robby to you cowering behind him. “This old man’s your new guy?”

Robby stands up straight and drops his heavy hand to Chris’ shoulder. All of a sudden the scent bleeding off him is all charcoal, mean and low and simmering. It makes you want to cling close to him, but it makes Chris shrink back a bit. Robby, feeling your stress, threads his fingers with yours and holds on tight. Neither of you can tell how much of it’s for show. “Look at her instead of me when I’m talking to you again and you’ll be on your ass before your next blink.”

Chris snarls slightly and the tension pitches up. Robby’s stance is completely sturdy, no doubt in his footing. “A prime alpha would never go for her. She’s too weak.”

There’s that confirmed, your brain supplies stupidly. You can’t really think about anything but Robby’s smell rooting you to the ground and making you feel sane for the first time since you and Chris broke up ages ago. You can’t help wondering what another alpha can smell on Robby that makes it clear he’s another step above them in terms of dominance.

Robby scoffs and his voice has an edge to it that makes your stomach flip in a good way, “You think the only omega practicing emergency medicine in the state is weak? Maybe you should come back inside and have your head checked.”

“I just dont buy this shit. You think you can get rid of me by dragging out some guy from work, but I’m never gonna-”

Robby kisses you to shut him up.

No, that’s not quite right.

Robby grabs you by the waist. His big hands are strong on your curves. Possessive. One of them slides effortlessly around to the small of your back, gripping you and tugging you upward. He doesn’t kiss you like it’s a first kiss. He kisses you like it’s second nature. Like kissing you is part of his DNA, part of his pulse. His lips are hot and claiming against yours and you’re dizzy with the taste of him.

He’s so much taller and stronger than you that he lifts you slightly off your toes when you start to kiss him back, reaching up to brush your fingers in the short hair at the back of his neck. So close to his primary scent gland, you can smell something new on him. It’s deeper and warmer. And it’s definitely a reaction to you. The little whimper from your mouth is the only thing that makes him stop; if it weren’t for that sound, he’d so easily fall into you.

By the time you surface for oxygen, Chris is long gone and it’s just you and Robby looking at each other with wide eyes. His are possessive and intense, pupils taking over everything; yours are shocked and wanting.

He takes two steps backwards, turns around, and takes a long, deep breath of the wind. Kissing an omega is like doing a line of coke in terms of the surging energy and need filling his bloodstream. But he’s kissed plenty of omegas through the course of his life and it’s never been quite like that. It’s never had the earthy fragrance of his rut flooding in a puddle around his feet, causing everyone around to sniff at him. He thanks god or the universe or whatever that you don’t yet know him well enough to know how that kiss just affected him.

The silence is too agonizing. You stammer out, “We- we should get back to-”

And Robby snaps out of the moment, rubbing his hand over the back of his head and taking a second to clear his thoughts. “Yeah. Yeah, we should.”

It’s one of those warm night that makes everything wet. Sweat sticking under your clothing and hair to your brow. The ground slick with dew and making you trip every five steps. The fog so dense that seeing more than a foot in front of you is nothing short of a miracle. The city buzzing around you, but in nothing more than a hazy, neon glow. 

It’s rarer, in Metropolis, for these kinds of nights to happen. It’s something you’d expect from Gotham, or the upstate country sides. 

But it’s here, and you’re going to punch a brick wall. 

Walking alone is already something that sucks. Everyone tends to let their guard down and fuck around like idiots, thinking that Superman is just going to fall out of the sky and save them.

And he probably will.

But being saved by Superman is always a whole thing. People post a video of the rescues online if they can get one, and then suddenly you’re getting an exhaustive, unwelcome fifteen minutes of fame. The news wants to talk to you. Brands are reaching out to be sponsored by “Superman”—or at least someone who’s touched him, which they think is enough—and people are recreating your rescue as videos for clicks and likes. 

It sounds like a fucking nightmare. At least if you get mugged you only have to talk to insurance. 

And you’re not a helpless baby. You’re prepared, and alert, and lived in Gotham. Once a Poison Ivy burst into apartment, told you that your landlord had been secretly using doing illegal things with energy—either stealing it or using it too much, you hadn’t really been paying attention—and for some reason you had to die about it. 

Compared to that, one person with a gun and shine of desperation in their eyes wasn’t much to be afraid of. 

You’d be fine. 

So you walk home from work every night—a hand tight on your bag and eyes scanning around the dark—and it hasn’t gone wrong yet. 

But you also haven’t had a night like this one. 

And when you hear the click of a gun, from a darker alleyway to your side, you’re more disappointed than anything else. 

“Give- Lady, hey-“ A skinnier kid—with his hair ragged around his face and his fingers shaking slightly—slides out of the dark. “Stop walkin’, and give me your money.” 

You turn with a sigh, tilting your head at him and squinting through the dark. “Just my money?”

The kid blinks at you. “Yes?”

That’s easy then. “Alright.”

“Alright? You’re just-“ The kid frowns. “You’re going to give it to me?”

“Well, what happens if I don’t?”

“I shoot you through the head and take it anyway?”

You give him a pointed look, and the kid scowls, cocking the gun. 

“Are you trying to get smart with me, lady? That what this is? Some fucking mind trick?”

“Me?” You point at yourself in mock innocence, and shrug. “I would never. Do you want the coins as well?”

“I- Yeah.” The kid spits on your feet, and it seems more like a defensive mechanism than anything else. “Yes. Give me everything you’ve fucking got.” Then, as a last afterthought, he adds, “Bitch.”

“Hey.” You frown at him, hand stuck in your purse. “That’s pretty fucking rude. I’m being cooperative.”

The kid stares at you for a second, then shakes himself, raising the gun higher. “You got like a fuckin’ death wish, lady?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Jesus fucking- Stop being a bitch, and just give me your fuckin’-“

You never get to know exactly what the kid wanted you to do, because a lot of things happen at once. 

Superman drops out of the sky, landing between you and the kid. 

You grab your pepper spray out of the bad, using it liberally on the air and stepping off to the side, behind Superman’s back.

The kid fires his gun with a shout of pain as the chemicals hit him, hand blindly following your path behind Superman.

The shot echoes through the alley, making you wince slightly, but the bullet just crumples against Superman’s chest. The kid has ended up shaking and crying on the ground, the pepper spray quickly dissipating into the thick fog, and you sigh, tucking the empty container back into your bag. 

“Alright, buddy.” You step out from behind Superman with a frown, kneeling down at the kid’s side. “Let’s see who you are.”

You roll him over as he whines in pain, and makes a weak attempt to shove you away that you dodge. 

“Hey.” Superman’s voice cuts through the air, and it’s somehow deeper and higher than you thought it would be, all at once. You’ve heard him give interviews, in those on the street videos when someone gets lucky enough to corner him and ask for his favorite soup or whatever. In person, it feels slightly different. 

Less god-like. 

When you look up at him with a frown, he looking between you and the kid like he’s not quite sure what to do. 

“That’s pretty rude, trying to hit someone who’s helping you.” He says, taking a step forward towards the kid. “And you,” he turns, his eyes seeming to shine in the low, misting light as they land on you. “Pepper sprayed me.”

You shrug. “And? You’re fine.”

“You didn’t know I would be fine-“

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” You look back to the kid, who seems to have resorted to just curling into a little ball. “And he shot you, if we’re keeping count.”

“We’re, uh- Not.” Superman clears his throat, and you can hear him walking closer behind you. “You can go, ma’am. I’ll take it from here.”

“I’m okay, thanks.” You keep rolling the kid until he’s on his side, and you can pull out his wallet.

Superman freezes. “Miss, if you’re stealing from him I have to-“

“I’m not stealing from him.” You roll your eyes, and Superman pauses, before muttering-

“It sort of looks like you’re stealing from him.”

You hum, pulling out the thick card of the kid’s driver’s license, and holding it up to the light. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Superman coughs, not taking off into the night to look for more crime, for some reason. You’re not really sure what he’s still doing here at all. 

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step back, please. This man is in medical distress, and I need to get him to a hospital.”

“Don’t take him to the hospital.” You mutter, and Superman frowns, kneeling down across from you. 

“Listen, I understand that he just did something that caused you distress, but he’s still a person. He deserves the same care as anyone else, even if he’s made mistakes-“

“Yeah, I know that, dummy.” You roll your eyes, dropping the ID back into his wallet. “But this is a fake. And he doesn’t have an insurance card.”

Superman stares at you. “And?”

“He won’t be able to afford the hospital. This Fake ID is shit, he probably can’t even afford the pudding in the hospital cafeteria.” You tuck the man’s wallet back into his pants, then wrap your arms around his torso. “There’s a shelter, three blocks down. He should go there.”

You grunt, trying to drag him up, but you barely get him an inch off the ground before Superman’s jumping in, grabbing the man and pulling him into his arms, bridal style. 

“Three blocks down?” He asks you, and you nod, wiping your hands on your legs. 

“Yeah. Don’t tell them the mugging, though.”

“Why-“

“They’ll legally have to hand him over to the cops after.”

“And you… don’t want them to?”

“No.” You look up at Superman with a tight glare. “Do you?”

He’s not glaring at you. Superman is looking at you with an open, almost curious expression, his head titled to the side and lips in a strange sort of pout. 

It hits you a little like lightning, how he does look like only a man—he’s got all the fearless humans have—but there’s something more. His skin is clear, posture perfect, and in the glow of the streetlamps, there’s a strange sort of angelic halo around his body. 

And he’s handsome. 

You’ve seen photos. You watch the news. You’ve been at work and listened to the interns fawn about how hot Superman is, and how they hope they need help because they’d love to be saved by him, but it’s just different in person. Striking, a little mind numbing, and making your skin buzz because he’s staring at you. 

You wish he’d stop. It’s making you dizzy. 

“No.” He says softly. “I don’t.”

“Alright then.” You cross your arms, raising your chin at him. He doesn’t just get to make you feel gooey with his eyes. “We’re in agreement.”

Superman chuckles, and that just makes your face heat more. “Yeah, I guess we are. Would you like an escort home, ma’am?”

“A- What?”

“May I walk you home.” He holds your gaze, and you might be about to burst into flames. “We can drop this man off together. I don’t think it’s that safe for you to be walking alone at night, even in a city as nice as ours.”

You swallow. “I have pepper spray.”

“You have empty pepper spray. That can will be useless, and I think you know that.”

“Well, I-“ You scowl, adjusting your jacket and standing up a little. He’s so fucking tall. It’s hard to intimidate someone so stupidly tall. “I don’t live very far. I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Superman.”

He blinks at you, opening and closing his mouth once, then bows his head. “Goodnight, ma’am.”

Part of you wants him to stop calling you ma’am. You’re not a fucking ma’am, even if the gentleness and respect in his voice is making you feel even more lightheaded. 

So you turn on your heels, and march out of the alley like nothing ever happened at all.

But you can still feel it. 

Superman’s gaze. 

When you glance over your shoulder—because you’re an idiot—he’s watching you walk away, the fog almost seeming to part just long enough for your eyes to connect, before he vanishes into the dark.

———

“You can’t say that.” One of your co-workers mutters, crossing out something on the paper before looking up at you with a sigh of your name. “You know you can’t say that. Last time Ms. Lane had to stop you from saying it. Do you know how bad it has to be for her to do that?”

You shrug, rocking the chair the chair your foot is resting on back and forth. “That’s not my fault, I didn’t make her.”

“You’re dodging the question.” Your coworker gives you a flat look, and you just smile in return.

“I’ve never dodged a question in my life.”

She sighs your name again, and shakes her head. “Just- don’t say it. We’ll get sued into the next century, you know that, and Luther doesn’t fuck around-“

“I don’t fuck around.” You mutter, spinning your pen in your hands. “And you know we’d win if we tried. It’s not defamation if it’s true, and his reputation is already so damaged he’d have no proof that my remarks caused his stocks to tank lower than hell-“

“Just don’t say it. Please.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I won’t say the factually correct thing about how Luther is such a pathetic man-baby he’s been keeping a harem of ex-girlfriends, and everything he says about Superman is just what’s true about himself, he just can’t see it because whenever he looking in the mirror because he only sees the glare of his bald head.”

Your coworker sighs, right as the door pushes open. “Thank you for not saying it.” 

“Listen, I’m so sorry I’m late.” A large, dark haired man with glasses and sharp jawline drops across from you, chair spinning as he gives you an apologetic look. “I just lost track of the time, thought this floor was the next floor, and- Gosh, I’m so sorry, I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

You frown at him, opening your mouth, but your words die as he stares at you. He’s acting like he’s looking at a ghost, with wide eyes and a startled flinch. He’s still holding his briefcase, grip white-knuckled, and your frown deepens. 

Your co-worker clears her throat, and the man’s attention shoots away from a second. 

It leaves you oddly cold. 

“We haven’t been waiting long at all, Mr. Kent.” She gives the man a sweet smile, and he returns it in a second. “You actually just gave us enough time to finish our briefing.”

“Oh, well, that’s good, isn’t it?” He looks to you with another nervous expression, pushing his glasses up his nose, and your frown deepens. “Are you ready then, miss?”

“She’s all yours.” Your co-worker beams, shooting to her feet, and right before she leaves the conference room, you get a firm glare and a mouthed don’t fucking say it. 

You ignore her. You’re not going to say it. And if you do, it will be naturally in the conversation, wherever it may come up.

The man is fumbling, across the table. Pulling out his notebook and laptop with clumsy hands, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, shooting you an nervous look every few moments, as if you’re going to jump across the table and bite him or something. 

You lean forward, tilting your head, and he sits up straight. 

“It’s nice to meet you, miss-“

“You’re not Lois.” You say, voice flat, and his ears turn red. 

“Lois is, uh- She’s busy.”

“Busy?”

“Sick.” He mutters, pushing up his glasses again. “She caught something, in that bad weather we’ve been having. She’s very sorry she can’t make it, though.” He gives you a small, charming smile. “Gave me a whole speech about how you’re her favorite, and if I mess this up, she’ll strangle me.”

You hum, scanning over him wordlessly. It’s a strategy that works with almost everyone, staying silent until they get uncomfortable and blurt something. Something that, usually, tells you enough about them to sketch out a picture that lets you color in the lines how you want. When you’d used it on Lois, she’d stared back at you before asking if you were trying to intimidate her. When you’d met the Boravian president, he’d asked if they’d sent a mute to interview him and make him look like some sort of fool. 

This man—Kent, your co-worker had called him—is just staring at you right back. Not uncomfortably, but silently. He’s fiddling with his pen and holding your gaze, waiting for you to break the silence. 

You never break the silence. That’s losing. 

Kent doesn’t seem like he’s trying to win, though. He just seems like he’s trying to be polite. 

And after about five minutes of staring at each other in silence, he clears his throat, and frowns at you. 

“Do you want some water? Or to call Lois? She can vouch for me, I promise.” He chuckles. “Actually, she’ll probably say I’m an okay journalist, and that I’m asking the questions she wrote.” He pauses, then holds up his notepad. “I am asking the questions she wrote. If that makes this better.”

It doesn’t.

But now you know what Kent is like. 

Polite, gentle, kind. 

You can work with that.

“I’m good, thank you.” You give him a sweet, slightly mocking smile, and he returns it with the same charming grin from before. 

It’s throwing you off. You can’t be cool and collected and sharp, here. With Lois it’s like sparring. 

With Kent, it’s just making you feel like a bitch. 

“Great, then are we ready to- Oh shoot, Wait-“ He reaches back into his bag, then pulls out a tape recorder with a sheepish grin. “Almost forgot. Gosh, Lois would’ve killed me.” He places the recorder between you, and gives you another nervous grin. “Now, are you ready to get started?”

You nod, and he hits the record button. You’re silent as he rattles off the date and time, who you are—top human right lawyer, heavily involved in negotiations with the United Sates government about aide to Jarhanpur and immigration protections of Jarhanpurian refugees—and who he is. 

Clark Kent. Reporter for the Daily Planet, sitting down for a conversation about the recent developments with Lex Luther using surveillance technology to tip off Immigration authorities about illegal refugees. 

He gives you another handsome smile, before he asks the first question. You just stare at him. He doesn’t get to use his pretty face to throw you off your game. 

“So,” he glances down at his notepad, then back to you. “You’re suing the United States government for unconstitutional detainment of Jarhanpurian journalist, claiming they were both complicit in and knowingly funded the unlawful imprisonment that goes against their first amendment right to free press. Is this correct?”

You nod. “Yes, Mr. Kent, it is.”

“Great. Um-“ He flips his notepad, squinting at the words. “The United States had claimed that they had no knowledge of Luther’s methods, and says that they never once paid him to contain a private American citizen. They also stated that, if they did use Luther to hold someone, they were not aware that their funding for his research was helping him to contain people for other countries. So…” He gives you another nervous smile. “What do you say to that?”

“I say that the government is not known for being truthful about their dealings, Mr. Kent.” You raise your brows at him. “At the very least, we know they paid to have Luther contain Superman. That alone indicates that they were aware of the security of his pocket dimension. And I also happen to have several victims of the holding, all legal immigrants from Jarhanpur who were critics of Boravia, who were kept in Luther’s harem jail.”

Kent frowns at you. “Harem jail?”

Shit. “There have been allegations that he used it imprison ex-girlfriends.”

“So you…” Kent’s lips twitch. “Call it a harem jail?”

“Yep.” You give him a challenging look. “And?”

“Nothing.” He looks down at his paper again, ears red. “Just sort of graphic, I think.”

“Graphic-“

“But funny.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass again. “I think it’s funny.”

There’s a fuzzy, warm feeling, over your skin. You don’t fucking appreciate it. “Oh. Thanks.”

He grins. “No problem. Uh- Right. There we were-“

Kent keeps asking you Lois’ questions, and while he doesn’t really have the edge that works you both up until she asks a hard hitter and you knock it out of the park, he’s not the worst to work with. He doesn’t fuck up the questions. He asks a few follow ups about crime rates and the responsibility of the United States to regulate business’. He even asks a pretty good question about the ethics Luther using federal funding when he’s a billionaire, and seems to have come up with it himself. 

He’s certainly better than almost any male journalist you’ve worked with. He doesn’t talk over you, or question your qualifications, or do anything but listen and nod like you’re saying something fascinating. You’re really not. You’re using words that are too big and talking too fast and discussing the constitution, one of the most boring topics of conversation. 

But he’s still looking at you as if you’re doing Circe de Solie tricks in this bland little conference room. 

He laughs at a few of your jokes, and it makes you buzz again. 

At one point, you go to the bathroom, and when you get back he’s gotten you both cups.

You lean over it, then look back up to Kent. “What’s this?”

“Uh- Water?” He glances down at the cup, then you. “I figured after going to the bathroom, you might need to stay hydrated.”

That’s such a strangely fucking good thing to do. It’s making your heart beat too fast. “And if I say I just took a shit?”

Kent blinks. “I can get you a snack?”

You snort, and that seems to make him relax again. His shoulder slump and his eyes fucking sparkle like a cartoon character, when you take a sip of his water. 

He’s like a fucking puppy turned into a human. You might be able to see his tail wagging. 

“Alright, Kent.” You set the water down. “Let’s keep-“

“Clark.” He says suddenly, wincing to himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you but- Clark is alright. You can call me Clark.”

You stare at him, and he turns a little red. 

“It’s my first name.”

“Yeah, I figured out that one myself.” 

“Oh. Okay. Good.” He looks back down to his notepad, adjusting his tie like it’s burning him through the suit. “So- Next question is- Oh this is a good one. I mean, it’s rougher, but Lois told me you’re… Uh-“ He turns red again. “Never mind-“

“No.” You cut him off, leaning forward. “You don’t get to say Lois called me something then not tell me. What.”

He won’t look you in the eyes. “Just that you’re a little bit of a masochist. And that you were going to be… vulgar enough to make me blush.”

You laugh, soft and through your nose, and Clark looks at you nervously. “That’s it?”

“Uh- Yeah?”

“That’s nothing,” you wave him off, leaning back in your chair. “I thought you were going to say she called me a cunt or something.”

Clark gapes at you. “Gosh, no, she adores you. Told me she’d strangle me, if I messed it up-“

“I know.” 

He frowns. “How?”

“You told me earlier.”

“Oh. I did, didn’t I. Darn it.” He gives you another nervous smile. “Sorry about that. Did I tell you about how she also said she’d dump boiling soup on me? And that it was the soup I made her.”

You smile, and it feels a little too wide and toothy, but Clark doesn’t move away. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well, she did. And I don’t think she’d ever call you a- That. You don’t seem like one at all?”

You raise your brows. “I don’t?”

“No, you seem like a… Ah- A really lovely lady.”

It’s hard not to laugh at that, even if Clark looks genuinely confused by your reaction.

“Okay, Kent-“

“Clark.” He corrects with a mumble, eyes bright and almost curious on yours, and now you feel warm. 

“Clark.” You keep it together. He does not get to fuck you up. “What’s the good questions.”

“Right. Sorry, um-“ His eyes dart down to the notepad. “A lot of people are worried that by letting Jarhanpurian citizens and journalists into the country, we’re taking away jobs away from American’s and giving these immigrants shelter when they only bring danger. What would you like to say, to American’s who believe that?”

“That our country is built on the backs of immigrants.” You answer smoothly. “And the idea that they only bring danger is a frighteningly xenophobic myth that’s simply easy to believe. Lex Luther is an American citizen, and he nearly split Metropolis in half. Superman is, in all essence of the law, an illegal immigrant, and he’s saved countless lives. It’s the person, not their origin or government, who decides what they are. And the Jarhanpurian refugees have come here to be the good, strong and kind people they want to be. It is our job to protect them, and so far, we are the ones who have failed.”

Clark stares at you for a long, strange moment as your answer hangs in the air. For a second, you think he’s going to argue, or offer a counter question. 

Instead he just clears his throat, turns off the recorder, and smiles at you. 

“Thank you for talking to me,” he says your name with a warm smile, and the air feeling strangely light, when you take his hand. 

It’s big and warm. 

You have to bit your tongue as he smiles, because it’s making you want to smile back.

And when Clark walks away after a few more formal pleasantries, you’re just standing in the center of the room. He’s said your name in a deep, rich way that made your heart skip and breath hitch. He’d grinned and you’d felt warm, like a fucking idiot. Your goddamn knees feel sort of weak, because you’d been able to feel his heat from across the table. 

Or that’s just still in you. Burning up from where your hands had connected, and through your whole body. 

It’s a good thing you’ll probably never have to see him again. 

You never want to feel that soft and dizzy, for a long, long time.

———

There’s a thud on the pavement behind you, and you don’t think before you react.

Your hand shoots into your purse, wrapping around your pepper spray, and you turn on your heels. 

Right before you spray it, a big hand wraps around your wrist, and Superman takes the can from you with a small frown. 

“Sorry.” He lets go of your wrist. “You just got it replaced, and I didn’t want you to use it for no reason. I’ve heard those things are expensive.”

They are. 

You still scowl at him. 

“Are you stalking me?”

He blinks, eyes widening. “No, I’m not. Swear on it. Superman’s honor.”

He places a hand over his heart with a grin, and you frown at him. 

“It’s scouts honor.”

“I was never a scout, miss.” He gives you a small grin. “I don’t want to dishonor their badge.”

“Their scout badge?”

He nods, and you huff in amusement, shoving the pepper spray into your purse.

“Sure. Why not.”

“Well, those boys work very hard-“

“Most of them are rich kids whose parents can afford scouts.” You say dryly, and Superman frowns at the air. 

“Huh. I suppose you’re right about that.”

 “I know I’m right about it.” You wrap your arms around your stomach, frowning at him. “If you’re not stalking me, what are you doing here.”

“I’m… checking on you.” He gives you a bright, charming grin. “Just making sure you’re holding up well, after last week. Seeing if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

“To help me.” You narrow your eyes, and he keeps grinning. 

“I think so. Doesn’t seem to be anyone else.”

You hum, staring at him, and he just stares right back. 

It’s too long, that it takes him to break. And he breaks just like Clark Kent did, yesterday. Not with a nervous expression or uncomfortable shift. 

Just with worry. Which makes you feel fuzzy. 

Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t handle doing this twice. 

“Are you feeling safe, walking home? Would you want- Maybe have a driver?”

“Could you get me a driver?”

“No.” He gives you another smile, and now you feel gooey. “But I could walk you home. To make you feel safe.”

“Hm.” You raise your chin, and he quickly adds. “Do you do that for everyone whose muggings you crash?”

“I mean, normally people call it saving.” He frowns, and you scoff. 

“You didn’t save me. I was fine.”

“No- I mean, yes, you were, but I still helped.”

“How?”

Superman blinks at you. “I carried the guy. He’s okay, by the way, in case you were worried-“

“I wasn’t.” You shrug, holding his gaze. “I checked on him in the morning.”

“Oh. Good. Of course you did.”

Of course you did. 

He says it like it’s a fact. He doesn’t even fucking know you. 

“What does that mean-“

“Do you want me to walk- Sorry.” Superman sighs as you speak over each other, bowing his head. “You first.”

You stare at him, scanning over handsome features in the dark, and there’s something. It’s scratching at the back of your head, and it doesn’t have a voice yet, but it’s there. He’s being too kind, it’s odd. And he’s making your head feel a little light, and maybe you need to call the Metropolis facilities department, because there must be something in the water if you’re feeling this way twice in a week. 

“Are you actually going to walk me home?” You ask, trying to make your voice venomous, the kind of predator’s warning that makes people back away and leave you to keep walking, alone in the dark.

If you succeed, it doesn’t seem to work on Superman. 

“If you want me to, yes, I will.” He smiles at you, and it seems to light up the whole street. 

You can’t look at it too long. Your knees will start to feel weak. 

“Alright. Fine.” You turn on your heels, not looking back. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s- Okay. Let’s go.” Superman echoes your words, quickly catching up to walk at your side. 

You walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s the kind of silence that leaks. That makes everything else feel bigger and quieter, until your breathing is shallower and your skin is prickling, and if there’s not something to fill up the creaks and horns of the night, you’re going to lose your fucking mind. 

Superman isn’t even doing anything to make it worse. He’s just walking at a respectful distance next to you, looking around the streets like it’s all the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, and you want to punch him in the face.

“Is this all you do?” You blurt, and he looks at you with a curious expression.

“No? I mean, sometimes I fly-“

“Not walk.” You sigh, looking back out into the night. “Like- Aren’t there robberies and murders for you to be stopping?”

He pauses, tilts his head, then clicks his tongue. “I can’t hear any, no.”

“Can’t hear any.” You mutter under your breath, and he shrugs. 

“Well, I have super senses, including hearing, and-“

“I know about the hearing, Supes. I just think it’s ridiculous.”

Superman blinks at you. “I- Ridiculous seems like a strong word-“

“It’s just- It’s not ridiculous. Well, it is, but-“ You sigh, glaring down at your nails like it’s their fault you’re fucking up your words around the pretty alien. “It’s crazy. To be able to hear a robbery across the city.”

“I can’t control it-“

“I know.” You shrug. “It’s just hard to imagine. I think it would overwhelm me, and I’d put a screwdriver through my head.”

“Oh.” Superman chuckles, and it’s a deep, low sound that feels like it fucking rolls through the night, and vibrates in your chest. “It can get overwhelming, I suppose. It’s just how I always am. Always have been.” He pauses, and you can feel his attention. “For me, not being to hear everything sounds terrifying.”

You hum. “Have you ever heard people have like- The loudest fucking sex?”

He coughs, and when you look over, his ears seem a little red. “Yes, but- I’ve sort of learned to tune out the grosser things.”

“Right.” You pause, then frown at him. “Do you poop?”

“Do I poop?”

“You’re Kryptonian, I don’t know how your bodily functions work.”

“They’re mostly similar to humans.” He says, amusement obvious in his voice. “Almost entirely similar, actually.”

You nod, looking back ahead. “So you do poop.”

“Yes. I poop.”

“Fascinating. I have a reporter friend.” You grin to yourself. “I’m going to sell that fact to her for a million dollars.”

Superman laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Something tells me she won’t be interested in that scoop.”

There’s a long beat, and you look back to see him grinning at you, wide and proud. 

You groan. 

“That’s fucking horrible.”

“You smiled-“

“I did not-“

“Yes, you did. I saw it. It was on your face, and it was a smile.”

“On my face is where all smiles happen- And it wasn’t a smile.” You glare at him, stopping in your tracks. “That was an awful joke. Zero out of ten.”

Superman mock flinches. “Ouch. That low?”

“Yeah. You should be sent to space jail.” You glance behind you. “And- This is me.”

“Oh.” He looks at the building, then back to you. “And you’re not just pretending it’s your building because of what just happened?”

That time, you do actually smile. “No, I’m not.”

He nods, then gives you another one of those knee-weakening smiles. “Well then, have a good night…”

There’s a long silence, and you never told him your fucking name. 

You do, with your arms crossed over your chest, and he echoes it back. 

Your stupid heart skips. 

And he waits for you to go inside, before he takes off. Waits all the way until you’re in your apartment, and you lean out the window to wave at him mockingly, because he can hear you. He knows you’re inside. 

He waves, grins at you, and shoots off into the night 

You stand stupidly at the window, for a moment. 

It’s just bad luck, twice in one week. Kent and Superman, making your breath hitch and body warm. It probably really is just something in the water. 

So you close the curtains, and just pray this isn’t the kind of thing that comes in threes.

———

Someone shouts your name, and you’re not fast enough to dive behind the potted plant and make them think you pulled a magic trick.

You don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s too early to speak, too public to have to play nice about everything, too loud to do anything but press yourself against the wall of the little cafe and drink your coffee. 

They haven’t even gotten your muffin yet. 

You just want your fucking muffin. 

Instead you have to just stare at the floor, hoping your lack of acknowledgment will make whoever knows you here think you have headphones in or something. 

It almost works. 

The person says your name again, then pauses. “I think she can’t hear me?”

“I, uh- I’m not sure.” Another voice—this one sending warm little shivers through your body, and Jesus Christ not again—mutters, a little lower than the first. “I think she just doesn’t want to be bothered, Jimmy.”

“Really? No, I think she can’t hear me.” Jimmy repeats your name, touching your shoulder lightly, and now you have to pretend you never heard him in the first place. 

You look up with what had to be a horribly fake expression of surprise, your fingers curling on your coffee cup. “Oh. Hi, Jimmy, when did you get here?”

Fuck, that’s such a bad fucking lie. Somehow, Jimmy, with his million-dollar toothy grin and sweet freckled face, is buying it. 

The guy standing over his shoulder, who gave you those stupid shivers, looks a little less convinced. Mostly nervous, like he’s caught the lie but doesn’t really want to fucking do anything about it. 

And the good news is, these things don’t come in threes. 

The bad news is, they come in two that just keep fucking popping up in your life. Like tall, hot weeds with puppy faces and deep voices and probably abs, given how he’s filling out that shirt. 

You stare at Clark Kent. 

He stares back at you, face a little red and mouth hanging slightly open. 

“Hi.” You say, voice a little blanker and awestruck than you wanted—it doesn’t crack, but it does have a breathlessness that you don’t really fucking appreciate—and his smile is small, but genuine. 

Which is really fucking annoying. 

“Hey. I, uh- I like your pants.” He pushes his glass up his nose, still smiling at you, and Jimmy groans. 

“Jesus, Clark, we gotta work on your compliments, Buddy.” He gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, he was raised in a barn. He only knows how to flirt with like, cows. I’m working on it.”

Clark turns a shade of red that’s almost impressive, right as your face heats, and before either of you can protest, Jimmy’s pushing on.

“We have so much to catch up on, I was going to ask Lois to have you come out with us, but then she went and got herself sick. Which was really annoying because I had to deal with Clark’s twenty questions about interviewing, something he’s supposed to already know how to do.”

“I don’t usually do high profile people.” Clark mumbles, and Jimmy gives him a flat look. 

“You interview Superman, dude.”

“Well, uh- That’s different? He’s a chill guy, all he does is like, save squirrels, that’s different than law stuff.” He grins at you again, and it’s still charming and attractive and dumb. “Your stuff is smarter. Above the Superman league.”

You can’t stop from smiling back. It’s not fair, how he does that. Maybe he’s a secretly meta with the ability to make people smile. 

“That’s a little better, buddy.” Jimmy claps Clark back on the back, and it somehow manages to make the tower of a man stumble slightly. “See, my classes are working! Soon we’re going to have you on these streets, picking up ladies left and right.”

Clark sighs, shooting you a nervous look. “Jimmy, I’ve told you I don’t- That’s not what I’m trying to-“  

“You don’t have to try, Clark. I mean,” he says your name, and it can’t take this long to get you a muffin. “Look at this face. I know I’d kiss it-“

“How do you get your interviews with Superman?” You raise your voice over Jimmy—this really isn’t a conversation you want to have right now—and Clark stares at you.

“What, uh- What do you mean? I just- We’ve built a relationship, that’s it-“

“Like how do you find him.” You keep our voice steady and bored. “Does he just appear on the street next to you? Or have, like- A key to your apartment?”

Jimmy snorts. “I don’t think Clark is dating Superman, if that’s what you’re getting out. Our guy is way out of that Kryptonian’s league. 

Clark blushes again “Well, I- Uh- I don’t think that’s true-“

“Do you call for him? Does he have a phone number?” You keep pushing, and Clark shakes his head. 

“No- I mean- Yes-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “He doesn’t have a phone number, but I just sort of call for him, and he hears me and shows up.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Oh, cool. Can I be there next time you call for him?”

“Well- He doesn’t like other people being there. For security. One at a time.”

You frown. “He’s bulletproof, why does he need security?”

Clark stares at you. “That’s- A really good question. I’ll be sure to ask him next time.”

There’s a long silence, as you and Clark stare at each other, ended only by the barista calling your name for your muffin. 

You promise Jimmy that you’ll go out for drinks with him, before you walk away. 

You can feel Clark’s warm, curious stare, all the way until you walk outside. 

And it might be branded on you, because you feel it a long while after as well. 

———

“Superman?”

You call up to the sky, and you’re met with only whistling wind and the distance sound of car horns.

“Superman!” You raise your voice, wrapping your arms around your stomach to stop the chill of the wind, and still nothing. 

You’re alone. You’re calling him, like Clark does. And unless he’s already forgotten you, he has to be at least curious what you’re doing on the roof, calling his name. 

But there’s nothing. Not even a whoosh or streak of red in the distance, showing you that he’s busy or circling around you like a bird or something.

“Superman, can you please-“ You sigh. This is so fucking stupid. “Can you come here, please?”

Silence. 

You walk slowly to the edge of the roof, frowning out over the city skyline, and nothing’s even attacking right now. It’s not like he has a fucking day job to be occupied with, he’s Superman. 

And it’s pretty fucking rude that he’ll show up for Clark and not you.

Your gaze slowly falls down, to the people rushing past on the pavement below you, smaller than ants. And you have an idea. It’s bad idea, and he’ll probably be really pissed at you, but it’s also an effective idea.

You drum your fingers on the railing, trying to weigh how important this is. In the grand scheme of the universe, not worth throwing yourself off a building for. In terms of all the people relying on you to win this case, absolutely worth throwing yourself off a building. And it’s not like you’ll die. Superman will save you. 

“Please don’t do that.”

You whip around, squeaking in surprise, and stumble a step back. There’s a split second where your balance is gone, and you’re falling backwards, and God, that was a horrible idea and now you’re going to die because you’re a dramatic idiot- 

But there’s a whoosh. 

And a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly upright before you can topple off the edge. 

Superman grins down at you, keeping you pressed against him, and your hands somehow ended up flat on his chest. He feels strong, under the suit. And you’re really not cold anymore, because he’s like a person fucking furnace. 

A furnace with a nice smile and kind eyes and a little curl falling over his forehead that makes him look like an old movie star. 

You’re staring at him. Your heart is going to fast, and there’s the buzzing feeling again, and you’re not sure you’re going to be able to keep your balance by yourself. His proximity is making you drunk, and it’s not fair-

“Who’s stalking who now?” He says, voice rumbling through your chest, and you flush. 

“Shut up.” You push him away, and he releases you in second. 

His hand lingers on your forearm. To help you get upright. 

Only to help you get upright. Nothing else. 

He does not get to turn you into a fucking idiot, any more than he already has. 

“I need to talk to you.” Arms cross over your chest. Chin raised. Voice firm. You’re going to win this conversation. 

Superman just nods, still smiling. “Yeah, I think I figured that out myself. You know, you really don’t have to jump off a roof, I was on my way.”

Shit. “I wasn’t-“

“I think you were, but if you say you weren’t, okay. I believe you.”

“Well- I wasn’t.”

“Okay.” He shrugs, still fucking smiling, and he needs to stop being so kind. It’s making you feel more things you don’t have time for. “What did you need me for, so badly you weren’t going to jump off a roof?”

You flush. “I want to ask you questions. About being an immigrant.”

He raises his brows. “Oh? Like what?”

“Your experience. What it feels like not having a home to return to, or being divorced from the governmental ideals of your home. What you’re grateful for, what you’re not grateful. What you wish would change, what you think America needs to improve on. Why you stay here, when you of all people could feasibly go anywhere in the world.” 

Superman blinks. “Well, for the last one, this is my home. And it’s not perfect, but I have no wish to be anywhere else.”

“I know that. But a lot of other people are in similar shoes, and having Superman echo their thoughts and sentiments would be good to hear. Plus you hold a lot of public sway.”

“I didn’t know you were a journalist,” he says your name with small laugh, and you shrug. 

“It’s testimony. Are you going to answer my questions, or do I need to jump off the roof.”

“I’ll answer them. They’re smart questions, and anything to help people in my position. But…” Superman pauses, watching you with a strange expression, then lets out a long breath. “You never need to jump off a roof for my attention.”

It’s like he punched you in the fucking gut. You blink, pressing your lips in a tight line as your heart stumbles and your breath becomes shallow, the heat moving down to your lower gut. He can’t just say things like that while looking at you and being so kind. You’re not going to jump off the roof, you’re going to do something stupider, like trying to kiss Superman on his pretty, full mouth that says such sweet things. 

You need to calm the fuck down. You’ve met him three times, and this is nothing more than a professional interview.

You can’t kiss Superman. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You drawl, pulling out your phone to record. 

He just nods, and takes a step forward. If you wanted to, you could reach out and poke his chest. There’s heat, radiating off his body again. 

Calm the fuck down. 

You’re not going to make a habit of calling for him. If this goes well, you’ll have everything you need from Superman, and you can go back to living a quiet, long, focused life. 

Alone. 

Without any stupid, kind puppy-men making you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’d like to let everything crumble down and just be warm. 

———

You turn the corner too fast. Slam right into a large, broad chest with a squeak.

A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly to your feet. There’s a strangely familiar feeling to it, that your slightly addled brain—a little from shame, a little from drinking—can’t quite place. 

Then you look up, and it would be nice to burst into flames, or melt into the ground. 

Clark Kent is blinking down at you, and he looks almost unfairly good in a suit. You don’t know why a journalist works out so much—and he doesn’t seem like the type to be a gym rat—but his muscles are almost pushing out of his dress shirt, and you can feel them under your fingers where you’ve grabbed his shirt, and why are his eyes so blue. 

“Hi.” He says your name, glancing down to where your bodies are pressed together, before back to you with a small blush. “You look nice.”

You do look nice. You spent three hours today, making sure you looked nice for the fancy gala. At least five people have told you that you look nice since you got here, because you’d put so much fucking effort into it, it’s a little impossible not to notice. 

For some reason, it wasn’t the appreciative look from Bruce Wayne and smirk—his hand brushing over your lower back and eyes hooded with desire—that got your to feel like you were glowing. 

It’s Clark, and his stupid, honey-like voice that’s getting under your skin. You look nice. He thinks you look nice. Enough to say it so truly, as if it’s just a fact of the universe. With a gentle element of kindness, like he’s acknowledging all that work it took you to get here. 

With his red ears, like you look so nice it’s doing something to him. 

Which isn’t fair.

“You look nice, as well.” You manage to get out, and he grins. 

“Thanks. I mean, it’s nothing really. Less expectations for me, I think.” He helps you to your feet, before taking a carefully step back. “I’m not giving the big speech tonight.”

“Oh, well- Yeah.” You try to smile back. It’s too easy. “Do you think you could, though? In my place?”

Clark laughs, and there it goes again. Making you feel like you’re fucking shining. “I would, but I don’t think I can trick people into thinking I’m you.”

“Not with that attitude you can’t.”

“I think it’s a little more than the attitude. I don’t have your gravity.” He gives you another small smile, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, he’s holding out your champagne flute. “I caught this, by the way. But- If you’re giving your speech, maybe go easy?” He blushes, shaking his head. “Not that I’m telling you what to do. You- If this is like, your process. Do your process.”

You blink at him, then the champagne. You’re not sure how the fuck he caught it and you, without spilling a single drop. 

And when you take it back, you’re fingers brush, and fucking electrically shoots through your whole body. 

You down the rest of the champagne in one swig, and Clark gapes at you.

“It is my process.” You mumble, carefully wiping your chin. “It’s called get buzzed so I forget people are looking at me.”

Clark chuckles, glancing at your glass. “Do you, uh- Do you want me not to look at you? While you’re talking? If that helps?”

“Yes. Close your eyes for the whole speech.” You sigh, spinning the flute between your fingers, and Clark nods. 

“Okay. But- I think you’re going to great no matter what. You’re good at talking and- Um- Captivating.”

Melting is back on the table. You feel a little dizzy. “Captivating?”

Clark nods, fidgeting with his tie. “I mean, you’re passionate. Makes me- And, uh, everyone else- Makes us like listening to you.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “Okay.”

This is too nice. You’re going to fly out of your skin if you don’t shift it. And Clark is opening his mouth, probably so say something else that’s sweet, so you blurt the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Do you have any pets?”

“Uh-“ Clark blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Not really, no. My cousin has a dog that I watch sometimes, but that’s about it.”

You nod, looking down to your shoes. Looking him in the eyes feels dangerous. “Is it a cute dog?”

“Yeah, but he’s also….” Clark pauses, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Rowdy. Do you have any pets?”

“No.” 

“Oh. Okay. Um- Do you like pets.” 

“Of course I like pets.” You frown at him. “My apartment just doesn’t allow them, so- I mean, I guess I sort of do have a cat, but she lives with my mom.”

Clark’s face lights up slightly. “You have a mom?”

“Yes? Most people do, I think, even if it’s just like a donor-“

“No, I meant like- Do you get to see her a lot?” He clears his throat, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. “Like, does she live in the city?”

“No, but- She’s not far.” You pause, and either the drinks or Clark’s presence are loosening your tongue, because you add, “I’m from Gotham. And I’ve told her to come here like- A lot. But she doesn’t want to leave home.”

“Oh.” Clark nods. “That makes sense. Not her refusing to leave but- I mean, that makes sense as well, it is her home, and I don’t think you could drag my parents from their farm. But they don’t live in Gotham, they’re in, uh- Kansas. I’m from Kansas. And you’re from Gotham. Which is what makes sense.”

You stare at him, and he coughs, giving you a smaller, slightly ashamed smile. It’s impossibly fucking endearing. 

“It makes sense that I’m from Gotham?” You finally say, and he nods. 

“You’re tough.”

That makes you flush. Which isn’t fair. “What’s your cousin’s dog’s name?”

“Kr- Oco.”

You frown. “Kroco?”

“Coco.” He says quickly, taking a small step forward. “What about your cat?”

“Godzilla.”

Clark laughs again. “That’s a good name.”

“Thank you.” You’re smiling again, and you can’t even bring yourself to look at your shoes. “I came up with it.”

“I bet you did.”

You don’t get to know what that means. You want to. So fucking bad. You want to understand why Clark is saying so many nice things and why he’s so handsome and why he’s still talking to you. At no point has he tried to end the conversation and escape. He just kept grinning and talking and saying nice things, right up until one of your co-workers comes up behind you and drags you away for the speech.

And when you’re giving it, it’s impossibly easy to find Clark in the crowd. 

Towards the back, somehow shining to through the glare of the spotlights. 

Eyes squeezed shut the whole time.

———

You have the willpower of a sheep on cocaine.

Already easy to herd. 

Very easily baited by more cocaine. 

Cocaine being a handsome superhero, who you haven’t been able to shake since you shouted for him on a roof.

It started the night after the Gala. You’d walked home you with skirt hiked up and jewelry left upstairs in your office—because you’re not a fucking idiot—and Superman had dropped out of the sky with his stupid smile. 

“Do I need to wait for you to get mugged again, to say you shouldn’t walk alone at night?”

You’d laughed softly, and kept walking right past him. “Are you going to let me get mugged?”

“No, that’s why I’m here now. Offering my escort services to ladies in need.”

That had gotten you to stop. You’d had to. 

You’d started laughing so hard that if you didn’t, you would have fucking fallen over. 

Superman had stared at you with a bemused smile, taking a half-step forward, like he was worried you’d been hit with something. 

He’d said your name slowly, and you’d shaken your head, still giggling.

“God, that- That’s-“ You’d snorted, and he’d reached for you carefully. 

“Are you-“

“I’m fine, dude, that’s just- I can’t believe people thought you have a harem.”

He’d frowned. “Well, I don’t-“

“Yeah, I know.” You’d laughed again, and he’d frowned.

“I’m sorry, I just- I’m not quite sure what the joke is.”

You’d drawn back up, giving him an amused look. “What do you think an escort service is?”

Superman had blinked. “I’m going to walk you home.”

“Wrong. You handsome, sweet alien, that is so wrong.”

He’d—impossibly—stood a little taller. “Handsome?”

Shit. “Yeah, pretty boy. You’ve got a nice face.” You’d doubled down like it was nothing, and it had seemed to be an effective strategy. “You know that. People make thirst edits of you on the internet.”

“They do?” 

“Oh.” You’d beamed at him. “I have so much to show you.”

And every night after that, he’d walked you home. It’s an effective system. You show him the online form that’s dedicated to trying to convince to actually form a Harem, and he gets to make sure you’re never mugged. You wave to him from the window—which is far too romantic, yet you can’t stop doing it—and then he grins at you, and blasts up, up, and away. There are a few nights that he misses, but there’s always a sticky note on your fire escape saying dragon trying to burn down the harbor, see you tomorrow, with a little smiley face. 

You’re keeping them in your nightstand. And it’s not like anyone is going to find them anyway, so that’s not pathetic. 

But it might make you a bad person. 

Because you’re putting them right next to the other thing in your nightstand. 

The second dose of cocaine. 

Clark won’t stop popping up either. And it doesn’t start in the same seeking you out way that it does with Superman, but it builds faster. Into something more. Something bigger than you might be able to handle. 

It starts shows up for drinks, with Lois and Jimmy. Which should be nothing. 

But the universe is out to get you. So it’s everything. 

“I’m so glad he didn’t scare you off.” Lois said with a dramatic sigh, setting down her beer. “You’re my favorite person to interview.”

Jimmy had frowned. “Why, because you don’t get to interview a lot of women?”

“No, Jimmy, I interview plenty of women. It’s just- The unfortunate thing about most of the women in power right now is-“

“They’re all fucking cunts.” You’d finished for her, and Clark and Jimmy had choked on their beers with impressive comedic timing. “Which is mostly an unfortunate byproduct of the system. It’s hard to be in a significant position of power and be a good person.”

“I don’t know.” Clark had frowned. “I mean, there must be a lot of pressure. And I’m sure they’re not happy with compromising their morals, it just- It must be hard.”

Lois had shrugged. “Or they’re all just cunts.”

“That’s- Seems like a harsh word-“

“Once I was at a congress hearing.” You’d said dryly, and Clark had looked at you with his full, unwavering attention. It had made you more drunk than the beer. “And one of the congresswomen asked why I was betraying American women by supporting bringing such violent rapists into our country. Her husband isn’t allowed within a hundred yards of schools.”

“Oh.” Clark had frowned. “Well, I hope she realizes she can divorce him. Or- Maybe something will get her to turn around? Like an- Intervention?”

Lois had snorted. “What, from God?”

“No, not God, but- I don’t know.” He’d looked at you, his tone so fucking sincere. “I’m sorry she said that to you.”

You’d had to look down to hide your flush. “It’s okay. Happens.”

Clark had frowned, like it shouldn’t. 

But you hadn’t scared him off. 

He’d come to another night of drinks. Then another. Then five more, until Jimmy got sick and Lois had an article due, and it was just you and him, sitting across from a booth so small your knees bumped, and hands brushed with every gesture. 

“So, why journalism?” You’d asked. “You don’t seem to have the same passion for it that Lois does.”

He’d chuckled, pushing up his glasses. “No, I guess I don’t. And I don’t know, I like talking to people. Hearing their stories. Nice, stable career, you know?”

You’d opened your mouth, but barely spoken before Clark has shaken his head. 

“Wait, you probably don’t know, do you. You’re passionate about everything you do.”

“I- Yeah. I am.” You’d swallowed, and he’d kept saying those things like they were obvious. Looking at you like you’re fascinating. Like he could see right through you, and whatever was in there, he liked. “I mean, I like what I do, but I do it because I want to do more.”

Clark had nodded, taking a slow drink of his beer. “Bigger ambitions, huh?”

“Yeah. Do you just-“ You’d frowned. “Not have those?”

“I hate to break it to you,” he’d said your name with a small grin. “Most people don’t. Almost all the folks I know aren’t necessarily happy with what they got, but they’re not lookin’ to make the Earth spin clockwise.”

You’d blinked at him. “What?”

“Sorry, that’s just- Something my Pa says.” He’d blushed, looking down to the table. “I’m trying to say it’s admirable. To want to change things and actually, uh- Do it.”

“Thanks.” You’d whispered, and he’d grinned. 

“No problem. Mind if I guess your ambition?”

Normally, you would’ve minded. But it was Clark. And you’d sort of been desperate to know what he thought of you. “Be my guest.”

“President. Or- Actually.” He’d examined you, slowly and with an element of light, playful amusement that had made you giggle. “United Nations, but maybe still Congress?”

You’d laughed, shaking your head, and Clark had raised his brows.

“Am I close?”

“Maybe.” You’d hummed, holding his gaze as you take a drink. “But I’d rather eat glass than go into politics.”

“Ah, right. Sorry.” He’d grinned. “Just got caught up in the idea of you showing that rude congress woman what a good person looks like.”

Your grip had tightened on your bottle. “You think I’m a good person?”

“Yeah.” He’d shrugged. “Of course.”

Of course. 

You let the conversation keep going. Clark had told you about some game he and Jimmy went to, and how he’s pretty sure Jimmy’s sick because a supermodel was slobbering over him all afternoon. You’d told him about how you’d won a big litigation about your case, and smiled at your fingers when he’d made a big, happy deal about it. And the night had flashed by until it was almost two in the morning, and you’d been kicked out the bar.

And Clark had asked if you wanted him to walk you home, and you’d said no. 

Not because you hadn’t. 

But you’d wanted to see Superman. 

Because you aren’t a good person.

That night, Superman had landed on the sidewalk next to you, and you’d smiled at your fingers. 

“You’re late.”

“Sorry,” he’d fallen into pace so fast beside you. “Got busy.”

“If people need saving-“

“No, I was just talking to someone important.”

You’d hummed. “Oh? Can you tell me, or is it classified super business?”

He’d laughed. It had been a few months, and it wasn’t making your heart skip any less. “Super business, I’m afraid. Actually, I have a question for you.

“I might have an answer.”

“Alright, well- If you could be a meta, like me-“

You’d mock gasped. “You’re a meta? Why did you tell me?”

“Very funny.” His voice had been flat, but you’d been able to hear the amusement, and it had made you shine. “I just want to know what kind of powers you’d want to have.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m curious, is that not allowed?”

“No.” You’d squinted at him in the dark, he’d stared right back, and your heart had skipped a beat. Shit. “It’s allowed. But it’s suspicious.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be less suspicious in the future.” 

“Thank you.” You’d paused, thinking about his question, and you’d been walking closers and closer lately. Almost as close as you’d been to Clark, in the bar. 

And you’re a horrible person. 

“I think I’d like to be able to speak any language.” You’d told Superman, speaking slowly. “But like, any language. Plants and computers and animals, too. Understand and talk to all of them. If it’s communication, I’d be able to do it.”

“Ah. That’s one of the best ones I’ve heard.” Superman had smiled at you in the dark, and you hadn’t even needed to ask. “I might know someone who’d like his power to be knowing the weather.”

“Knowing the weather, like-“

“Just a weatherman. With total accuracy.” Superman had smiled to himself. “I know it’s ridiculous, but it makes him happy.”

You’d kept walking, and talking, and laughing until you reached your apartment. Then you’d waved to him from your window, and he’d vanished back into the night. 

The next day, there had been a knock on your door. You’d opened it to find Clark, shifting on his feet with a book in his hands and a nervous smile.

You’d frowned at him. “How do you know where I live.”

“Oh, uh- I-“ He’d cleared his throat, something like alarm flashing over his face. “You’re not going to like it. I, um- I sort of stole your contact from Lois. And she had it, so- Now I have it.”

He’d been beet red, and you might have pushed it if he didn’t look like he was about to make himself pass out. 

So you’d just nodded, watching him carefully. “And… Why are you here?”

He’d let out a sharp breath, holding up the book. “Just want to give you this. I don’t know if you have time to take care of a plant- You’re so busy I’m guessing you don’t- Which isn’t bad, but-“

“Clark-“

“They’re pressed flowers.” He’d said quickly, opening the book for you to see. “My Ma taught me how to make them. To celebrate winning your case.”

You’d stared between him and the flowers, your eyes starting to sting because that was so fucking sweet, and you want to sink teeth and claws into his pretty face, or maybe just let him tear you apart, or- 

Just keep growing. Up and up, into whatever kinder, softer thing Clark is made of.

That had terrified you. 

“I- I won a litigation of my case.” You’d whispered, voice breaking, and Clark had shrugged.

“Still worth celebrating.” He’d said softly, and that had felt like a dose. You never wanted him to go too far, where you wouldn’t be able to find him. 

You’d put his flowers in your bedside drawer. And the sticky notes Superman’s been leaving keep building up.

Bar night after bar night, you lose track of time with Clark, because you don’t want him to go, but you still let Superman walk you home. 

You stare at the flowers and notes in your drawer, and you might be forgetting how to not smile at either of them. 

And worst of all, you don’t really want to remember at all.

———

The world is spinning. 

And you giggle to yourself, because the world is always spinning. Always going round and round and right back to where it started, but a million miles away, and now you can just feel it. 

Either because of the many, many drinks you’d slammed down in an attempt to soften some sort of self-sharpening edge, or because of Clark’s proximity. 

“Oh, gosh.” He catches you around the waist, as you walk up the stairs, and you giggle again. “Let’s slow down, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Aw.” You smile, wiggling around to face him. “You care about me.”

Clark frowns. “You know I care about you. I don’t think I’ve made that a secret- Woah-“

You fall forwards, right into him, and press your face into his neck. 

“You smell good.” You mumble. “Like… rain.”

Clark pauses, hand splayed on your back. “Is that good?”

“I like it.” You whisper, fingers curling on his sleeves. “This jacket is nice.”

“I mean, it’s alright.” He frowns at the jacket, then you. “Do you want it?”

You nod, mostly because your drunken, addled brain isn’t connecting one and one to mean two. 

Clark had asked if you wanted it. You’d been staring at where his button up was slightly undone, as if you’ve never seen bare skin before.

Yes, you want him. So bad it’s making your stomach flip, although that might just been the liquor. 

It’s a heavy, crushing disappointment like titanium, when he just props you carefully against the stairwell wall, and helps you into his jacket. You pout at the floor, trying to savor how it’s warm and smells like him, but now you’re chasing a painting of a ghost that’s haunting you from a foot away. 

You turn, pout deepening, and try to march up the stairs by yourself. 

You trip, because the world is spinning and you don’t have any balance. 

Clark catches you, because the world is spinning and he’s Clark, so it’s just one of those things that happens. 

You fall. He’s there, strong with an arm around your waist.

This time though, he picks you up with a small grunt. 

Something distant and vigilant in your head is wondering why he grunted picking you up but never while carrying you up four flights of stairs. 

It’s drowned out by how warm he is, and how much you want him. 

“Why do people call them guns?” You mumble to yourself, poking his biceps, and Clark frowns. 

“Well, if you asked my Pa, he’d make some joke about them being lady killers, then say that we shouldn’t be killin’ ladies. Should be treating them well.” He chuckles, and you stare up at him because in the florescent light of the hallway, he somehow looks like an angel. 

“I like it when you talk about your parents.” 

Someone needs to put a muzzle on you, before you say anything else truthful and dangerous. 

But stupid, perfect Clark always wants to hear what you’ve got to say. 

“Why?”

“I dunno,” you play with the folds of his collar, as he sets you down on your couch. “Makes you seem real.”

Clark’s brows furrow. “Do you no think I’m real.”

“I think.” You grab the lapels of his shirt, yanking him down to your eye level. “That you are too good.”

“…To be real?”

“Yes.” To be yours. “And no. Can you tell me your cow’s name again.”

“Bessie. What do you think I’m too good for, if it’s not being real-“

“Shhhhhhh.” You press a finger to his lips, frowning out your window. “Oh. No.”

Clark tenses. “What’s wrong.”

“I can’t tell him I’m busy.” You whisper, tears starting to sting at your eyes, and Clark reaches up to carefully brush them away.

“Tell who, sweetheart. I can, uh- I try to pass on a message. If this guy is important to you.”

You don’t understand the frown in his voice. “No. You can’t find him. It’s Superman.” You whisper the last part, and Clark blinks. 

The world is starting to get fuzzy. Everything feels heavy, and it would be nice to maybe go to sleep. 

But Clark says your name, so you slump forward into him as your body demands that you listen.

“You- Um- You know Superman?”

“Yeah.” You mumble against him, pulling his jacket a little tighter. “Walks me home. Why I don’t go with you.”

“Oh.” Clark pauses. “And you’d rather have him? Walk you home, I mean?”

“I dunno. But don’t worry.” You yawn, the world slowly falling down into black. “He’s not real either.” 

———

It had hit you, with the splitting headache of a hangover. You’d stared at yourself in the mirror, and been unable to get it together expect to form one conclusion. 

You love Clark. 

And you open the drawer, and see the flowers and the sticky notes, and know that he deserves far better. Not you. 

Never you. 

Someone good like him. Who does it so easily, and trusts like he does—with everything in him—and can hold his heart in both their hands. 

You can’t.

Because you might be a really bad person. 

Leaning over the roof of your apartment, breath fogging up the air, you wait. For an answer, that only one person can offer you, even if he doesn’t know. 

You’re not sure if either of them know. It would make it a lot easier if one didn’t, and was just friendly.

Or if one felt nothing, and you’d been reading too much into it all. 

That would split you in fucking half. But that feels like it’s going to happen no matter what. 

At least if neither of them want you, you’ll have both pieces to stitch yourself back together. 

But first, you need to know.

“Do I need to tell you not to jump?” Superman says from behind you. “Or are you just trying to talk to me again?”

You smile into the dark, voice a little too soft. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

“Okay.” You can hear the frown in his voice “And were you going to jump?” 

“No.”

“You know, that time I actually believe you.”

You turn to look at him in the dark, and it never fails to stop your heart, when he smiles at you. You thought you’d get past it. Get used to how it seems to light up the dark.’

But there it is. 

The little skip that you get high on now, because it means he’s looking at you, and there’s never been anything better. 

Or maybe just one thing better. 

Or the same. 

Jesus. You look away, bowing your head to stare at your hands, and Superman clears his throat. 

“Are you feeling okay?” There’s a beat. “Anything I can help with?”

“No. Nothing you can-“ You sigh. “Can I just ask you something?”

“Always.” 

You run your fingers over the rough rock of the roof wall, keeping your eyes fixed on everything below. There are shadows moving down there, people walking the streets alone through the dark. That’s where you belong, not up here. Not where the sun would hit you, golden and bright, when it breaks the horizon. 

Superman mutters your name, and a warmth heats over your skin. 

You push it out, before you can think better. 

“Do you think I have bigger ambitions?”

He’s silent for a moment, then, “What do you mean?”

“Like- With my life. I- I know someone who’s happy with everything he has, he- He knows everything he wants to be, and-“ You swallow, your voice starting to hurt. “I don’t know if I am.”

“Is it your job? Or someone doing something-“

“No, it’s me.” You turn to look at him, pressing your lips tight together, because you won’t cry. “I’m doing too much and I- It’s still not enough, and I- I don’t- I don’t know where I’m going. I feel like I’ve been in the same orbit for so, so long and it was fine but now it isn’t and- I don’t- I’m tired.” Your voice cracks, and Superman takes a small step forward. “I’m barely doing anything, and I’m so tired, and I don’t want to be tired anymore but I don’t know how to- I’ve never-“

Your voice dies, because it’s cracking and if you don’t pull it the fuck together soon, you’re going to cry. 

Superman moves forward in a blink. Wraps his arms around you, and cradles your head to his chest as the tears start to silently roll. 

He just holds you in the dark for so long, and there must be better things for him to be doing, but he’s not trying to move. It’s not until you’re breathing him in at a steady pace, that he loosens his grip enough for you to push back. 

And when you do, he holds your face between his hands, wiping the tears slowly from your eyes. 

“I think you do enough.” He murmurs, and you sniff. “Don’t argue with me about this one. You do. You tell me about work, and you do good things. Thing most people are afraid to, because you don’t seem to have that setting. Whatever rest you want, you deserve, because you,” he says your name, his gaze locked onto yours. “Do more than most anyone I know.”

You wipe your nose with your sleeve, mumbling into the cloth. “Everyone you know probably penguins or something, with where you live.”

“In the Arctic?” He laughs softly, attention on you still so affectionate and tender. “Yeah, I guess I know a few penguins. They’re good guys. One of them got me an icicle for my promotion.”

You frown at him. “Your promotion? You have a boss?”

“I’m my boss. I gave the promotion to myself.”

“That’s so stupid.” You smile at his shoes, and he slowly tips your gaze back up, right onto his. 

“Yeah, but it made you laugh. I’d say it was worth it.”

You take a long, deep breath, and it’s too easy to get lost in him. In this moment. You don’t want to get swept away in it. 

So you press your face to his neck, and just breathe.

He smells a little like rain. Feels a little like a home. 

And it’s not a question anymore. You have your answer. 

You know. 

———

You’re clinging to the walls of the room. Gripping your glass like a lifeline and scanning over the crowd, trying to calculate when it’s going to thin out. 

When you’re going to be able to escape. 

It’s not life or death. You just really don’t want to be here. At the big, important event Metropolis is throwing for the new Bavarian president. You’re not sure if they’re trying to make amends—or a new plan—but you know you’re only here so they can say you’re here. So in the morning they can talk about how they have nothing to hide, and how the tattered relationship of Boravia and Jarhanpur are healing, all because of America. 

You’d told your boss that going was a stupid idea. 

He said you had to, or he’d replace you on the Jarhanpurian refugee case. 

So now you’re standing on the edge of the party, watching it move around you, and trying not to think about anything at all. 

If you think about things, you think about ways out of here. Ways like sneaking up to the roof, and asking Superman to get you out. If you’re not thinking about that, you’re thinking about how the buffet table has the exact type of bread rolls Clark likes, because he’s told you about them multiple times. 

No matter what, you end up feeling like you want to cry. And you don’t, because you’re a fucking professional, but fuck if you don’t want to. 

It’s mostly just lonely. You had a plus one, but you can’t bring yourself to ask Clark if this is anything—not when you’re sort of always looking out the window—and you ended up going alone. 

That’s probably how this is going to end anyway. 

Might as well get in some fucking practice. 

Someone calls your name from across the room, and you brace for the impact of some Boravian diplomat about to berate you or an ambassador who’s going to make stunted conversation trying to convince you that you’re a bad person. You don’t need them to do that—you’re already so fucking good at doing it yourself—so they’re just going to be wasting everyone’s time. 

But it’s not a cruel, taunting diplomat.

It’s Jimmy, pulling a nervous looking Clark behind him. 

“Hey!” Jimmy stops right in front of you, and it takes a Herculean amount of effort to look at him and not Clark. “Why are you here, I thought they’d be trying to stop you from knowing this is even happening.” 

“I think it’s a weird chess move.” You turn your glass in your hands, and measure out the perfect amount of time to wait before you look up and give Clark a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He responds so quickly, he looks a little surprised with himself. “I- Uh- Are you at least liking the food?”

“It’s fine.” You shrug. “They have the bread rolls you like.”

Clark blushes, fidgeting with his tie. “I know, we- Uh- We’ve been here a bit-“

“Clark ate a whole basket of them.” Jimmy tells you, and you can’t stop your soft laugh. “Then he got upset because he thought he might have taken them away from everyone else-“

“But I didn’t.” Clark jumps in quickly. “They put another basket out- I can go get you one. Do you want one?”

You don’t give a fuck about bread rolls. “Yes, please.”

Clark stands a little taller now that he’s got a mission, and smiles at you before he vanishes into the crowd. He’s left you tapping your nails on your champagne glass, giving Jimmy a tight smile. 

“What are you guys doing here?” You ask, and Jimmy shrugs. 

“Lois wants this and the protests about this covered. She decided to do the protests, gave me the event. I,” he holds up a press badge. “Am working.”

“You and Clark?”

“He’s interested in this kind of thing.”

“He is?” You frown at the crowd, and Jimmy nods. 

“Guess he doesn’t talk about it with you. Invasions and genocide aren’t romantic at all.”

Your heart moves into your throat. “They aren’t- What-“

“Hey, has he asked you his power question yet?” Jimmy cuts you off, mostly looking out at the crowd, and you frown. 

“His what?”

“Past few months he’s been asking like, everyone we know what power they’d want as a meta.” Jimmy shoves his hands in his pockets, giving you a curious expression. “Started when he was talking to Lois about if she thought Superman being able to hear everything is weird. Then he asked her what power she would want, then he asked me, then he called his parents or something- I don’t know what’s up it, but it’s a pretty good question.”

“It… is.” You frown, and there’s that thing in the back of your head. The one that had been drowned out by liquor, then pain, but now how nothing but noise around it. And it’s getting louder. “What’s Clark’s answer?”

“Um- I don’t think he’s actually said.” Jimmy shrugs, then gives you a winning grin. “But I’d know the weather. If you want to know.”

“You’d know the weather.”

“Yeah, like a weatherman, but I’m always right.”

“That’s pointless, Jimmy.”

“To you, maybe. I would figure out how to turn it into a fortune.”

You open and close your mouth, the something in your head getting louder, but it doesn’t turn into words before Clark reappears through the crowd, holding two of the not small bread rolls in one hand.  

“I got them.” He says you name, and your stupid stomach does a happy, traitorous little flip. “Here, I got you butter as well, in case you want to use that.”

He shoves the rolls into your hands, holding your gaze, and your fingers brush. He’s standing so close, he doesn’t need to be this close, but you never want him to move away-

“Clark,” Jimmy mock gasps. “Did you get two so she could give you one?”

“I- No, of course not-“

“I’m just teasing you, man.” Jimmy claps him on the back, scanning out over the crowd. “Alright, I gotta go do my job, or Lois is gonna crucify me.”

Clark wrinkles his nose. “I think that’s a little dramatic-“

“It’s not dramatic enough, and you know it.” Jimmy grins between you and Clark. “Be safe, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You want to grab him, before he disappears into the crowd. Not because you don’t want to be alone with Clark, but because you do. More than almost anything. So you need a buffer, before you do something stupid. 

But Jimmy vanishes, and you have to stuff a bread roll into your mouth to occupy it. Clark just stands next to, still far too close, making your head fucking spin. 

He clears his throat, voice low enough that only you can hear, and you might be leaning into his gravity. 

“You must hate this.” He mutters, and you swallow. 

“I don’t like it.” You mumble, and—because now there’s no bread to block your sappy feelings from spilling out of your mouth—add, “It’s better now, though.”

Clark raises his brows. “Yeah?”

You nod, shoving the second bread roll into your mouth, and Clark won’t stop looking at you. Like you’re the sunrise, as your cheeks push out like a chipmunk and your lipstick smudges slightly. 

Even his voice has a kind of soft reverence, when he speaks. “Do you like them? The bread rolls.”

“They’re good,” you try to say through the mouthful, but it comes out more of a wordless grumble, and you stare at Clark for a moment before you both start laughing. 

It shatters whatever strange tension had just bene in the air. Everything flows smoother, as you talk about the food and drinks and how made up this whole thing is. Clark compliments your dress and you’ve never felt warmer. You think you could go out into the dead, winter night and still feel this warm. 

The air is getting lighter and lighter. You might be in danger of floating away.

“So,” you give him a curious look, and he mirrors it. 

“So?”

“Jimmy says you’re interested in all these events.”

“Oh. Well- I guess I am, yeah.” He’s watching you carefully, words slower than usual. “I just like to know what’s going on in the world. Part of my job, right?”

You hum. “Aren’t most of your articles about Superman?”

He coughs. “Yeah, well, he’s interested in this too. You know how everything went down, with Boravia. He likes to keep tabs on it. And I like to know what I’m probably going to talk to him about.”

The thing is starting to ring in your ears. “How often do you talk to him?”

“I don’t know, every few nights?” Clark smiles, but it’s more taut than usual. Almost nervous. “How often is too often?”

He’s saying it like it’s a joke. 

You’re not sure it is. 

“I mean, you talk to him. He’s a great guy to talk to. Right?” He gives you a strange look, and you sigh.

“He is, yeah. But I don’t interview him.”

“Yes you- I mean, you interviewed him for your case, right?”

“Maybe.” You shrug, narrowing your eyes, and Clark coughs. 

“Well, I don’t get why it’s a big thing, right. I’m interested in things. He’s interested in things. You’re interested in things. And- Yeah. We’re all interested in the same things, and we talk about them, and- I mean, he must have mentioned to you as some point how he talks to me all the time. Mutual friend.” He pauses. “I’ve told him about you.”

You tilt your head at him, lips pressed tight together. “You have.”

“Yeah? I mean, after we talk shop, sometimes he asks how life is, and- I’ve told him about you, and he- He also really likes you-“

“You really like me?”

Clark’s ears go red, and you feel a little guilty—you’re sort of treating him like a hostile witness—but the thing in your head is so fucking close to piecing itself together, you just need to push a little more.

“Yeah, I like you.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass. “But- Superman does to. You’re the best, and- We talk about you all the time.”

You just keep staring at him, because that should make you feel sick. The two men you love, talking about you without you there, when you don’t even know which one you’d want forever. 

But it’s just making you suspicious. Because there’s something so slightly fucking off. 

“Superman has never once mentioned you, Clark.” You say carefully, and  he winces. 

“Ouch. I mean, all is fair in- You know-“

“Love and war?” You finish, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him more nervous. “Which part of this is which?”

He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and right before you’re about to find the words, the world finds them for you. 

Clark’s head shoots up, drawing up to his full height, and pushes his glasses up his nose as he looks over the crowd. And there’s this smallest fucking shift in all your thoughts, as if a veil is being lifted. 

They have the same fucking face. 

You don’t know how you missed it, but they have the same fucking face. 

Your mouth barely opens to tell him that you know, before the first gunshots ring through the air. Clark grabs you around your waist, and the world turns into a rushing, cold blur. You’re not even sure what’s happening, besides your arms wrapping around his neck and the air being knocked from your lungs. 

Then you’re outside, in the freezing cold. Clark steadies you with wide eyes, pulling off his jacket and dumping it into your hands. 

“Put this on and go home.” He mutters, words so fast you almost don’t catch them. “Take a cab, don’t walk. I’ll pay for it, I just- I can’t go with you tonight- I’m sorry-“

You gape at him. “Go with- Clark, what the fuck-“

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, and shoots off into the night. 

Flies off into the night. 

Leaving you alone, on the cold street, with his jacket strangled in your hands and the world upside down. 

———

You’re pacing outside his door. You have been for almost an hour, waiting for him to get home. 

He’ll have to be back soon. It’s past five, you don’t think he has plans tonight, and even if he doesn’t he’d probably have to stop back home to get something.

It’s okay. 

You can wait. 

You have the week off, because your boss feels back for putting you in the middle of a terrorist attack. When he’d told you, he’d looked at you like he expected you to protest. 

Normally, you would have. Slowing down wasn’t the thing to do, not when you were so close to the finish line—even if it kept moving further and further away—and a single faltered step or second to breathe might lead to you falling so far behind. 

But this isn’t a normal week. 

And Superman said you deserve some rest, so you’re listening to him. 

It’s just that rest might not mean the same thing to you that it meant to him. Rest meant answers. Rest meant three days combing over older Superman reports, and drawing out a timeline of Clark’s life to see if things lined up, and writing down everything either of them have ever said to you, to see what lined up. 

And it did. 

Of course it did. It all falls together an avalanche, leaving you standing in to rubble and looking to the sky and wondering how you ever fucking missed it. 

He says your name, and you turn to see Clark staring at you from down the hall, grip white-knuckled on his bag. 

“Clark.” Your voice sounds faraway and cool. You don’t want to be a bitch to him. 

You don’t know how else to be. 

“Are you alright?” He takes a half-step forward, and you wrap your arms around your stomach. Of course he’s just worried about you. Asshole. “I wanted to come check on you, I promise. There’s just been a lot to deal with, and- I wasn’t sure if…” He clears his throat, watching you nervously as you just stare at him. “You’d want to see me?”

“Really?” You raise your chin. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you, Clark?”

“Um...” He glances around the hallway. “Why don’t you tell me, and we can see if we have the same reasons?”

“No, I think you should tell me first.”

“It’s just- I don’t think I should, because what if our reasons aren’t the same and mine sounds crazy-“

“Is your reason that I know?” You snap, narrowing your eyes. “Because I know.”

Clark stares at you for a long, wired moment, then lets out a long, defeated breath. “Can we do this inside, please?”

You nod, and step off to the side so he can open the door. Clark gives you another one of his small, nervous smiles as he brushes past you, and it doesn’t feel any different from before. When he’d sat too close to you at the bar. 

Or stood to close, on the street. 

That’s the worst part of it. Is not you’re not angry, or bitter, or heartbroken. You just feel stranded. Like you’re hanging over a pit and trying to work out if it’s worth falling, or trying to claw your way back out. 

Because if you’re right—and you are—you could have something. Everything. What you’ve spent so much time on, convince yourself that it really wasn’t going to matter. 

But once you have it, it’s real. Something you can lose. Something you can fuck up or neglect or break. 

It’s a good thing. 

Clark—taking your jacket because he’s a stupid gentleman and brushing warm hands on your upper arm—is a good thing. He’s the good thing, the one that everyone looks to for hope, that everyone wants. The god among men, who leaves you little sticky notes and fumbles all his words and makes you trust his every compliment because he always says them like they’re just obvious truths. 

And you can’t figure out how to hold that in your hands, even if you get to use both. 

You don’t know how to wrap your head around the idea that you could just have something good.

“So.” Clark takes a step back, as if he’s trying to offer you space. “You, uh- You know.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“And I’m guessing you figured it out after…” He trails off, and you sigh. 

“After you flew me outside, then took off like a rocket? Yeah, Clark, that kind of gave it away.”

He frowns. “You didn’t know before?”

“I had a theory.” You mumble, and his brows furrow. 

“But you didn’t know.”

You shake your head, and he groans.

“Darn it, I- I was really sure you knew. Wouldn’t have done that if- Shoot-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, hugging yourself tighter, and he freezes. “Am I right?”

“Uh-“

“Are you Superman?”

“I-“ He lets out a slow breath, and nods. “Yeah.” 

Clark seems to lock your gaze to his as he reaches up, and slowly pulls off his glasses. 

It’s such a small shift. He stands a little taller, even as his features remain nervous and weary, and his face seems to almost shift. It’s the same face—you know, logically, that’s it’s the same face—but it’s like your head couldn’t fully connect the two into one, couldn’t hold them at the same time. 

But you can now.

And your mouth falls open as Superman stares at you with an almost fearful expression. 

“I- How?”

“The glasses?” He glances down to them with a frown. “Well, they’re hypnoglasses, so-“

“No, I mean- How did I not know?” You take a step back, shaking your head. “I- I talked to you every day and every night and it took me months to put it together, and that was only after I realized- Fuck-“

“Don’t- Wait-“ Clark takes a large step forward, arms twitching like he wants to reach for you. “The glasses make sure you don’t know, that’s the point of them, and it’s not like I told you-“

“Why?” Your voice is rising, and you take another step back. “Why are you telling me now, why- Why did you keep coming to me as Superman when I was talking to you as Clark, why- Which one of you is the real one-“

“Both. Both are real, there wasn’t- I’ve always been both- And I just wanted, I guess any reason to talk to you, so I sort off just indulged both, and-“ He takes another step forward, and you take another one back. “Can you please stop walking away? I know that you’re mad at me, and I- I understand, but- Please, just listen-“

“Why didn’t you hate me?” You blurt before you can stop yourself, everything rising so fast up your throat like an eruption, and Clark freezes. 

“I couldn’t hate you.”

You shake your head, your back hitting the wall. “No, I- I was talking to both you and- You at the same time, and- I was-“ You cut yourself off, pressing further back, and Clark takes a smaller step forward.

“Are you worried that I was jealous of myself?”

You nod weakly, and Clark sighs.

“No,” he says your name, voice firm, and takes another step. “I mean- No. I mean, I thought about it. Which one would make you happier. But I kept finding that you were always happy, and I- I thought maybe if I told you, you’d be happy. And we could laugh about it, and you’d say something- Uh-“ He stops, barely a foot away. “I mean, it’s kind of stupid now.”

“What?” You whisper, and Clark frowns.

“Do you really want me to say it?”

You nod, and he runs a hand over his face.

“Just maybe- Like- I love you either way. Both ways. I want you both ways, and wow, what a great way this worked out, that I get to love both of you, because you’re the same person. How convenient.” His ears are a little red, and he mumbles. “Most of it was just going to be you saying you love me.”

You swallow. “How do you know I love you?”

“I- uh- I don’t? I mean, I do have a reason, but it might be not- Sound. And if I’m wrong, that’s fine and we can forget the whole thing, but-” He takes a half-step forward. “Your heart. It goes really fast, when I’m near you, and, uh-“ He coughs, eyes darting down your body. “I can- Sometimes- Not that I’m trying to, but it just- It happens, and I can’t control it-“

“Clark-“

“I can smell you.” He mumbles, and your eyes widen. “So- I know there’s something. Might be wrong about love, though.” He looks at you under hooded eyes, and your face might be burning. “Am I wrong?”

You want to tell him that he’s not wrong. To tell him that he’s not wrong, that you’ve loved him for longer than you care to say aloud, and fell for both version because it was him. It wasn’t just a craving not to be alone anymore, it was him. Your heart moved in the same rhythm because it was playing the same song. Love for Clark. 

But you don’t want to mess it up. Say it wrong. Open your mouth and just start crying, because it’s so sweet and embarrassing all at once. 

So you just push out, in barely a breath. “Do you want to be wrong?”

“No.” He answers so fast, and your nails dig into your sides. 

“And- What would you have said?” You blink at him slowly, choosing every word so carefully. “In your… dream scenario?”

“That I love you, too.” He takes another step forward, and you don’t flinch away. There’s nowhere to run anyway. No reason to. “That I’ve wanted to tell you the whole time, because I don’t like lying to you but- I just wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure?” You frown. “What, that I wouldn’t- Turn you in?”

Clark’s eyes widen. “What? Gosh no, I- I just wanted to check that you felt the same and that- I don’t know, it would be worth it. Not that you’re not worth it. That me telling you would just- End in nothing. That I wouldn’t be putting you in that danger just to have gotten caught up in my feelings.”

You swallow, scanning over his open, handsome features. He means every word he says. He always does. 

And you have to ask. 

“Is it worth it?” 

Clark nods, giving you a small grin. “Yeah. I’d say it is.”

You nod, staring at each other in the dark, and the moment maybe drags on for a million years. Or only a second. It doesn’t matter, because you’re here. With Clark standing over you, one of his arms braced next to your head and the other slowly, lightly tracing up your arm. And he loves you. 

So you could waste away, and it would feel like you were drowning in daylight the whole time. 

“Can I kiss you.” Clark whispers, and you nod. 

“Yes, please.”

His hand trails up, sending shivers through your body and making your knees weak, and ends up resting on your face. He stares at you with such open affection and reverence, it’s going to put you in danger of crying again. 

When he dips down, he just brush a soft, warm kiss over your cheek, and you grab a fistful of his shirt. 

“Sorry.” He tries to lean back, eyes wide. “I- Uh- I should’ve asked you what you wanted, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

“Clark.” You hold his panicked gaze, feeling his muscles flex as his breathing grows heavy. “I want you. Just- Touch me.”

His eyes dart down to your lips, voice hoarse. “Touch you?”

You nod, and his throat bobs. 

“How much?”

“All of it.” You try to sound commanding, but it’s just sort of coming off needy. 

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“All of it.” He echoes, and slowly leans down to ghost his lips over you. It makes your whole body light up, just from such a light touch, and you try to yank him down but he’s stronger. Doesn’t even budge an inch.

“Clark-“

“Are you sure you can take all of it?” He murmurs, lips still brushing over yours, and it’s not a challenge. It’s just a question of pure, true concern. “I mean, we can try, but if you want to stop, during any of it, you can just tell me and I’m never going to take it personally. Okay?”

You stare at him, and Jesus, you might be about to fall over just from that. He’s so close. He can’t be this close and just do nothing.

“Can you, uh- Just say that you want it, please?” Clark looks a little worried, his thumb tracing over your lower lip, and you smile. 

“I want it.” You give him a small smirk. “Please.”

He stares at you for a moment, eyes flashing with something dark, and his voice drops to an octave you’ve never even heard it before. 

“Alright.” He murmurs, and you suddenly realize exactly how pinned you are between him and the wall. “Whatever you want, baby.”

You barely get a second to process what that means, before Clark’s pulling you up into a long, deep, hot kiss. It’s consuming. Sets of every nerve in your body with how carefully he moves, how deliberately he holds you. How you feel both weightless and burning, in his arms and under his attention. His mouth works quickly against yours, like he’s been starved for it, all as his hands find a respectful place to rest on your body—under your thigh and around your back—and seems to be carefully holding back his weight over you. 

It unravels you so fast. Lights a fire in your gut and makes your legs spread. Your hips grind for more friction, broken sounds of need falling from your lips. Clark dips down to kiss your neck and shoulders, and you yank on his hair when his hand on the back of your thigh slowly starts to rub higher and higher. 

“Clark- Oh-“ You gasp as his knee pushes up between your thighs, and start to fuck yourself desperately against him. “God, please-“

“I know.” He mumbles, pressing a soft kiss over your lips. “I’ve got you, I’ll make it feel good, just-“ He grabs your hips, starting to drag them as a slightly different, rougher angle, and your head falls back with a moan. “There you go.”

His voice is gentle and deep in your ear, and he keeps kissing you almost anywhere he can reach, as you keep chasing release against him. 

A loud, broken whine falls from your lips when he pulls away, right before your release. 

“Sorry.” Clark kisses you again, groaning when you try to bite on his lower lip. “Just give me a moment, baby don’t want to do it here, and- Come on-“

He scoops you fully into his arms, bridal style, and you squeak as the air rushes past you. There’s barely a moment to register what’s happening before you’re flat on your back in a soft bed, and Clark is kissing you into the mattress.

His bed. 

You’re in his bed. 

But somehow, everything that’s happening feels like yours. 

Clark is so sweet. With everything he does, he’s just good and sweet, and it’s going to drive you out of your mind. He asks again, before taking off your clothing, and when you nod feverishly, he kisses you again with a smile on his lips. 

“You’re so pretty.” His hand rests carefully in your hair, and he pushes the kiss a little deeper. “You’re going to look even prettier when you cum, sweetheart, probably like a painting.”

You flush, a small moan escaping your lips, because somehow Clark just saying something like cum is dirtier talk than anything you’ve heard in your life. 

He catches it. Of course he is. 

He’s paying such good attention to you, rubbing a hand on your hips and letting you grind up against his bulge. Every few moments, his hand will trail up your side right as the need in pussy starts to unbearably ache, and it will offer a brief respite that just falls into more need. 

It’s like he’s trying to learn everything, with almost nothing. 

And worst of all, it’s working. 

Clark leans up, watching you with a curious expression. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Your mouth falls open, his words rushing straight into your dripping cunt, and Clark’s nostrils flare. 

“Yeah?” He leans down, the hand on your waist slowly moving to draw big circles on your hips. “Do you like it when I say dirty things?” He says your name, voice still so gentle, and you like to sink into the sheets forever. 

“Maybe.” You whisper, trying not to squirm as his hand moves slowly between your legs, rubbing against your inner thighs without ever touching where so you desperately need him. “But- I you don’t want to-“

Clark leans down, silencing you with a deep, hot kiss, and devouring your moan as his palm finally presses against your cunt. 

He groans over you, starting to rub it back and forth at such a tortuous pace, and your mouth falls open in a long plea. 

“Oh my god- Please- I- I can’t- I need more-“

“Relax, baby. I’ll give you more.” He mutters, and when you try to wiggle below him, all it takes a deeper press of his palm, and you’re trapped. “I’ll give you anything, don’t worry about me.”

You hum, and his words are like a drug. You don’t have to worry. You can just relax, because Clark says to, and he doesn’t say anything that isn’t true. 

“Do you like your clothing?” He kisses a spot below your ear, words rolling through your body, and you barely shake your head before you hear the rip. 

There’s not even a second to feel cold, before all of Clark’s heat is over you. He seems to have taken his clothing with yours—cock pressing against your pussy, back strong beneath your hands as you try to map out his body—and you’re so quickly lost in the feeling of just being close to him. Kisses over your face as he ruts against you and holds you with such care.

You’re going to implode, though, if he doesn’t touch you properly. And you’re about to start begging when suddenly Clark is pulling you both upright, so you’re falling over his chest and sat in his lap. 

Clark grunts, as you writhe above him, and your eyes flick down. 

You might be drooling. He’s palming himself with strict, controlled movements, his face pressed into your neck as he sucks dark marks on your throat. 

“Is it…” You trail off, words broken up by a moan as Clark finds a sensitive spot. “Do- Is that part of Kryptonian- Fuck-“

Your back arches, as Clark’s hand moves to your dripping pussy, slowly sliding two fingers inside and crooking them right against that deep, hyper-sensitive spot. 

“Don’t know.” He mumbles. “Never checked. Shit, you’re so soft, and-“ He grunts as you clench around his finger. “I’m going to wreck you, sweetheart, going to play this sweet pussy until it’s soaking my cock-“

“Clark-“ You whine. “Fucking- Don’t just say that-“

“Why not?” He smiles against your skin, starting to kiss his way back over your face. “You like it, don’t you. Want it all.” He pulls his finger out, and before you can grab his wrist, he spanks your pussy. Just once, lightly, not enough to cause more than a sting. But enough to make you yelp a prayer of his name. 

“Oh- I-“ You go limp as he does it again, and you meet his hooded, arduous gaze with a soft whine. “Yes, Clark, God-“

He just keeps watching you. Grinding and rolling above him as he traces his thumb around your clit, then drags his fingers through your dripping folds.

He brings you arousal, gathered on his fingers, up to his mouth. 

Licks it clean, with a low, guttural sound from his chest. 

“So damn good.” He mutters, before pressing his thumb lightly to your mouth. “I swear I don’t think you’re real sometimes, sweetheart, you’re so- God-“ 

He groans as you suck on his thumb, moaning at the taste of your own need for him, and Clark drags you into a long, rough kiss. Falls flat on his back and starts to jerk his hips up into you, cock brushing torterously on your clit. 

“Clark.” Your fingers scratch at his chest. “Please-“

“Right. Uh- C’mon.” He grabs your ass, shifting you so that he can see your puffy, soaked cunt, and nods to himself. “That’s good, yeah- Hold on, baby. Relax.”

You nod, but no amount of sweet words could’ve prepared you for this. How fucking good it feels as he lifts you up like it’s nothing, and slowly drags you down onto his cock. He’s splitting you open and moaning as he does it, looking up at you like you’re an angel while filling you up so good you can’t remember your own name. 

He gives you a long moment to adjust, both your breathes ragged, an almost growling noise escaping his lips when you flutter around him. 

You pout down at him, trying to drag yourself back and forth for a little friction, and that’s all it takes to get Clark moving. 

He’s not going to let you do this yourself. He holds you by your hips and guides you back and forth on his cock, hitting every single spot inside of you, rutting up every few moments to kiss your cervix, and- Fuck-

“God, yes-“ You moan, throwing your head back as your dragged right up to the edge. “Clark- Yes, fuck- Feel so fucking big-“

He groans your name. “Don’t- If you keep talking I’m gonna- Fuck-“

“What?” You giggle breathily, and Clarks hands are going to leave bruises on you in the morning. It’s still not feeling him enough. “Fill me up? Fuck me stupid?”

Clark groans, twitching inside of you. “God, you got fuckin’ how much I- I wanna-“

“You said you’d give me everything.” You whisper, looking at him with your best glossy, needy eye. “I want all of you, Clark, please- Make me feel it, show me how much you- Oh-“

He flips you like you’re nothing, drawing out fully before slamming back in, and swallows the scream of his name with a harsh kiss. 

“I’ll make you feel it, pretty girl.” He mutters, setting a rough, unforgiving pace. “Love you so much, I wanted to go slow, but- You want to get cockdrunk, don’t you. Want to stop using that big brain and just feel good.” 

You moan, already so close to the edge. “Clark, please-“

“I told you, baby.” The kiss he gives you is almost taunting, with how he’s wrecking your cunt. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

And he does. 

Clark fucks into you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every kiss on your lips and face and neck seem made to brand you, and his hand worship your body with such care, but every touch is firm and certain. He maps your body with his hands and thrusts into you with such borderline fervor, you don’t think you’re ever going to feel anything but Clark again. It’s the only word you know. The prayer that falls from your lips, over and over until you’re shaking and burning like a live-wire, desperate for just some release. 

Before you can even beg for it, Clark’s thumb finds your clit, and starts to rub it at an inhuman speed. 

“Cum for me, darling.” He almost growls in your ear. “Show me how good it feels, fucking say my name-“

You scream, just as he wanted to, and almost white-out as your orgasm wrecks through your body. Your pussy squeezes around Clark, overwhelmed and dripping with his perfect abuse of your pleasure, and he moans in your ear as he cums. You might have passed out for a second, from the feeling of him holding you so tight, fucking you through both your orgasms and muttering your name, over and over as you float down. 

He helps you clean up. Of course he does. Uses a warm cloth on the mess between your thighs, before carrying you to the bathroom. Starts the shower as you pee, then coaxes you into the warm shower, because you’re going to be sore in the morning. 

You have to convince him to get in with you. You’re pretty sure trying not to make assumptions, or take advantage of you. 

So ask him if you can stay, and try not to feel too big when he nods eagerly. 

But you have him. 

All of him. 

And you’ve maybe never felt more peaceful than when you’re folded back in his arms, just resting in his bed. 

“Was that good?” He mutters in your ear, and it’s not fair. How perfect he is. 

You nod weakly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah, did you-“

“It was amazing.” He turns his head to kiss your cheek, warm breath fanning over your cheek as he laughs. “Probably should’ve told you sooner, if this is what it got me.”

“Maybe.” You whisper. “But we’re still here, right?”

“Yeah.” Clark hums. “And I- I think I’m just happy I get to love you at all.”

You push on his chest to look at him, and when he smiles, you smile right back. 

“I’m happy, too. And I- I do love you.” You lean down, letting your nose bump against his. “So much.”

Clark grins, pulling you down into a full, slow and lazy kiss, and you bask in it. The warmth on his body, and the light, happy feeling in your chest. Sinking deeper and deeper in, making you know that you don’t really need to see through the dark of Clark’s room. 

You have him. 

And that makes everything clear.

Sam’s the first one over, of course. “If these are anything like last week’s lemon bars, I’m declaring you honorary station chef,” he says, already stealing one. You laugh, shaking your head, sliding the foil aside. The sound makes Bucky glance up from his coffee. Just a glance—barely half a second—but it catches you. His gaze is steady, unreadable, the color of blue steel and morning smoke. You smile at him out of habit, soft and polite. He looks away like he didn’t see you at all.

You tell yourself you imagined it—the way his jaw moved like he was fighting back a smile. Maybe you want to imagine it. Maybe that’s why you keep coming back, tray after tray.

The station is quieter today, a rare lazy Saturday afternoon. Someone’s got the radio humming low, a classic rock station playing something worn and comfortable. You pour coffee for whoever’s around and settle by the counter, chatting with Sam about the upcoming charity event for the school. The talk is light, easy—exactly the kind of thing you love about this place. Then you catch Bucky’s reflection in the glass cabinet door across the room; he’s watching the tray.

It’s subtle, barely there, but his eyes linger. Not on you—on the food. You hold your breath, pretending not to notice, but Sam does notice. You can tell because he suddenly stops talking mid-sentence, and his grin grows almost mischievous. “Hey, Buck,” he says casually, “you sure you don’t want to try one? These got your name written all over them.”

“Don’t trust other people’s cooking,” comes the same gruff answer, quiet but final. You don’t miss the faint flush at the top of his ears though, and it’s enough to make something warm unfurl in your chest.

“Suit yourself,” Sam shrugs, but when he turns back to you, his eyes sparkle. You both know that was progress.

After a while, you find yourself leaning against the counter beside the coffee pot. Bucky’s still there, half in shadow, flipping through a newspaper that hasn’t been printed in years. You don’t try to talk to him—you’ve learned not to force conversation. Instead, you slide one brownie from the tray and wrap it in a napkin, setting it on the table near him without a word. It’s not an offering, not really, just a quiet, small gesture.

You’re halfway through cleaning up when you hear the softest sound—a fork scraping across foil. You look up without meaning to. Bucky’s still reading, still silent, but the brownie’s gone from the napkin. His shoulders are looser now, the tiniest bit of tension drained from his posture, and you swear, just for a second, his lips twitch like the start of a smile.

You don’t say anything. You just pack up the empty containers and hum under your breath, the tune quiet and content. The song fades into the murmur of the radio, into the hum of the refrigerator, into the rhythm of a place that, for all its noise and steel, suddenly feels a little softer around the edges.

When you finally head toward the door, Sam calls after you. “See you next week, sunshine!” You grin and wave. You expect Bucky to ignore you—he usually does, but as you step outside, his voice follows, low and gruff.

“Thanks for the… whatever that was.”

You turn, surprise flickering through you. “Brownies,” you say, smiling. “And you’re welcome.”

He nods once, barely meeting your eyes, and then goes back to pretending he didn’t say anything at all. But you see it—the faintest smudge of chocolate on the corner of his thumb.

And maybe, just maybe, next Saturday, you’ll make something just for him.

By the next Saturday, you’ve talked yourself out of caring. You told yourself you wouldn’t overthink it—that the brownie probably just looked good, that he might’ve been hungry, that it didn’t mean anything. But when you catch yourself checking the oven timer more times than necessary while your new batch of blondies bakes, you already know you’re lying to yourself.

You tell yourself you’re doing it for everyone. For Sam, who’ll inhale anything with sugar; for Joaquín, who always pretends to ration his desserts but ends up sneaking seconds; and for Natasha, who’s too polite to take one until you practically shove the container toward her. You’re doing it because you like baking, because the kids at school drive you to the edge by Friday, and this has become your calm. But somewhere in the middle of folding in the white chocolate chips, you add a pinch more brown sugar, just in case someone else decides to try one again.

The air outside carries that quiet, late-autumn chill that makes the world feel still. When you step into the station, the warmth hits instantly—coffee brewing, the faint scent of detergent and pine cleaner. You hear laughter before you even see anyone. Sam’s voice, low and teasing, followed by Steve’s steady calm trying to reel him in.

“Morning, teacher,” Sam greets as soon as he spots you, grinning like always. “You’re about to save our Saturday again, I hope.”

You hold up the container. “Blondies. And I brought apple muffins too, for breakfast since you people apparently eat nothing but caffeine.”

Natasha snorts from the couch. “That’s an exaggeration. Sometimes we eat protein bars.”

You laugh, and the sound fills the kitchen easily. You catch a glimpse of Bucky at the back table, leaning against the counter with a coffee mug that looks practically welded to his hand. He doesn’t speak, but you feel his attention like static in the air—muted, cautious, curious. You smile at him and keep moving, setting out plates, napkins, and paper cups. He watches every motion, pretending he isn’t.

Steve ambles closer, taking a muffin and murmuring his thanks, and then, as he’s biting into it, says casually, “Bucky told me your brownies were good.”

You nearly drop the lid. “He what?”

Steve’s eyes crinkle in quiet amusement. “He didn’t say it exactly like that, but I’ve known the man long enough to translate. You made an impression.”

You glance over again, Bucky’s pretending to read something on his phone, and there’s no chance he can’t hear you, but the faint color on his ears tells you he absolutely can. You bite back a smile, warmth blooming under your ribs.

It’s a calm day again, paperwork and banter, the radio humming. Joaquín’s sitting at the kitchen table fiddling with some gadget; Natasha’s nursing a mug of coffee while half-listening to Sam’s story about a neighborhood dog that keeps chasing their truck down the street. You take the seat beside her, listening, laughing, and slowly you notice the smallest thing—Bucky doesn’t leave. The last few weeks, he’d always disappear to the garage or the supply room when the noise started. But today, he lingers.

He doesn’t say much, just throws Sam a deadpan look when the man starts exaggerating, or mutters a dry comment that makes Steve choke on his drink. And somehow, those tiny, reluctant pieces of his personality make you grin more than you mean to.

Eventually, when the laughter quiets and the others drift toward chores or calls, you find yourself cleaning up the kitchen. You hum a little tune under your breath as you stack plates and rinse cups. The sound feels at home here now, tucked under the low buzz of fluorescent light.

Behind you, there’s a shuffle of movement. “You don’t have to clean all that,” Bucky says, voice low but clear enough to make you turn. He’s standing a few feet away, drying his hands on a towel, expression unreadable but not cold.

You smile, shaking your head. “I don’t mind. I made the mess.”

He hesitates, then steps closer. “You make a mess every week.”

The words might sound gruff, but his tone isn’t sharp. It’s teasing in the smallest, clumsiest way, like he’s trying it on for size. You laugh quietly. “You keep inviting me back.”

“That’s Sam.”

“I don’t remember him being the one who ate a brownie last week.”

That earns you a look—one brow slightly raised, the hint of embarrassment tightening his jaw. He doesn’t deny it. He just exhales through his nose and mutters, “you caught that, huh?”

You shrug lightly, rinsing another cup. “It was hard to miss.”

There’s a beat of silence. You can hear the creak of the building settling, the hum of the fridge, the soft tap of his mug setting down beside the sink. And then, unexpectedly, he starts helping. Drying dishes beside you, movements neat, efficient. You glance up, and for a moment, the light hits his face just right—soft edges, tired eyes that look less guarded, mouth relaxed. “You bake every week?” he asks.

You nod, setting another cup in the rack. “Usually. It’s how I unwind after teaching. My kids are… a lot. It’s nice to do something that doesn’t talk back.”

He huffs out a short laugh—barely a sound, but genuine. “Can’t argue with that.”

The air between you shifts. Not heavy, not awkward, just quiet and comfortable. When you reach for the towel he’s holding, your fingers brush his. It’s nothing—just the lightest contact—but his hand goes completely still. You feel it immediately, the static between skin and skin. He doesn’t pull back right away, his eyes flick up to yours, and for half a heartbeat, neither of you move.

Then you take the towel, pretending not to notice the way his shoulders straighten again. “Thanks,” you say softly.

He nods once. “Sure.”

When you finish, he walks you to the door. It’s unnecessary, but he does it anyway, holding the door open with a quiet sort of courtesy that feels almost shy. You turn back before stepping out, smiling at him again. “See you next Saturday?”

He leans against the frame, eyes flicking to your container. “You bring those blondies again, maybe.” It’s the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen on him yet.

And as you step out into the crisp afternoon air, the thought sticks with you the whole walk home—that maybe this time, you’re not the only one waiting for Saturday.

The third Saturday starts gray and cool, the kind of morning that feels like it’s been steeped in fog. You pull your sweater tighter around your arms as you balance two containers in your hands—one with your usual dessert, the other with something new. You’d made cinnamon rolls this time, because Sam had mentioned missing his mom’s recipe, and because you’d caught yourself wondering if Bucky liked cinnamon. You’re not sure why that thought stuck with you all week, but it did.

When you walk into the station, the smell of coffee is already there to greet you, warm and grounding. The radio hums somewhere in the background, and you can hear Sam’s voice echoing down the hall—loud, teasing, familiar. You smile before you even see them. “Morning, sunshine!” Sam calls, appearing around the corner. “Tell me you brought somethin’ good.”

“Always do,” you say, lifting the containers. “Cinnamon rolls and some kind of experiment involving brown butter and chocolate chips. No guarantees.”

“Brown butter’s never a mistake,” Natasha says from the couch, flipping a page of her magazine. She glances up, offers one of her rare, knowing smiles. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” you echo, setting the boxes down on the counter.

Steve’s at the stove making another pot of coffee—he always makes the second one too strong—and Joaquín is balancing on a chair trying to fix the overhead light again. Bucky’s there too, sitting at the table near the back, sleeves rolled up, forearms braced against the wood as he scrolls through his phone. He looks up once when you arrive, just once, then goes right back to whatever he was doing.

You pretend not to notice, but you do.

You start plating the cinnamon rolls, their warm scent filling the kitchen. Sam is the first to steal one, no surprise there. Joaquín jumps down from the chair, swiping his own before Sam can hog them all, and Steve gives you that gentle, polite “thank you” that always makes you feel like you brought something meaningful instead of just sugar and flour. Natasha takes one, too—eventually—and hums quietly after the first bite, which feels like a glowing five-star review coming from her.

Bucky doesn’t move. He never does, not right away. But he’s watching.

You can feel it in the way his gaze lingers just past you, pretending to be indifferent but landing too often on the tray. You could call him out on it, tease him the way Sam would, but you don’t. Instead, you just slide one of the rolls onto a small plate and set it at the corner of the table near him, like always. He glances at it, then at you. “What’s the trick this time?” he asks, voice low, almost cautious.

“Brown butter in the icing,” you say, smiling a little. “And extra cinnamon.”

He studies the plate for a moment, then his fingers curl around the fork. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a show of it—just cuts off a piece and takes a bite. The world doesn’t stop, the room doesn’t go silent, but you swear you feel it. Like something subtle and quiet shifting.

He chews slowly, expression unreadable, and then—barely, almost imperceptibly—his mouth twitches.

You keep your smile to yourself, pretending to busy your hands with cleaning up a bit of icing from the counter. Natasha sees it though, the faint curve of your lips, and you catch her smirk from across the room.

“Good?” you ask, when you can’t take the silence anymore.

Bucky’s gaze flicks up to yours. “Not bad.” It’s the gruffest possible compliment, but it makes your heart skip anyway. He finishes the rest without another word, and when he’s done, he stands, rinses his plate, and sets it neatly in the drying rack. You’re pretty sure that’s the closest thing to a thank you you’re ever going to get, but then he hesitates by the door, mug in hand. “You teach third grade, right?” he asks suddenly, eyes still on the floor.

You blink, caught off guard. “Yeah. I do.”

He nods once, still not looking at you. “That’s… brave.”

You laugh, startled. “Brave?”

He looks up then, just a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I couldn’t handle that many eight-year-olds. One of ‘em would start talkin’ back, and I’d lose my job before lunch.”

“Occupational hazard,” you say, grinning. “You get used to it.”

“I don’t think I would.”

There’s a hint of amusement in his voice now, something warmer threading through the usual gravel. He takes a sip of his coffee, leans against the counter, and you realize this is the first time you’ve actually seen him stay in a conversation. Not just endure it, stay.

The others drift in and out of the kitchen as the day stretches lazily on. Joaquín heads out to run errands, Natasha disappears into the office, and Steve starts sorting some equipment by the back door. Sam’s napping on the couch, his snores filling the otherwise calm space. And still, Bucky’s there.

You find yourself sitting across from him with your own mug of coffee, talking about small, ordinary things. The town fair that’s coming up. The school’s bake sale. His very strong opinions about the superiority of homemade coffee over anything from a café. It’s not deep conversation—it’s easy, simple. But for Bucky, it’s a start.

You watch the way he relaxes as he talks, his voice softening, hands moving just slightly when he describes something. He still avoids too much eye contact, still glances down often, but his walls are lower today. You can feel it.

Eventually, Steve calls something from across the room about checking a delivery in the garage, and Bucky pushes his chair back with a low grunt. You gather your empty mug, standing too. When he reaches to take it from you, your fingers brush for a second, not even a full second—but long enough.

His touch is rough, calloused, but careful. You notice the way his hand pauses, the faint inhale that catches in his chest. It’s nothing, really, just contact, but it’s the first real one, and you both feel it. He clears his throat softly, taking the mug from you like it’s fragile. “Got it.”

You murmur thanks and smile—gentle, easy. “See you next week?”

“Yeah,” he says, almost before he can stop himself. Then, quieter, “bring those rolls again.”

You walk out of the station with that small sentence echoing in your head. It shouldn’t feel like anything. But it does. It feels like the first crack in the armor. And when you glance back through the door before leaving, you catch him watching you go, a faint, unguarded look in his eyes that tells you exactly what you hoped—it wasn’t just about the food anymore.

You wake early the next Saturday with a kind of energy you pretend is just normal weekend motivation, but you know better. You replay that moment—bring those rolls again—more times than you’d ever admit. You tell yourself not to romanticize it, not to interpret it like something bigger, but your hands are already moving before you’re even fully awake, kneading dough, rolling butter and cinnamon into spirals, letting the house fill with that warm, sweet smell that feels like comfort itself.

These rolls aren’t for the whole station this time. They’re for him.

You still make a second dessert, because you don’t want anyone calling him out, not yet. Sam would tease him into hiding, and Natasha would smirk and Bucky would retreat behind a wall so fast you’d never climb over it again. So you make blondies for the group—easy, reliable, a crowd favorite, and definitely not something Bucky also liked—and you pack the cinnamon rolls in a smaller container, frosting separate so they won’t get soggy. Bucky deserves them really good, better than the first time. You don’t want to mess up the first thing he actually asked you for.

When you walk into the station, a wave of warmth and familiar noise greets you immediately. The TV is on, Sam and Joaquín are arguing about who should get credit for winning last week’s pool game, and Natasha is leaning back in her chair looking like she has already judged both of them twice before breakfast. Steve’s by the coffee machine again, he’s always by the coffee machine.

They all greet you, except Bucky. He’s there—but he doesn’t look up right away. He’s sitting at the table cleaning his gloves, movements precise, meticulous. You set the blondies on the main counter first, letting Sam pounce like he always does. Natasha takes one too, slow and deliberate. You laugh with them, talk lightly, and the dynamic is familiar and effortless.

But there’s a second moment happening under that. You move to Bucky’s table. He finally looks up when you stop in front of him, eyebrows lifting just slightly—not irritated, not cautious, but expectant.

You set the smaller container down in front of him. You don’t open it, you just slide it across the table gently, giving him space to choose. He glances at the way it’s packaged—different container than the blondies—like he knows immediately.

“These are the rolls,” you say softly.

He holds your gaze for a slow, solid second, then he closes his cleaning kit, pushes it aside, and pulls the container toward him. He opens it with careful fingers, like he wants to savor this. You hand him the small jar of frosting without even thinking and he takes that too, almost gently. “You made extra icing,” he says, tone unreadable.

“You asked for them again,” you answer, smiling. “Felt right to get it perfect.”

He doesn’t comment on that. But he coats the top of one roll and takes a bite, in front of everyone this time. No hiding, no pretending. The room keeps going around you, Sam still talking, Joaquín still pretending he’s above stealing another blondie, Natasha sipping her coffee—but it feels like time pauses around that single bite.

Bucky closes his eyes just barely for half a heartbeat. Then he exhales like that first taste knocked some weight off his ribs. “This is…” he starts, then stops. You wait, heart thudding quietly against your ribs. He tries again, voice lower. “It’s really good.”

You don’t tease him. You don’t downplay it. “Thank you,” you say. “I’m glad you like them.”

He eats another bite before speaking again. “You didn’t have to make these just for me.”

There’s no accusation in it. Just quiet, vulnerable acknowledgement. You soften a little, leaning a hand on the back of the chair across from him. “You asked me to. That was enough.”

His throat works like he wants to say something else—like he wants to say a dozen things—but instead he just nods. Then he gestures at the seat beside him with the smallest tilt of his head, like an invitation. You sit next to him easily, not making a big deal of it, and he doesn’t move away. His knee stays close to yours, his arm resting comfortably where it is instead of shifting away to protect some kind of invisible line.

The others absolutely notice. Steve glances once over the rim of his mug, faint amusement playing at the edge of his mouth. Sam looks confused for a second, then like he’s silently screaming in victory. Joaquín smirks, nudging Natasha, who simply lifts an eyebrow like she called this three Saturdays ago.

But they don’t say anything out loud, they let him have this moment.

You and Bucky sit there together, legs nearly touching, sharing quiet conversation while he eats something you made, openly, without hesitation, like a small ritual that belongs only to the two of you.

It starts with the smallest things. It isn’t cinematic. It isn’t some dramatic shift. It’s quiet. It’s domestic. It’s the kind of change that sneaks up on both of you without either realizing it until it’s already inside the ribcage, forcing breath to come different.

You start noticing it because he sits closer now, not directly next to you every time, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him. When you speak, he leans in slightly like the world between you is somehow always shorter than it appears. His attention isn’t lazy anymore—it’s tuned in, like he’s cataloguing you the way he does storms and weather patterns he trusts from decades of instinct. He doesn’t look away when you talk now. He actually listens.

And for Bucky, the noticing becomes almost unbearable in a way that’s brand new.

The first time it happens, you don’t even think about it. You were reaching behind him for the sugar jar in the station kitchenette because it somehow always ends up behind his mug, and your fingers brush briefly over his forearm. Just a soft, passing graze of your fingertips to warm skin through fabric. Nothing intentional, nothing suggestive, but Bucky goes still like something hit him point blank. The sensation lingers under his skin like heat that won’t dissipate. He stands there after you’ve already moved away, hand flexing unconsciously at his side, eyes a little distant.

That touch lives rent-free in his head all week.

He tries to ignore it, pretend it meant nothing, pretend it didn’t short-circuit something in him to feel such uncomplicated, gentle contact for no reason beyond necessity. He tries to move on, but it’s the only thing he thinks about when he’s lying in bed at night staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time someone touched him without expectation, without noise, without motive. The memory of your fingers feels soft enough to unspool him.

By the next Saturday, something shifts in how he moves around you. It’s small, almost invisible, but you feel it.

When you hand him a container lid, his fingers brush yours intentionally this time. Barely. Just enough that you feel the ghost of contact. When you walk past him in the hallway, he steps a little closer so your shoulders graze. When you sit beside him at the table with your coffee, his knee rests against yours for a breath too long before shifting like he’s convincing himself it was an accident.

You don’t call attention to it. You just quietly validate it by not pulling away. And that choice… that tiny, shared permission… is how the fixation begins.

One afternoon, you’re leaning in to show Natasha a little video clip your student sent you of their class hamster “learning math,” which is basically the hamster running across number tiles. You’re laughing, shoulder slightly turned, and Bucky stands behind you to look over your shoulder. His hand—hesitant yet pulled by instinct—settles lightly on your upper arm to balance himself for just a moment.

It should be nothing, it should be casual, it should be something people don’t think twice about. Except Bucky feels everything about it. The softness of your cardigan, the warmth beneath it, the way you didn’t flinch or stiffen or look uncomfortable. You just kept laughing with Natasha, leaning back into the space without even thinking.

He withdraws a second later, but he spends the next hour replaying that single point of contact in his head like a song loop. Sam tries to get him into a debate about which action movie trilogy is superior, and Bucky answers all wrong because he’s barely registered actual words. Steve gives him a suspicious side-eye when he zones out while cleaning equipment.

He is a grown man knocked absolutely senseless by a hand on an arm. You don’t see that happening inside him, but you feel the aftereffects slowly appear. He starts finding reasons to stand beside you rather than across. When passing you utensils or napkins or tupperware, his fingers linger those fractions longer than needed. When you take a seat at the table, he takes the chair next to yours without hesitation now, casual like it’s obvious that’s where he belongs.

And every single touch is feather light, polite, testing, non-assuming, but dripping with meaning. He never demands, he never grabs, he never rushes. He just lets himself slowly relearn the language of contact.

The station doesn’t tease him about it. Somehow, collective unspoken agreement settles that nobody should scare him back inside his armor. Not when he’s finally stepping out piece by piece. Natasha catches a few moments between you two, her eyes sharper than anyone else’s, but she simply smirks to herself because she sees the blessing of quiet healing when it’s right in front of her.

And you… you find yourself anticipating those small touches as much as he does. You don’t chase them, you don’t force them, you just gently meet them halfway every time he reaches.

And in the slow, silent corners of the station, where coffee steam curls in the low kitchen light and cinnamon and sugar linger in the air from last week’s rolls, you watch a man rediscover something he hasn’t allowed himself to want in years, the simple luxury of being touched without fear.

And Bucky learns—one soft brush of skin at a time—that he wants more.

The next two Saturdays become this quiet study of small proximity—like the space between you is its own gravity field and Bucky’s learning the pull of it in real time. It never happens in big gestures, never anything dramatic that would make the guys at the station crack jokes or ruin the fragile pace the two of you have found.

One Saturday you bring blueberry crumble bars. Natasha eats two, Sam tries to pick at the entire tray before Steve smacks his hand away like a disappointed parent. And Bucky sits next to you like that is the most natural place in the world to sit.

He doesn’t even think about choosing another chair anymore. His body makes the decision before his mind can get in the way. His arm rests on the back of your chair—not wrapped around you, but behind you.

He doesn’t even seem aware he’s doing it until halfway through your story about one of your students making up a conspiracy theory about why pencils exist, which was unhinged and adorable and your favorite thing all week, and then you see him slowly realize how close he actually is.

He should move, he knows he should move, but he doesn’t.

You feel the warmth of him at your back, the way his presence curls lightly around your spine like a secret he forgot to keep hidden. You don’t call it out, you don’t flinch or shy away. You just stay exactly where you are—and you watch the moment he realizes you’re not pulling from him. His shoulders settle like a slow exhale.

Later, when Steve asks you to grab something from the supply closet, Bucky follows without thinking. He insists he needs to get new gloves too, though you’re almost positive every glove in that closet is alphabetized by size and condition like his personal religion. But he’s there, standing behind you as you reach for the plastic bin on the second shelf. You stretch a little further and lose your balance by just a degree—not even enough to cause chaos—just enough for your feet to shift.

Bucky catches your elbow. Not a reflex of panic, but a reflex of instinct. His palm slides warm and steady around the bend of your arm, fingers wrapping gently just above your wrist, grounding you with more tenderness than pressure. The touch is nothing more than support—but the gentleness in it makes your breath catch mid-inhale. “You good?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you say, turning toward him slightly with the bin held against your chest. Your arm is still in his hand. “Just misjudged how far back they shoved this.”

He doesn’t drop your arm right away. His thumb shifts—just once—in a tiny, unconscious sweep. It’s barely movement, but it feels like a full sentence. And Bucky looks like he realizes in that exact millisecond that he’s gotten used to touching you. That he wants more of it.

He clears his throat and drops his hand, stepping back a respectable amount—but the air between you stays charged. You don’t push it, you just smile at him and head back out into the kitchen like nothing monumental happened, even though both of you are now thinking about nothing but that touch.

When you leave that evening, Bucky walks you to the door again. He always does now. No one calls attention to it. It’s just routine. Your routine. At the door, you shift your bag higher on your shoulder and his hand rises automatically—like he’s going to take it from you—like he’s ready to help you carry it without thinking—but he catches himself halfway and lets his hand fall back down. It’s so small. So ordinary. So charged. You give a soft smile, almost teasing, but not quite. “See you next week?”

There’s no hesitation anymore. “Yeah,” he says, eyes warm in a way that’s new, edges less sharp. “I’ll save you a seat.”

You don’t know if he realizes how much more intimate that sounds compared to anything else you’ve shared—but you leave with that sentence echoing through you the entire walk home.

By the next Saturday, Bucky starts waiting for the sound of your footsteps before you’ve even parked your car outside. He doesn’t tell anyone that, of course—he sits at the kitchen table with his mug like always, pretending he’s been there all morning, pretending he doesn’t check the clock every five minutes. Sam catches him glancing toward the door once and smirks, but he doesn’t say a word. No one does anymore. The teasing stopped the moment they realized something was happening quietly between the two of you—something delicate and steady that didn’t need noise.

You always come in the same way: soft knock on the frame, a smile first, your voice warm with that teacher-bright tone that seems to filter out the station’s gray edges. The kitchen fills with you as soon as you enter, like you bring your own weather with you. Today, your hair smells faintly like sugar and butter, and Bucky feels that scent settle somewhere low and calm inside him.

He greets you now, which still surprises you a little every time. “Hey,” he says, voice still rough but softer around the vowels. He stands up when you walk in—not because he means to, but because it feels wrong to stay seated while you’re carrying something heavy. You hold up your containers and he reaches automatically, taking them from your hands before you can protest. The brush of fingers is so casual now that neither of you pause, but the quiet electricity is still there, pulsing underneath everything.

“Got your favorite,” you tell him, pointing to the smaller container. “Cinnamon rolls. The others get the cookies this time.”

He gives a small nod, lips twitching at the corner. “You really don’t have to—”

“You said to bring them again,” you interrupt, teasing. “You can’t take it back now.”

“Didn’t say I was takin’ it back,” he mutters, and you catch the faintest ghost of a smile. It’s there and gone in an instant, but it’s real.

You unload the cookies while Bucky takes the rolls to the far counter. He doesn’t let anyone else near them until you’ve had your share. Sam groans dramatically when he notices. “Oh, so the rolls are exclusive now? Is that it?” Sam says, eyeing the container like he’s preparing for a heist.

“Yeah,” Bucky says simply, not even looking up. “They are.”

The room falls into a stunned silence for half a beat before Sam bursts out laughing, shaking his head. Natasha smirks from her corner with a knowing hum, and Steve hides his grin behind his coffee mug. You’re half-laughing, half-embarrassed, warmth spreading through your chest like sunlight. Bucky doesn’t even seem embarrassed about claiming them—or you—in that small, quiet way. He just sits down, pulls the lid off, and starts spreading frosting over one like it’s his ritual.

When you join him at the table, he slides the second roll toward you without looking, like it’s already decided. “Made sure I saved you one before Wilson tried to steal it.”

You take it with a small laugh. “Thank you.”

The rest of the morning unfolds gently, the rhythm familiar now. You all linger in the kitchen longer than necessary, talking about nothing important—school stories, local events, the fair coming up in a few weeks. Natasha mentions volunteering for the kids’ safety booth, and Bucky glances up when you say you’ll be helping there too. He doesn’t comment, but you see the flicker in his eyes—interest, curiosity, something softer you can’t quite name yet.

After a while, Sam and Steve head out to check equipment, and Joaquín leaves to run errands, leaving just you, Bucky, and Natasha in the kitchen. She excuses herself after a few minutes, mumbling something about needing peace before the chaos returns. That leaves the two of you alone at the table, the low hum of the fridge filling the quiet between sentences.

You start to stand to wash a few dishes, but Bucky’s hand finds your forearm before you can move. It’s the lightest touch—barely there—but his thumb brushes once against your sleeve. “Leave it,” he says. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”

You freeze for half a second, not at the words, but at how naturally he touched you. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s done it until you look at him. His fingers stay there a second longer than they need to, warm and steady, before he lets go and reaches for the plates instead. You sit back down, quiet, watching him.

He’s methodical when he cleans—careful and exact. You catch the way he hums softly under his breath, a habit you’ve never heard from him before. It’s low and tuneless, but peaceful. When he turns to grab a towel, you stand and move beside him to help, not saying anything. The two of you move around each other easily, unspoken choreography. At one point, your hand reaches for the same mug he’s drying, and your fingers brush again. He doesn’t freeze this time; he looks at you instead, his eyes flicking up, blue and tired and open.

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking the mug.

“Anytime,” he says quietly.

You finish cleaning in silence, but it’s comfortable—the kind of silence that feels shared rather than empty. When you finally pack up to leave, he’s leaning against the counter again, towel slung over his shoulder, hair a little damp from running his wet hands through his hair. He looks at you for a long moment before speaking. “You always bring something,” he says, almost like he’s thinking out loud. “Even when you’ve got a long week. Even when you look tired.”

You shrug, smiling a little. “It’s my way of winding down. And you all appreciate it. Mostly Sam,” you add with a laugh.

He huffs a laugh too, short but genuine. “I appreciate it more than I say.”

That catches you off guard, but you meet his eyes and see that he means it, completely. “I know,” you say softly. “I can tell.”

He nods once, then takes a breath like he’s going to add something else but decides against it. Instead, he steps closer and opens the door for you. You pass him on the way out, the scent of soap and cinnamon filling the small space between you. He doesn’t move right away. The side of his arm brushes yours, just a whisper of contact, but the simplicity of it makes the moment feel big. “See you next Saturday?” you ask, tilting your head slightly toward him.

His mouth quirks, barely a smile but enough to feel like one. “Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it.”

As you walk away, he lingers by the doorway for a moment, watching you until you turn the corner. When you’re gone, he looks back at the kitchen—the empty mugs, the faint traces of cinnamon on the counter, the chair you always sit in—and for the first time in a long while, he realizes the week ahead feels like the wait between good things instead of the grind toward the next shift.

Saturday used to be just another day in the rotation. Now it feels like the only one that matters.

You show up to the station one Saturday and the kitchen is already… set up. Someone went and made space on the counter, like they’d been expecting you and your containers. Someone laid out the cutting board, the butter knife, the napkins. Someone rinsed out the carafe and made a fresh batch of coffee thirty minutes before you arrived, just to make sure it would be hot when you walked in.

It’s Bucky. Obviously.

He pretends he didn’t. Pretends that’s just how the kitchen always is. But Sam catches your eye and mouths you did this to him the moment Bucky walks away to grab mugs.

You hide your smile in your sleeve.

When you open your container today, you notice Bucky doesn’t wait. He doesn’t hang back like he needs to “pretend to think about it.” He comes to the counter first. He claims his plate first. He doesn’t bother letting anyone else investigate what you brought before he does. He scoops icing and spreads it over his cinnamon roll with the same careful concentration you’ve come to adore—like food is a language too, and slow is how he honors it.

No flashy commentary. No teasing. Just soft ownership. He bites in, eyes shuttering, jaw going slack for a millisecond before he pulls it back under control. You see his shoulders drop a fraction, like sweetness somehow releases tension in his spine. And then… he actually speaks before anyone else does. “These are even better than last week.”

Sam nearly chokes on his coffee, Natasha quietly grins behind her cup like she just saw a planet finally rotate into alignment, and Steve pretends he’s not impressed, but he looks away to hide the way he’s smiling too hard.

And you just stand there, your heart doing something absurd, gentle, and painfully tender in your chest. Because he didn’t say it begrudgingly. He didn’t say it like he was forced or pushed, he offered praise—volunteer level, willingly.

You hand him a fork but he doesn’t take it the regular way anymore. He takes it from your fingers directly, brushing skin intentionally this time. That subtle slide of his fingertip across yours is deliberate. It lingers a half beat longer than necessary. He could easily avoid contact but he chooses not to.

You sit beside him with your own roll, and for a good twenty minutes the room just fills with quiet chatter and slow chewing and contentment. It feels absurdly domestic, like a messy little chosen weekend breakfast you don’t want to end. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t armor himself from the world. He doesn’t isolate from the noise of his friends. He sits with you—like this is where he fits.

At one point you’re telling him a story about a field trip your class is taking to the petting zoo and how you’re worried about one particular child trying to smuggle out a goat. He listens, leaning his chin into his palm, eyes on you the entire time like nothing else competes for his attention. Every few sentences he makes these tiny reactions—lips pursing when you mention chaos, eyes softening when you describe their excitement, a quiet huff laugh when you mention bribes in the form of stickers.

It’s this subtle emotional matching that sneaks up on you.

He isn’t just listening. He’s attuning.

When your plates are empty, he takes them from you automatically to rinse and dry. You don’t even have to ask. You don’t even have to offer. That’s just the role he takes now, unspoken. You cook. He cleans. It’s the smallest domestic ecosystem that somehow feels like the most intimate thing you’ve ever built with someone.

On your way out hours later, Steve and Joaquín are arguing about grill season, Natasha’s flipping through her paper, and Sam is half-dozing on the couch. It’s loud but warm. Familiar but safe.

Bucky walks you out like always.

And this time, when you turn to say goodbye, he doesn’t hover awkwardly or shove his hands into his pockets to protect himself. He stands a little closer and his eyes find yours without darting away. And in that space between breath and reason, his fingers catch the strap of your bag gently—just hooking it in place as if helping settle it on your shoulder is second nature now. It’s nothing dramatic. It doesn’t send shockwaves. It’s just… soft. “You drive safe, alright?” he says, quiet but earnest.

You nod once, smiling. “I will.”

He lets his fingers slide away slowly. Not rushed. Not nervous. Because somewhere between cinnamon and quiet mornings, you’ve become part of his weekend. You’ve become the only break in his routine he actually looks forward to.

And when the door closes behind you, the entire station sees the way he lets out a breath like holding himself together took effort he didn’t want to spend anymore. Sam doesn’t tease, Natasha doesn’t smirk, and Steve just claps him once on the shoulder on his way past.

Bucky doesn’t say it out loud, but everyone knows. Saturday is no longer just the day he endures. It has become the day he lives for.

By the time the school fair starts creeping closer on your calendar, you’ve gotten comfortable in the routine. Saturdays are Bucky days now. They’re warm and easy and slow in a way that feels almost sacred—like everything else in the week exists just to lead toward them. You don’t say this out loud to anyone, obviously, not even Wanda, even though she definitely sees something changing. She sees it before you are ready to claim it.

It’s Wednesday afternoon and you’re both in your classroom after dismissal. Wanda is perched on your desk, sipping from her tea, grading spelling tests and occasionally laughing under her breath at some of the answers. You’re organizing your materials for the spring fair games, sorting little giveaway bags, taping up the poster that says “FOLLOW THE FOOTPRINTS FOR PRIZES”—all glitter marker and 3rd grade chaos charm.

You think about the fair and immediately think about Bucky.

It pops into your head so naturally that it catches you off guard. Before, it would’ve felt like a stretch… like worlds couldn’t possibly overlap. But now, your worlds have already started to bleed into each other. He knows about your classroom, he knows your kids’ nicknames, he knows your habit of stress-baking. And more importantly, he listens. That’s the part you can’t let go of. The part where this man, who trusts almost nothing outside his own hands, trusts you.

Wanda glances over and catches that particular expression on your face—that soft internal conflict hovering at the edges of possibility. “You’re thinking about something,” she says knowingly.

You blink. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been staring at the same sticker sheet for two full minutes,” she says with a little smirk. “And you only do that when you’re overthinking something.”

You look down and yeah, you are literally holding the same sheet of star stickers, frozen mid-air like your brain has been suspended in amber. You try to look casual, not suspicious. “I was just thinking… maybe I should ask someone to come. You know. Just for moral support. It’s going to be chaos and—”

Wanda doesn’t even let you finish. “You should invite Bucky.”

You inhale sharply. “I didn’t say it was Bucky.”

“You didn’t need to.” She laughs softly, finishing her tea before setting the mug down. “Every time you talk about him you smile like someone just lit a candle inside you.”

You open your mouth to deny it, but she raises an eyebrow. The kind of eyebrow that says don’t insult both of us by pretending. You sigh then, leaning back against the wall beside the glitter poster. “It’s different with him,” you admit quietly. “I don’t… want to push him. He’s slow. He’s careful with everything.”

“And you already match him there,” Wanda says gently. “You’re not rushing him. You’re just… letting something grow.”

You chew your lip for a moment. “Do you think he’d even want to go? It’s a school event. Loud kids, small town noise, crowds.”

“Maybe that’s exactly the kind of trust bridge this kind of thing needs,” she counters, eyes soft. “It’s safe, it’s you. And he likes spending time with you, he lights up on Saturdays. I’ve literally seen it happen.” You flush, warm, because hearing it aloud makes your chest ache in a good way. Wanda leans closer, lowering her voice like this is a secret spell she’s whispering just for you. “Invite him out of his world… and into yours.”

You look down at your glitter poster again, the little stars catching the classroom lights. You imagine him here, awkward but warm, secretly charmed by the kids, maybe helping you hold things or laughing at their terrible knock-knock jokes. You imagine his hand brushing your wrist as he hands you a prize bag. You imagine just… existing with him outside stainless steel tables and cinnamon rolls.

And suddenly it doesn’t feel impossible. It feels… right. You exhale, steadying your voice. “Okay,” you say quietly. “I’ll ask him on Saturday.”

Wanda smiles like she already knew you were going to say that. She reaches for her grading stack again, finalizing her last test. “Good. Because I think he needs to see that he belongs somewhere outside that station. And I think he deserves to see where you shine.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You let those words sink deep. And for the rest of the afternoon, while you staple more posters and prep game bins, your heart feels different. Lighter. Braver. The idea of inviting him doesn’t feel terrifying anymore.

It feels hopeful. It feels like the next natural step in the slow burn you’ve been building together—one cinnamon roll at a time.

Saturday comes, and you spend the morning trying not to overthink the invitation. It’s ridiculous, really—you’ve spent months in the same room with Bucky, talking, laughing, baking, brushing hands and pretending it’s casual. You’ve built a rhythm. But this feels different. Asking him to the fair means stepping out of that familiar bubble. It means letting your two worlds touch. It means giving him a window into the life you built before he was part of it.

You bake early to keep yourself busy. Chocolate chip muffins this time—simple, comforting, impossible to mess up. You tell yourself you’ll just see how the day goes. If it feels right, you’ll ask. If not, no harm done. But even as you think it, you’re already choosing which words to use, rehearsing them under your breath while the muffins rise.

The station hums like always when you walk in—low music, the sound of someone sweeping, laughter echoing from the common room. You’re met with the same warmth that’s become ritual, the same voices calling your name, the same easy energy that makes you feel like you belong.

But Bucky’s the first person you see. He’s standing at the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour. He’s cooking—actually cooking—something in a skillet. The sight freezes you in place for a second. It’s not because he’s cooking, though that’s impressive enough, but because it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him share that space the way you do. “Morning,” he says, glancing up from the pan. His voice is rougher than usual, but softer somehow. “You’re early.”

“So are you,” you tease, smiling. “Didn’t peg you as the Saturday morning pancake type.”

He smirks faintly. “I’m not, but Sam’s been bragging about his cooking all week, so I thought I’d remind him what good actually tastes like.”

From the table, Sam yells, “you’re using my recipe!”

Bucky’s smirk grows. “And somehow still making it better.”

You laugh, moving to set down your container of muffins. He looks at it, then at you, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Those for us?”

“Always,” you say. “Figured you might need something to go with your… culinary competition.”

He takes one of the muffins without hesitation. It’s something you’ll never stop noticing—that small act of trust, how it still feels like a quiet miracle each time. He breaks it in half, steam curling up, and nods in quiet approval. “Good,” he says simply, like it’s law.

You help with the dishes while he finishes cooking, falling into that easy rhythm again. You hand him a towel, he hands you a spatula, the two of you brushing against each other in that familiar, subtle orbit you’ve built. Every accidental touch feels intentional now. Every small space between you feels electric.

When everyone sits down to eat, you slide into the chair beside him automatically. It’s become your seat; no one questions it. Bucky makes a show of setting your plate in front of you first, then his own. You catch Natasha watching him, her smirk small and secret, and you fight the urge to hide your smile behind your fork.

The conversation flows as it always does—banter, teasing, casual updates. You wait for the right moment, the right lull in the noise. When Steve gets up to grab more coffee and Sam starts talking about a neighborhood dog that won’t stop following their truck, you finally look toward Bucky. “Hey,” you say quietly, just enough for him to hear over the chatter.

He glances at you, eyes steady. “Yeah?”

“So, my school’s having its spring fair next weekend,” you start, picking at your napkin. “It’s kind of a big thing for the kids. Games, food, chaos—good chaos. I usually work one of the booths, but it’s a lot of running around.”

He listens closely, nodding a little. You can tell he’s trying to picture it.

You take a breath, deciding to just jump. “I was thinking… maybe you could come? You don’t have to stay long, I just thought you might like to see it. Wanda’s volunteering too—you’d like her, she’s great.”

Bucky’s brow furrows slightly. “You want me to come to a school event?”

There’s no teasing in it—just genuine surprise, a soft disbelief that someone would want him there. “I do,” you say simply. “You’re good with people, even if you think you’re not. And I think you’d enjoy it. Plus, you’ve heard about these kids for months, feels only fair you meet the legends.”

His mouth curves, small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up at you. “You really want me there?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”

He studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to make sure this isn’t pity or obligation. When he finally nods, it’s slow, thoughtful. “Alright,” he says. “If you’re sure, I’ll come.”

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “Good. I’ll save you some cotton candy.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Not sure I trust fairground food.”

“Then I’ll bring snacks,” you counter easily. “My snacks. You trust those.”

His eyes linger on you, and something flickers there—something softer, something that looks dangerously close to fond. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

The rest of the day passes like it always does, filled with chatter and work and the easy rhythm of routine. But beneath it, something new hums. You can feel it every time he looks at you, every time his hand brushes yours as you move around the kitchen.

And later, when you leave, he walks you to your car like he always does. The afternoon sun is soft on the pavement, the world unhurried. You turn to him before getting in, hand resting lightly on the door. “Thanks for saying yes,” you say quietly.

He shrugs, but his voice is warm when he answers. “Couldn’t let the kids down, could I?”

You grin. “Or me?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just gives a small, almost shy smile. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Or you.”

When you drive away, you see him still standing there in the rearview mirror, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he’s still watching you go. And as you turn the corner, your chest feels full in a way that’s new and familiar all at once.

He’s coming into your world next week.

The fair day dawns bright and loud, the kind of spring morning that feels like sugar in the air—kids’ laughter already echoing down the main street, vendors setting up booths, music floating from the community speakers. The smell of kettle corn and fried dough hangs over the whole town like a promise. You arrive early, wearing one of the school T-shirts with your name on the back, arms already full of poster boards and tickets. It’s chaos, and you love it.

You help Wanda set up the game booth—ring toss, bean bags, a giant jar of jellybeans for kids to guess at. She’s wearing sunglasses, sipping tea, looking like she owns the place, and occasionally humming in amusement every time a student runs up to greet you like you’re a celebrity. “They worship you,” she says, adjusting the rings on her table. “You know that, right?”

“They’re eight,” you laugh. “They worship whoever gives them stickers and sugar.”

Still, the affection warms you. You love your kids, the energy, the noise, the chaos. But as the crowd thickens, a part of you can’t stop flicking toward the street, scanning faces as if you’re expecting someone—hoping, really. Wanda catches the motion. “You’re looking for him,” she says without even pretending it’s a question.

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “He said he’d come. He doesn’t have to, though. I wouldn’t blame him if—”

Wanda interrupts you with a small smile. “He’ll come. He’s a quiet one, not a liar.”

You try not to overanalyze it, you focus on your booth, the crowd, the small joys of the morning. You laugh with your students, cheer when they win prizes, and help clean up spilled lemonade. It’s easy to get lost in the noise, the blur of color and movement.

And then—there he is.

You don’t see him approach right away. You feel him first, a subtle shift in the air behind you, the quiet weight of someone standing close but not too close. You turn, and Bucky’s there at the edge of the booth, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other holding a small brown paper bag. He’s dressed differently than usual—still simple, still him, but softer somehow. Jeans, a plain gray henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows. The sunlight catches in his hair, a faint breeze teasing it.

You freeze for a beat, because something about seeing him here, in your world, out of uniform and duty, hits deeper than you expected. “You came,” you manage finally, voice caught between surprise and warmth.

He gives a small, lopsided smile. “Told you I would.” He holds up the paper bag. “Brought backup snacks, just in case fair food’s as bad as I think it is.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you too easily. “You really didn’t trust my cotton candy plan?”

“Didn’t say I don’t trust you,” he counters, and the way he says it—steady, quiet, completely earnest—makes your chest tighten.

Wanda materializes beside you like smoke, smiling at Bucky with that curious teacher’s-eye look she gives to every new person she meets. “So you’re the infamous firefighter,” she says, extending her hand. “She’s told me about you.”

Bucky shakes her hand politely, shooting you a look that’s equal parts suspicion and amusement. “All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly,” Wanda says, smiling. “You’re taller than I pictured.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I get that a lot.”

You glare at her playfully, but she just waves and says, “I’ll go check the dunk tank before the kids decide to flood it early,” before wandering off.

The two of you stand there, momentarily caught between laughter and quiet. Around you, the fair buzzes—kids running past, someone yelling about funnel cake, the smell of caramel apples thick in the air. But somehow, it feels like it’s just the two of you. “Want me to show you around?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Lead the way.”

You walk through the fair together. He doesn’t talk much at first—he doesn’t need to. He listens, hands in his pockets, occasionally making some dry comment that makes you laugh. You take him past the art booths, where your students’ projects hang in rows of color, and he stops in front of one labeled with your name. It’s a collage your class made—a field of handprints in paint, each signed by a child, surrounded by cut-out letters that spell The Best Teacher Ever! It’s uneven and smudged and perfect.

Bucky studies it longer than you expect him to, a faint softness pulling at his mouth. “They really love you,” he says quietly.

You shrug, embarrassed. “They’re good kids.”

He glances down at you, something thoughtful in his eyes. “You’re good with them,” he says simply. “It shows.”

The compliment lands heavier than he probably intended. It isn’t the words—it’s the way he says them, steady and sincere, like it’s not even a question, like it’s a fact.

You move on, showing him everything—your favorite stall for handmade candles, the game where the kids always cheat, the bake sale Wanda and the PTA moms are running. At one point, you find yourself next to him in front of the cotton candy machine, and you laugh as a gust of wind blows sugar threads into your hair. Without thinking, he reaches out and brushes them away.

The touch is brief, featherlight, but his fingers linger at your temple for half a second before dropping. His breath catches. Yours does too. “You’ve got, uh,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “Sugar in your hair.”

“Tragic,” you say, your voice a little too soft.

“Catastrophic,” he agrees, mouth twitching.

You both laugh, a little shy, a little stunned, and move on. But the touch stays, and it hangs there like a memory neither of you wants to disturb.

Later, as the afternoon fades and the crowd begins to thin, you sit on the curb with a paper cup of lemonade, your knees almost touching. The air smells like sun and sugar and pavement. You don’t talk much, you don’t have to, the silence feels full instead of empty.

“You were right,” Bucky says finally, nodding toward the fairgrounds. “Wasn’t so bad.”

You smile at him, eyes squinting against the last bit of light. “Told you.”

He looks at you then—not the quick glances he used to give, not the cautious observation from behind a wall, but openly, with quiet awe. Like he’s finally seeing how you look in your own world. Surrounded by color, laughter, tiny sticky hands tugging your sleeves, your voice still warm even after hours of talking.

For Bucky, something settles deep in his chest that he can’t name. It’s not attraction—he’s already been living in that. It’s something deeper, more domestic. It’s the feeling of home.

You notice the look but don’t name it either. You just smile back, soft and unguarded. “Thanks for coming,” you say quietly. “It meant a lot.”

He shrugs, but there’s no deflection in it this time. “Anytime,” he says, voice low. “I liked seeing your world.”

You sit there a little longer, until the lights start flickering on and the first stars slip out behind the clouds. And when you finally stand to leave, he offers his hand—not out of obligation, not because it’s polite, but because it’s instinct now. You take it without hesitation. His palm is warm, steady, a little calloused. You hold on just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

And when you walk back through the fairgrounds, side by side, your hands brush again and again until they finally stay that way. Fingers linked loosely, not claiming, not rushing. Just… together.

The crowd hums around you, the night growing soft, and Bucky realizes something simple and terrifying all at once:

He doesn’t just like your Saturdays anymore. He likes you everywhere.

He starts showing up in small ways outside Saturdays. You’ll be in your classroom after school prepping next week’s math centers and there will be a knock at the door. You look up and he’s leaning in the doorway, one hand tucked in his jacket, holding a thermos of coffee like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He pretends he’s dropping it off because Steve accidentally made too much at the station—not because he just wanted to see you.

But the second he steps into your room and sees your kids’ artwork taped to the walls and your desk covered in glitter glue and fidget toys and half laminated name tags, he looks around like he’s inside something he never imagined existed: harmless chaos. “You deal with this every day?” he murmurs, stunned but not mocking, eyes darting around like he’s trying to translate children in their natural terrain.

“And willingly,” you tease, passing him a marker so he has something to do with his hands before he overloads. “Some people like adrenaline. I like sticker negotiations and ‘please stop licking the book’ diplomacy.”

He huffs out that tiny almost laugh he does—the one at the edge of softness—and helps you hang up a few more student drawings without saying anything else. And it’s the way he stands next to you, shoulder brushing yours every so often, that tells you he didn’t come here because of extra coffee at the station at all. He came because he wanted to be here. Because being near you doesn’t drain him—it restores something.

He starts noticing when you’re tired now, too. Not in a pitying way—he doesn’t talk to you like you need fixing. He just quietly slides a container of his meal prep toward you when you mention skipping lunch. He brings extra apples one day and tosses one to you without even looking up from the newspaper. He casually hands you his jacket when you shiver taking trash out to the dumpster behind the station, acting like it’s not a big deal while his eyes track you the entire way back inside.

And you start to see how much he craves small, steady connection—even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it. When you walk beside him now, he reaches for your arm lightly—not tight, not possessive, just guiding. When you laugh, he leans in closer, almost subconsciously. When you hand him a napkin or utensil or anything at all, he always touches your fingers first before taking it from you. Like contact is becoming a language.

Sam notices before you do. One afternoon at the station, you reach across the table to pass Bucky a spoon and his hand slides along yours like muscle memory, like instinct, and Sam chokes mid swallow until Steve kicks his ankle under the table with military precision. Natasha doesn’t say a word—she watches with narrowed amusement like she always knew this was exactly where the slow burn was heading.

And Bucky? He just keeps doing it. Little touches. Little claims disguised as casual nothing gestures. He doesn’t call attention to them and neither do you. You just lean in gently, matching his pace, letting him guide in the small quiet ways he’s comfortable with.

The first time you walk outside together after a long Saturday shift and the night air settles cool against your skin, he reaches out and hooks his hand lightly behind your elbow—barely pressure at all—but you can feel how deliberate it is. You can feel that he wanted that contact. That he wanted you closer. “You okay?” you ask softly, turning toward him.

He takes a slow breath before answering, looking almost surprised at himself. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet, steady-sincere. “Just… making sure you don’t get lost on the sidewalk.”

The excuse is thin. Laughable. Ridiculous. And when you look up at him with that sunshine softness he pretends doesn’t undo him, he tries to scowl and fails. You don’t call him out, you don’t burst his cover. You just lean closer and bump your shoulder into his gently. “Guess I’m lucky you’re here to keep me on track,” you say.

And he breathes in slow like your words went somewhere deeper than lungs. Because that’s the part that’s melting him the most. Not the baking, not the quiet weekends, not the familiar routine. It’s the fact that when he reaches for you—however small, however hesitant—you reach back without fear. And that kind of safety is something he hasn’t let himself want in a very, very long time.

The kids were wild because it’s almost spring break, you spilled half your coffee down your front before first bell, and someone tried to feed the classroom fish a Cheez-It. Upstairs chaos and glitter. But you got lucky—this week the lunch schedule shifted because of standardized testing, so you have a full, rare, unheard-of long lunch break. Wanda gives you a lazy little smirk and a sing-song “use it wisely” before disappearing to the teacher’s lounge.

You’re sitting at your desk when you hear the soft knock on your door. You don’t even look up at first—expecting a student who forgot a water bottle or who needs a pencil sharpened even though class ended twenty minutes ago.

Then his voice fills the doorway, that calm, low, gravelly voice that already lives in your body now. “You free?”

You look up so fast your neck might actually crack. Bucky stands just inside the threshold, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket, the other holding his helmet. A motorcycle helmet. He looks like the kind of trouble that’s good for a soul no matter how you try to reason yourself out of it. You blink at the helmet, then at him. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most normal thing in the world that a stoic firefighter has just casually appeared in your classroom like he belongs there. “Natasha said you had a long lunch today. Thought I’d steal you.”

You stare for a second and it’s embarrassing how warm your face gets. “Steal me?”

“Borrow,” he corrects, pushing off the doorframe and stepping deeper into the room. His eyes scan the chaos—markers everywhere, spelling posters half laminated, glitter flakes stuck to the tile floor, handprint art drying on the window sills. He takes it all in like he always does, curiosity softening him around the edges. “Lunch?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, still a little startled. “Yeah, I’m free.”

He walks toward your desk slowly, eyes holding yours the entire time. “I brought the bike,” he says, lifting the helmet slightly so the light catches on the visor. “Hope you’re not scared of motorcycles.”

You don’t even hesitate. “I’m not.”

Something flickers across his face then—something predatory but soft, like he just discovered a shared secret before it’s spoken. He holds out the helmet. You step around your desk and take it from him, fingers brushing over his as you do. His hand lingers against yours a second longer—small, steady contact—and your pulse kicks up instantly. “You ready?” he asks, voice lower now. Warmer.

You grab your sweater, turn off your overhead lights, and slip out the door beside him. He rests his hand at the small of your back as you exit the building, guiding you gently—not pushy, not claiming, but protective in a way that feels instinctive and natural.

The bike is parked right outside the staff lot. Sleek, black, and intimidating in a beautiful way. You put the helmet on and he adjusts the strap for you—careful thumbs brushing your jawline as he tightens it. His fingers tremble just slightly, barely there. “Trust me?” he asks.

You don’t look away. “Yeah. I do.”

The answer lands between you like something more binding than a promise.

He swings on first and you climb behind him, your hands hovering awkwardly for a half second before he reaches back and taps your thigh. “Hold on,” he says quietly. You slide your arms around his waist, fitting against his back, cheek brushing between his shoulder blades. His muscles go taut, breath catching like that single contact might overload him. Then he settles, breathing you in slowly.

And then you’re moving.

The wind hits your body, the speed curling around your legs, your arms tightening instinctively around him, your cheek pressing into the soft worn cotton of his shirt. You feel the rumble of the bike beneath you, the warmth of his torso under your palms, the faint scent of woodsmoke and soap and something inherently him. It feels like flying through something you’ve been waiting for without knowing it.

He takes you to a small diner on the edge of town—quiet, low key, with mismatched mugs and the best grilled cheese on the planet. He orders for both of you, gently nudging your knee under the table like he’s testing another version of contact he’s still learning he can have.

You talk about the fair again. You talk about his last call where nothing big happened and how Sam nearly got into a verbal duel with a neighborhood terrier. You tell him about a kid in your class who keeps trying to prove he can talk to worms. He listens like he’s cataloguing every detail, like your words are safely being stacked and labeled inside him.

When the check comes, you try to grab it but he gives you a look that says don’t. You let him. And when you climb back onto the bike, he doesn’t need to say hold on this time—you just do, arms sliding around him naturally.

The ride back is slower. He’s not showing off this time—he’s savoring the closeness. Back at the school parking lot, he helps unbuckle your helmet, fingers brushing your cheek, eyes locked on yours like the world shrank to three inches of space between you.

“That was nice,” you say quietly.

He nods, voice low and certain. “Yeah, we should do that again sometime.” A beat. “Not just Saturday.”

You feel it settle warm in your chest—this gentle shift into something that looks and feels dangerously real. You smile. “I’d like that.”

He steps back reluctantly, like he doesn’t actually want to put space back between you yet. But he does. Slowly. Respectfully. He tilts his head toward the school doors. “Go teach the tiny chaos gremlins,” he says, almost smiling. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

You watch him leave on the bike, wind whipping his hair as he pulls away. And as he disappears down the street, you press your palm to your sternum and realize something with bone-deep certainty, he didn’t steal you from school for lunch. He brought you into his world and let himself into yours again. And these small worlds are starting to not feel so separate anymore.

He doesn’t tell Sam, or Steve, or anyone really. But little shifts start to happen when you’re not around. One day he shows up to the station with a different creamer in his bag—one he’d seen you use in your coffee at the diner. He puts it in the fridge under the guise of “someone left it at the store cheap” but Sam wasn’t born yesterday.

Another day, he spends an hour quietly fixing the hinge on the supply cabinet at your classroom when he stops by after a run—not because it was broken in any way that mattered functionally, but because you were frustrated with how it squealed every time you opened it. He doesn’t tell you until you open it and it swings smoothly and you’re staring at him, dumbfounded.

“Oh,” he says, shrugging like he didn’t just spend his entire break doing it. “Just needed tightening.”

You start realizing he shows up when you need someone without you ever asking. And he doesn’t make a spectacle of solving problems. He doesn’t announce his presence or his help like some kind of performative hero thing, he just does it. And that quiet reliability begins to sink into you in a way that feels deeper than just comfort.

One afternoon after school, you’re sitting on the floor of your classroom grading math quizzes. Wanda is stapling a bulletin board. You’re telling her about the lunch day with Bucky—the motorcycle, the diner—and you’re trying to say it calmly, rationally, like it’s not burning itself into your skin in the fondest way possible. Wanda just smiles a little, shaking her head as she aligns the border at the corner of the board. “You’re already in it,” she says.

“Already in what?” you ask, though your pulse spikes because you know. You absolutely know.

“The middle of it,” Wanda says. “Whatever this is with him. You’re already there.”

You want to deflect. Or joke. Or hide behind sarcasm. But instead, you sit back on your palms, expression softening. There’s no dramatic “aha moment.” It’s just the quiet acknowledgment that she’s right. You’re already in it.

Later that week, Bucky ends up at the station kitchen with Steve late at night—quiet, low music humming through the empty room. He sits with a mug between his hands, thumb brushing the rim in slow thought. Steve washing out a pot stops and just regards him for a moment. “You really like her,” Steve says suddenly, not unkind, just observant.

Bucky doesn’t look up right away. He stares down at the mug like it holds the answer. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t deflect. He doesn’t growl his way out of it. He just breathes once through his nose and lets the truth exist between them. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

Steve smiles faintly, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen you this relaxed with anyone in years.”

“It’s different,” Bucky says, still not meeting his eyes. “She’s… soft. And steady. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t expect anything from me I can’t give.”

Steve leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “She’s good for you.”

Bucky’s jaw works for a second. He finally looks up, blue eyes tired and open. “I think I want to be good for her too.”

Steve doesn’t tease him for it. He doesn’t smirk or make a comment about feelings. He just nods once. “Then let it happen. Don’t think your way out of it.”

Bucky sits there long after Steve heads to bed—hands cupped around warm ceramic, staring into nothing—realizing there was no wall left to pretend to hide behind. Because somewhere between cinnamon rolls and motorcycle rides and tiny classroom repairs… he already stepped out of it.

And on the other side of town, you lay in bed later that night under the soft glow of your bedside lamp, re-reading your lesson plan, unable to fight the quiet smile that keeps pulling at your mouth every time you remember how he looked at you today. How he stood closer. How he listened with that focus of his like you were the only thing he wanted to absorb in the room.

This isn’t an almost-crush anymore. This isn’t “something’s maybe happening.” This is real. This is slow and gentle and certain. And both of you—without ever saying it out loud—finally understand it.

One Saturday morning at the station, you’re helping Sam chop fruit for some post-cleaning brunch and Bucky walks in, hair still wet from his shower. You smell the cedar shampoo on him before he even speaks. Without hesitating, he comes to stand beside you at the counter, close enough that his arm presses firmly against your side. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t pretend he didn’t notice. His shoulder stays flush with yours while you slice strawberries, like touching you is now his default starting point instead of a privilege that surprises him.

Sam glances at the way your bodies align and mutters something dramatic about “the universe shifting” before Bucky casually kicks his shin under the island counter, not even looking up from the fruit bowl. Sam hobbles away laughing to himself and Natasha smirks from the corner because she’s been waiting for this exact evolution.

Later, when you and Bucky take a break outside, you’re leaning against the front of the firetruck, sipping iced tea from a plastic cup. The early spring sun is warm against your skin. Bucky stands close—close enough that when the breeze hits, your sleeve brushes his forearm. He doesn’t shift away like he used to; instead, he rests his hand lightly against the small of your back.

Your breath catches—not because you weren’t expecting it, but because it feels so wonderfully normal. Instinctive. You don’t even look at his hand; you just lean gently into the contact, letting your body melt into that simple warmth like it belongs. “You got any plans later?” he asks, voice rough from the cool air.

“Just grading and laundry,” you answer. “Not exciting.”

He hums, thumb stroking the back waistband seam of your jeans in a small unconscious arc. “I could come by after shift. Fix that shelf you said was wobbly. We could order something in.”

You turn your head toward him, heart thudding slow and heavy. “I’d like that.”

He nods, eyes soft. No tease, no guard, just quiet meaning sitting heavy in the air between you. When you part ways later, his fingers trail gently along your wrist before letting go. It’s not accidental. It’s not subtle. And the feeling stays in your skin the entire drive home.

A few days later, it happens again—this time in your classroom when he stops by with coffee. You’re busy sorting folders and he leans against your desk, watching with that soft, observant attention he’s only ever given you. When you reach for the stack beside him, his hand covers yours and he holds it there—not just a brush of fingertips, but a slow, deliberate press. “Take a break,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, pulse fluttering under his palm. You don’t pull away and he doesn’t either. The stare lasts longer than it ever has—no one darting their eyes away this time. He lifts your hand slightly, thumb brushing small circles into your skin, almost reverent in how gentle it is. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you by touch alone.

And then, one night after dinner at your place—he’s fixing that shelf just like he said he would—you end up sitting on the floor organizing books and he ends up sitting beside you. The shelf is done, but neither of you move. His knees are bent, long legs stretched out in front of him, and your hip leans against his thigh where you sit shoulder to shoulder.

At one point, you shift to reach for a new stack of books… and he catches your hand again. But this time he doesn’t release it. This time his fingers slide slowly, intentionally between yours, interlacing like it’s the most natural progression in the world. Both of you freeze—not in panic or shock—but in sudden, quiet awareness.

The world goes gentle around the edges. His thumb strokes the inside of your hand again, slow and almost absent-minded like this is something he’s been wanting to do for weeks. You watch his eyes drop to your joined hands before lifting back to yours—open, calm, quiet.

No one speaks first because this moment doesn’t need narration. It is already declaration. Your head tilts slightly into his shoulder, and he exhales slow against your hair—like every tension he used as armor for years is starting to melt.

This isn’t guiding. This isn’t accidental. This isn’t helping. This is wanting. And for the first time, Bucky isn’t afraid to show that he wants you.

It’s a Tuesday. The school is hosting a district-wide teacher workshop, and you’re surrounded by colleagues you only see a few times a year. There’s a lunch spread in the library—half sandwiches, fruit, and cookies that look far better than they taste. Bucky had texted you that morning to tell you he was swinging by later with a container of stew, “real food,” he called it, so you’re in good spirits.

That’s when Adam—the new P.E. teacher—walks in. He’s all easy smiles and too much cologne, with that comfortable charm that gets him volunteered for every fundraiser and assembly. You know him in passing; he’s nice enough, good with the kids, harmless in the way men who haven’t been hurt often are. He waves when he sees you and walks right over.

You chat politely—just small talk about class schedules, the fair last month, his new after-school soccer program. It’s perfectly innocent. But when he leans closer to joke about your third graders and the “mystery glitter epidemic,” his hand brushes your elbow in a way that’s friendly but too familiar. You don’t think twice about it, laughing it off.

Except that’s the exact moment Bucky walks into the library.

You spot him over Adam’s shoulder instantly—dark jacket, thermos in one hand, that quiet confidence he wears like second nature. He was supposed to wait in your room, but of course he found you first. He always does. His expression is unreadable at first, all neutral and calm, but then his gaze dips to where Adam’s hand lingers near your arm before you move away.

It’s barely a flicker—a tightening of his jaw, a small stillness in his body—but you feel it. You know him well enough now to recognize the quiet current under the surface.

You excuse yourself from Adam politely and cross the room to meet Bucky halfway. His eyes soften as soon as you’re close, like the act of you coming to him defuses whatever sparked that flash of heat in his chest. “Hey,” you say gently, smiling. “You found me.”

He nods, voice low. “Yeah. Library wasn’t hard to guess.”

You glance down at the thermos and laugh. “You brought lunch.”

“Stew,” he says simply. “Didn’t want you living off whatever those are.” He nods toward the sad sandwiches, and you grin.

“You’re my hero.”

He tries to hide the faintest twitch of a smile, but it’s there. The jealousy isn’t ugly in him—it’s quiet, protective, edged in something vulnerable. You see it in the way he stands slightly closer to you than usual, the way his hand finds the small of your back while you walk toward an empty table, a small gesture that says you’re mine, right? without words.

You sit together, sharing his stew from the same thermos, and the world narrows until it’s just you and him. He doesn’t bring up Adam, doesn’t say a word about what he saw, but it’s in the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you the spoon, lingering a little longer than necessary. It’s in the way he looks at you when you laugh, softer now, calmer.

“Thanks for this,” you say, blowing on your spoon. “I’d be starving without you.”

“Can’t have that,” he mutters.

The silence after that isn’t awkward—it’s thick with unspoken things. You can practically feel what he’s thinking. Later, when the workshop ends and you’re walking him out to the parking lot, you bump his arm lightly. “You okay?” you ask.

He glances at you, startled by the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been quiet.”

He exhales through his nose, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Just… didn’t like seeing that guy touch you, that’s all.”

You stop walking, blinking up at him. His tone isn’t sharp—it’s hesitant, almost sheepish, as if he’s embarrassed by his own honesty. You step a little closer, voice gentle. “It wasn’t anything. He’s just friendly.”

“I know.” He shrugs, half-smiling but not looking at you. “Still. Didn’t like it.”

You study him for a moment—this big, careful man who’s spent years keeping everything locked up tight—and your heart squeezes. You reach out, curling your fingers around his wrist until his hand relaxes in yours. “You can tell me stuff like that,” you say softly. “You don’t have to swallow it.”

His gaze lifts slowly to meet yours. “You don’t think it’s… too much?”

You shake your head. “I think it’s kind of sweet, actually.”

That earns a small, reluctant grin from him—half relief, half self-deprecation. He looks down at your joined hands, turning them slightly so his palm faces up and your fingers slide together more naturally. “Guess I’m bad at playing it cool,” he admits.

You smile. “I like you better when you’re not trying to.”

Something warm flickers in his eyes at that, something unguarded and bright. He squeezes your hand once, firm and sure, and you both start walking again. And later that evening, when he drops you off at home, he doesn’t just walk you to the door. He hesitates there, hand still in yours, thumb tracing your skin like he’s memorizing it. “Just so you know,” he says, voice quiet but steady, “I’m not going anywhere. Even if there’s a line of guys waiting to bring you sandwiches.”

You laugh, soft and easy, leaning into him slightly. “I think I’ll stick with the guy who brings real food.”

That earns you his real smile—the one that breaks slow and a little shy before it settles into something sure. He bends just enough to press a light kiss to your forehead, lingering there for one heartbeat longer than he should. And when he pulls back, his voice drops to a whisper meant only for you. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t plan on sharing.”

It’s not possessive, not sharp. It’s gentle, warm, threaded with affection that’s been waiting months to breathe. And as you stand there with his hand still holding yours and the faint smell of stew and smoke between you, you realize something simple and certain—Bucky Barnes may not know how to be loud about his feelings, but when he loves, he does it with his whole, careful, deliberate heart.