🪷

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “I did.”

“Mm.” Your fingers walked up his sternum. “Twenty years old and you just happened to be first in line at the bookstore the day it hit the shelves? ‘One brand-new Tolkien, please, and make it snappy, I’ve got a whole depression-era future to get back to.’”

“My mother gave it to me. It had a dragon on the cover. I thought it might have illustrations.”

Snorting with laughter, you shifted higher, bracing your forearm against the mattress so you could look at him properly. Your hair slipped over one shoulder, brushing his collarbone. “And then what? You just… kept reading? Through everything that came after?”

“Tried to.” His metal hand found the small of your back again, the cool plates shifting in a low hum as his thumb stroked your skin in slow circles. “Some books stayed with me longer than people did. Easier that way. You could close a cover. People didn’t always give you that choice.”

You studied him for a long moment before your smile returned, softer this time, but still wicked around the edges.

“Okay. So you’ve read The Hobbit. What about the rest? Fellowship? Two Towers? Don’t tell me you stopped at the party scene and decided the rest was too long?”

His eyes narrowed in mock suspicion, though the warmth never left them. “You’re fishing.”

“Obviously.” You leaned in until your noses brushed, the quiet exhale of his breath against your lips. “Come on, Bucky. Spill. What else did the great James Buchanan Barnes smuggle into his life between odd jobs and looking after Steve?”

He pretended to think about it, gaze drifting to the ceiling. You could almost see the memories surface. You waited patiently for an answer because you knew he would give them to you if you asked the right way.

“Pride and Prejudice,” he admitted. “1942. Steve found it first in some abandoned house outside of Lyon. Wouldn’t stop talking about Darcy. I read it to shut him up but I liked it more than I expected.”

Your grin was pure triumph. “Elizabeth Bennet. Of course you liked her.”

“She had a spine.” His metal hand slid up your back, fingers weaving carefully into your hair, cradling the base of your skull with a gentleness that still surprised you sometimes. “Reminds me of someone.”

“Flatterer.”

“Truth.” He tugged you closer until your mouth was a breath from his, until the space between you felt charged and deliberate. “Your turn. What are you reading that I haven’t? Or are you going to keep collecting my secrets without offering any of your own?”

You pretended to consider it, lips brushing his with every careful word. The contact was feather-light, the kind of almost-kiss that made his breath catch just enough for you to notice. “I’ll tell you… if you admit you cried at the end of Return of the King.”

Bucky’s laugh vibrated through both of you. In one smooth motion he rolled, taking you with him, the world tilting until your back met the mattress and his weight settled carefully over you. His flesh arm braced on one side of your head, the metal one on the other, caging you in without trapping you.

“Maybe I did,” he murmured against your mouth. “The part where they say goodbye at the Grey Havens gets me every time. You gonna tease me about that too?”

Your answer was a soft kiss, and you threaded your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck, holding him there, letting the moment stretch. When you finally pulled back, your voice was barely more than a whisper against his lips.

“Every chance I get, my love,” you promised.

So, he never pulled on your hair. He’d pick little wildflowers and weave the tiny stems through your braids because they looked pretty. You’d smile and tell him how much you liked the little blossoms, and he’d smile because he made you happy. He did a good job, he was kind. You were beautiful. 

It extended into his teen years, too. Always one to be a shoulder to cry on, or offering up help with homework, or making sure to bring his lawnmower over to anyone’s home who needed a hand. Your parents commented on it the summer you’d gone on your annual visit to Smallville, sitting around the table with Mrs. Kent.

“That Clark is growing up to be a good boy,” your mom mentioned, spotting him out in the yard with his Pa and your dad. He lifted the tractor while his Pa reached up with his tools to fix something. “Very helpful.”

“He likes to make sure everyone’s taken care of.” Mrs. Kent grinned.

You leaned up a little, watching Clark for a moment. He’d always been sweet, and very friendly. It was almost odd to see someone so soft spoken and almost shy to display that kind of otherworldly strength. You’d known about it forever. Your parents and the Kents were long-time friends, and they were the only ones to know about the circumstances of Clark’s… adoption. A tiny, little baby who’d dropped from the sky. 

You parents hadn’t believed it at first until they’d seen the spacecraft for themselves. 

Your dad had gaped, then easily went to help Mr. Kent drag it to an old shed and out of the sight of any potentially-prying eyes. Your mom stared down at little Clark in Mrs. Kent’s arms, her hand placed gently on the swell of her stomach, thinking of her own baby, soon to be born. It was shocking.

More shocking when Clark started growing into his powers.

Now? He seemed to be able to lift anything without a second thought. As evidenced by his casual hold on the giant tractor.

“He’s always been sweet,” you comment softly, not noticing the soft look between your mother and Clark’s ma. 

Yours and Clark’s parents had sensed something for years.They’d always thought you two were just the most darling pairing as young kids: sleeping in the same crib as babies, sharing toys as toddlers, splashing in a tiny pop-up pool as a couple of rowdy six-year-olds.

They watched you as teenagers, always glued together when you thought nobody was paying any attention. Even when you’d both graduated high school, you still always came back to the Kent’s farm every summer on your own volition.

By the time you’d each left college, the summer you were pressed to each other’s sides with a couple glasses of wine on the front porch, they were certain of it: you’d end up together.

“So, what have you been doing lately, honey? I hear you're thinking of moving out to Metropolis by our Clark,” Mrs. Kent said, a soft, excited smile on her lips.

You chuckled once. “Yeah. I think I’m going to finish out the year at my job now, and then… yeah. I mean, there are so many great opportunities in Metropolis for writers. Clark is evidence of that.”

“Technically, I’m a journalist,” Clark added with a small smile.

“Dork.”

He just grinned, taking a big bite of his mashed potatoes. Your parents all shared some knowing glances, looking between the two of you. Twenty four years in the making, you would finally be in the exact right position for everything to work. Your mom was practically floating at the idea of planning a wedding. Mr. and Mrs. Kent were buzzing with the notion of grandbabies. Your dad was just happy you’d end up with someone he knew would treat you right. So, it was no surprise that they all felt like the floor had been swept out from under them when you spoke again.

“I’m thinking of it, too, because… well,” you paused for a moment, the whole room seemingly holding their breath. “I mean, my boyfriend has been talking about it, and I think we’re starting to get more serious, actually.”

Murmured questions and half-hearted congratulations were drowned out by Clark hearing his own heart beating in his chest.

Both of your folks had clearly been invested in the idea of the two of you forever. But Clark? He’d never thought to entertain the idea of you being with anybody. He supposed it made sense. You were friendly and beautiful and one of the funniest people he’d ever met. Lovely and, in his eyes, perfect. He’d been telling everyone at work that his life-long family friend was probably going to move nearby soon. He’d been planning in his head all the places he’d get to take you to in the city. Maybe even get your opinion on the suit his Ma was making for him to help people. He still hadn’t decided on a name for this alter-ego yet, and he thought you’d probably have some great ideas.

He’d built it up in his head so much that he’d never factored in that you might have someone besides him in the city. He just plastered on a smile that he hoped you wouldn’t see through and told you he was happy for you. A boyfriend. How… exciting.

January came around quickly. Clark trudged through the snow, finally getting to the door of his apartment building. He got in, shaking the snow off of his clothes and out of his dark hair before taking the elevator up to his unit. 

He liked winter. The snow was pretty, he got to go home for Christmas, and crime rates went down a bit in Metropolis. He had some time to relax. 

He peeled off his outer layers, setting his glasses careful on the kitchen counter. A warm shower and a cup of chamomile tea later, and he was sitting in his small living room watching an old movie re-run on cable. His phone started buzzing on the table, and he sighed. Duty calls, probably.

He looked down at the screen, and his mood flipped in an instant. He grinned widely when he saw your name flash on the screen, hitting the green answer button.

“Hi!”

He heard you laugh on the other end, it warmed his heart. “Hey, stranger. How’s it going?”

“Good! Y-yeah, good. Watching the snow fall in my apartment right now, it’s so pretty.”

“I bet.”

“Yeah…” he smiled, sinking back into his chair. “Uh, well, how are you? What’s the occasion?”

“I have to have an occasion to call you?”

He chuckled, the sound low and deep in his chest. He felt his cheeks warm. Whenever he talked to you, he often felt like he was still a teenager watching you try and fail to milk his favorite cow on the farm. He could still see you in his mind’s eye, still feeling that soft, fluttering feeling in his chest. Still realizing that you weren’t just a friend, you were a girl. A really pretty girl. A girl that made him feel things that a gentleman could certainly never voice.

“No. You don’t. You just usually do.”

“Touché,” you murmured, sighing softly on the other end of the line. “Well, I just wanted to let you know that I just signed a lease in Metropolis. I’m officially coming to the city.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He could hear the smile in your voice. “Yeah, Sam and I are gonna be moving in two weeks.”

“Oh. You and… you’re moving in together, huh?”

“Yeah. He’s been asking for a little while now, and I finally gave in.”

He heard you chuckle, but he couldn’t bring himself to smile about it. He didn’t know Sam. He had no real reason to hate him. But he did.

He’d seen pictures of him on your social media. He’d been caught by his Ma during Christmas zooming in on the man in one photo you’d posted. She just rested her hand on his shoulder, saying something about making him a cup of hot chocolate. Far too much pity in her voice.

“It’s fine, Ma. I’m fine,” he sighed, shutting off his phone.

She just looked at him for a moment. “You were zooming in awful close for someone who’s ‘fine’.”

He huffed. “She always said she didn’t like blonde guys. He’s blonde.”

His Ma did him the service of turning before she let herself chuckle a little. She wasn’t happy about this turn of events either, but… you were happy. She loved you like her own, and couldn’t bring herself to feel too sour about your recent relationship development. She reserved those feelings for whenever your mom brought it up first on their phone calls.

“I was just hoping maybe you could pick me up at the airport?”

“Y-you and Sam?”

“No, just me. Sam is gonna be a few days behind.”

“Oh. Yeah, I can do that. Of course.”

Clark begrudgingly took you to your new apartment two weeks later, helping you unpack and put up your furniture. He wasn’t upset to be helping you, of course. He loved helping you. He’d do anything you asked. He was grumpy about it because your boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to set up the apartment with you. He was supposed to be a few days behind you to tie up some things with his job before he left for Metropolis. But then, he had to spend an extra few days to go see his family out of the blue, and sent you a measly text asking you to unpack everything on your own.

Clark frowned the second you told him that you’d be doing it all yourself with that easy smile. He ignored your honey-sweet voice telling him he didn’t have to stay with you. Yes, he did. If your boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to help set up the apartment you’d share together, Clark certainly wouldn’t let you do it alone.

He felt your eyes on him as he sat on the ground, putting together your coffee table. He ignored it for a while, but eventually he broke down.

“What’re you looking at?” His voice was soft, the smallest twitch of his lip upward giving him away.

“You’re just… you’re a really good guy, Clark. I’m really happy I came here.”

“I’m happy you’re here, too. I’ve missed you,” he mumbled softly, finally looking up to meet your eyes. “It’ll be nice. Seeing you more than once or twice a year.”

You smiled, and his heart beat a little faster again. “Yeah, my mom has been over the moon about it. I think she’s just happy you’ll be around to protect me if I ever need you.”

“Aw, come on. I’m always around when you need me. I can fly anywhere, you know?”

You laughed. “I know. You’re closer now, though. Maybe we can spend more time together, too. That’d be fun.”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

“You and Sam will totally get along.”

Clark’s expression fell a little as he got back to work. Sam. He promised himself he’d be nice and give the guy a chance, for you. But he already wasn’t too sure about the guy for a number of reasons. Mostly that he got to you before Clark could work up the nerve. But Clark would be nice. He’d be good.

He was good, he was good, he was good. He told himself over and over again as he sat across from you at your parent’s home. He’d been invited over for a small party for your birthday with your family and his. Your aunts and uncles asked him about his job as a reporter in Metropolis. Your little cousins were drawn to him. Despite not knowing he was the new ‘Superman’, he always seemed to have a pull with kids. Almost like they could sense he was a protector through and through. Normally, he’d be happily indulging all their requests for him to push them on the swings, and he’d chat at length about your aunt’s latest paint-by-numbers piece she was working on. But he was distracted. Horribly and frustratingly distracted.

He watched you as you smiled at Sam, talked to his Ma, listened to your dad’s work stories… but he was spiraling under the surface. One little thing had entirely thrown him off course and had him incessantly reminding himself that he was a kind and rational man. But it was almost like it was staring at him, reminding him that even though you’d grown even closer since you’d moved to his city last year, he was too little too late. A pretty little diamond on your finger.

He glared at it all night. Every time he caught a glance, it filled his chest with something angry and ugly and possessive. Which, of course, only made him feel worse. You weren’t his. You never were. He had no right to be jealous, and yet…

“Engaged, huh?” he said softly, walking up to you as you sat by yourself out on the back deck.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah,” you replied with a soft smile.

He nodded once, sitting next to you on the step. He sniffed, looking up at the sky. 

“Stars are really pretty tonight.”

You hummed in agreement. “Yeah. They’re so bright out here. Not like at the farm, but definitely more than Metropolis.”

He let himself smile once. “Well, if you ever want to visit the farm, say the word. You happen to be friends with a human airplane.”

You laughed at that, touching his forearm. He felt his chest squeeze.

“As much as I appreciate it, I don’t think Sam would be too keen on Superman literally sweeping me off my feet.”

“You could just tell him we were taking a road trip.”

“He wouldn’t like that, either.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

You shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “He’s… I don’t think he likes how close you and I have gotten.”

“We’ve been friends since we were babies.”

“I know, Clark. It’s just… We’ve definitely gotten closer since I moved to Metropolis.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“No. No, of course not. I think he’s just… maybe a little bit jealous.”

Clark snorted, but secretly he preened at that. He liked the idea that he was a threat to your boyfriend. Or– fiancé. He’d never dare admit that. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t kind. But it was the truth.

“Jealous?”

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, Clark.”

“What?” He grinned.

“Like you don’t know.”

His smile faltered for just a moment, shaking his head. “No, I… I actually don’t.”

You sighed. “You’re… you. Like you said, friends since we were babies. We’ve gotten even closer now. You’re… Superman.”

“He doesn’t know I am.”

“No, but he knows you’re huge and attractive–”

Attractive? Clark blushed. He opened his mouth to try and respond without sounding like his stomach was doing cartwheels. But the back door opened.

“Babe?”

You looked up at Sam as he walked out, eyeing you and Clark suspiciously. He frowned at you after a second.

“Hey, honey.”

“You said we could leave at nine. It’s nine.”

Clark raised a brow, finally looking at Sam. He wasn’t too sure about the tone he’d just taken with you.

“Okay, yeah. I just lost track of time, I guess.”

Sam crossed his arms. “Uh huh.”

“Hey. Good to see you again, Sam,” Clark said, rising to his feet, helping you up before he reached out to shake Sam’s hand.

Clark sized the man up as Sam attempted a hard handshake. Clark almost smiled as Sam squeezed his hand in a faulty show of dominance. It wasn’t his fault, of course. He didn’t realize he was trying to intimidate Superman himself. He could see the frown forming on Sam’s face as his hand was practically engulfed by Clark’s. 

You raised a brow, seeing your fiancé clearly annoyed by the man you’d grown up with. You weren’t particularly keen on a dick-measuring contest starting up, so you touched Sam’s shoulder.

“Baby, can you go start the car? I’m just going to say bye to everyone real quick.”

He huffed, muttering something you didn’t quite catch under his breath. It wasn’t long before you were settling into the passenger seat, clicking your seatbelt in an uncomfortable silence. You probably should’ve known better than to ask, but you couldn’t help yourself.

“Is everything okay?” You spoke up once he pulled onto the road, driving towards the hotel.

He let out a harsh breath. “You really have to ask?”

“I don’t–”

“Seriously?” He shook his head, gripping the steering wheel. “You were alone with him. Again.”

“Wh– Clark?”

“No, your dad,” he snapped, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “I don’t like the guy.”

“He’s a good person.”

“He wants to fuck you.”

“Sam.”

He shot back with your own name, then fell silent for a moment. You twisted the ring on your finger. He’d proposed only a few days ago, shortly before your flight out here. You were elated, so excited to tell your family. You didn’t think the night would end like this.

“I don’t get why you insist on being around that asshole. He clearly wants to get in your pants, and you just– You obviously don’t respect me. Why do you need to be around him? Am I too boring for you?”

“What? No, of course not–”

“I’m not tall enough? Not build like a fucking building, so you have to entertain the guy who is? Let him think that he has a shot so you can stare at him and fantasize about fucking a guy with muscles? Is that what it is?”

“Baby, no. Please.”

He shook his head. “You said you liked how I look.”

“I do. That has nothing to do with this at all.”

“I get it. You’ve only dated taller guys, bigger ones. Maybe this wouldn’t be an issue if you lost a little weight.”

You scoffed in disbelief, tears pricking your eyes against your wishes. He’d been mean before. He was sensitive and sometimes said stuff he didn’t mean during arguments. But that felt like a line being crossed.

“Sam.”

“I’m just saying. I’m not a fucking body builder, but I’m not weak. You’re just–”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

He huffed, muttering under his breath, “so fucking sensitive.”

You were quiet for a minute. “Clark is my friend.”

“Sure he is.”

“He is.”

“Have you two fucked?”

You frowned, lip quivering. “No.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why are you being like this?”

“I don’t want to marry a fucking slut, is why! I put that ring on your finger, and days later I find you alone with the guy you know I have a problem with.”

You felt the tears before you could stop them. You stopped talking, sitting silently with your thoughts as he turned up the music to drown out the sound of your crying. It wasn't until you reached the hotel that he finally turned down the music, huffing a sigh as he looked at you.

“Why are you crying?”

You looked at him incredulously. “You called me a slut.”

“No, I said I didn’t want to marry one. Babe…” he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t call you that. You’re putting words in my mouth, and I really don’t appreciate that.”

“I don’t… I just don’t understand why you’re being so mean to me.”

“I’m not being mean. I’m asking you why you insist on hurting my feelings. I don’t ever go sneak off behind your back with other girls, so why do you think it’s okay to do that to me?”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“Oh, well sorry for not using perfect fucking wording. You know what I mean.”

You let out a slow breath. “He’s just a friend. He’s always been a friend.”

“I’m going to be your husband. Is that not more important, or am I fucking stupid?”

“Sam–”

“Just… whatever. Fine. Do what you want, but don’t pretend you wouldn’t be all pissy if the roles were reversed. Maybe I’ll reconnect with my high school girlfriend, since she was such a good friend when I was a kid, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, now you’re sorry? Now that I’m proving that you’re being inconsiderate?”

“I just said I’m sorry. Can we not do this anymore?”

“Uh huh. Get all weepy and apologetic now that you feel caught.”

You jumped as he slammed his door shut after telling you to go to the room when you were done crying. You stared at the hotel building for too long, trying to make yourself stop. It would be fine, you kept telling yourself it would be totally fine. He’d been angry before and gotten over it. He didn’t mean everything he said, he was just upset and probably feeling a bit insecure. You took some deep breaths, steeling yourself against the emotions that choked you up and threatened to steal away all of your air supply. You’d be fine. It would be fine.

Clark stopped seeing you so often after the night of your birthday dinner. He figured it was probably because you were engaged now. Planning a wedding was a lot of work, and you… You had different priorities now. You had a fiancé, he wasn’t just a boyfriend anymore. Things were different.

He took in a small breath, gathering all of the courage he could manage when he showed up at your apartment with a gift basket in hand. He realized he’d never properly congratulated you two, too caught up in the sick feeling brewing in his stomach the moment he had seen your ring for the first time. He rang your doorbell, waiting patiently for a while before the door got flung open.

“What are you doing here?”

Clark blinked, a bit surprised at the aggressive tone in Sam’s voice as he stood in the doorway. He cleared his throat, looking past Sam to see into the apartment, hoping to catch a glance of you instead of the guy who clearly didn’t like him.

“Uh…” Clark looked back at Sam, lifting up the basket. “Brought a gift. To congratulate you two on the engagement. There’s, like, muffins, a fancy soap, wine, some other stuff–”

“Great. Thanks.”

Sam grabbed the basket, and started shutting the door. Clark’s brows shot up, his hand pressing against the wood before he could think twice about it. Sam scoffed, looking up at Clark like he’d just personally kicked him in the shins.

“The fuck are you–”

Clark just mumbled out your name. “Is she home? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“She’s in the shower.”

“Oh. Could you maybe ask her to just… Just text me?”

Sam huffed once. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Pardon me?” Clark looked at him, astounded.

“Take a hint, Kent. She’s mine.”

“I–” Clark shook his head, profound confusion taking over any urge to be angry. “What are you talking about?”

“She doesn’t want to see you. Newsflash, dickhead–”

“Sam,” you stated, staring at him with wide eyes as you cut in. 

He turned, rolling his eyes at the intrusion. He hadn’t heard you come out of the bathroom, and the glare he leveled at you as you stood there in your towel had you nervous.

“Go put some fucking clothes on. He was just leaving.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Clark snapped, then looked at you, bewildered you’d be with someone like him. Your name fell softly from his lips. 

You sniffed, hurt and embarrassed. “Sam, stop it.”

He slammed the door in Clark’s face, just before tossing the gift basket on the ground. Clark swallowed, flinching as he heard Sam’s raised voice through the door. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t just barge in. But he couldn’t let this keep happening to you, and he had a bad feeling Sam wasn’t doing this out of nowhere.

He made a decision. If he couldn’t get to you as Clark, he knew how he could.

You walked out of your building, about to head off on your walk to work. It was sunny and beautiful out, but it was torture against your tired eyes. You started trudging down the sidewalk when there was a sudden shadow.

You looked up to see bright blue and red clouding your vision.

“Ma’am.”

You frowned, looking up at him with furrowed brows as he descended, his feet hitting the sidewalk. “What are you doing?”

He dropped his Superman voice, leaning in a little closer. “I just wanted to see you.”

“Cl–Superman. I can’t. Not now,” you muttered back, glancing towards your apartment building like you were about to get into trouble.

“After work. I’ll wait outside. Just… just for a little bit?”

You begrudgingly agreed when he assured you it wouldn’t take long. So, you found yourself sitting next to him on the rooftop of the Daily Planet. He was quiet, but you knew better. Through the silence you could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

“Why are you with him?” He finally asked, voice soft.

“I love him.”

Clark felt his jaw tick. “He treats you like garbage.”

“You just caught him in a bad moment.”

“Every one of his moments are bad, from what I’ve seen.”

You crossed your arms. “We’re engaged. I’m not just going to break things off cause he was kind of mean to you the other day.”

“I don’t care how he treats me. He was awful to you.”

“I… I know, okay? I get it. I just…”

“I miss you.”

“Clark.”

“I mean it. August is just around the corner. Ma says you don’t plan on coming back to the farm this summer,” he mentioned, fiddling with his hands.

You swallowed. Okay, now you felt caught. 

“Sam has a work thing.”

“And you have to stay behind for that?”

He had a point. You knew he did. But you’d never had a serious relationship before this. You’d dated, sure. Had some long-term things, but they never lasted. They never ended in an engagement. Legally, you weren’t locked in yet. But it still felt like you had an obligation. It was… complicated. Sam had a way of making you feel like you should stay.

“He didn’t want me going alone.”

“You wouldn’t be alone.”

“Being with you wouldn’t exactly ease his nerves,” you mutter.

He reached over, taking your hand in his. You knew you shouldn’t let him, you knew it felt too good. It made your heart beat in a way it shouldn’t. But you couldn’t bring yourself to move. You looked up at him, his face unobscured by those silly frames he always had to wear now. Your eyes traced the familiar slope of his nose, the hue of his eyes, the way his jaw moved when he was holding back from saying more.

“Please?” Clark whispered, giving you those puppy dog eyes that you’d always given in to since you were little.

After several arguments with Sam, and a hell of a lot of convincing that it was just because your parents wanted to see you, you were walking up to the front door of the Kent’s farm house. You swallowed, shoving down the nerves that you’d somehow incur your fiancé’s wrath just by standing there. You reached up to knock, but the door opened before you had the chance. Mrs. Kent smiled brightly at you as she pulled you into a tight hug.

It felt like home, being at the Kent’s for the summer again. Even if the ‘summer’ was really just a week or so. Your parents were happy to have you around again, especially since you hadn’t visited much since you’d moved to Metropolis. Mrs. Kent had a million questions about your upcoming wedding and your fiancé, and Clark bit his cheek to avoid telling everyone how he acted behind closed doors. 

But the second he got you alone again, he couldn't help himself any longer.

“You can’t marry him,” he said with a sigh, leaning on the doorframe of his childhood bedroom. You always stayed in his room, and this time, instead of sleeping on the floor next to his bed, he took the couch in the living room.

You glared at him. “Clark.”

“I’m trying to look out for you, here.” His shoulders dropped as he walked in, watching you unpack your things in the top two drawers of his dresser as he sat on the edge of the bed. “You deserve to be happy.”

You were quiet, turning that over in your head several times before you found your voice again. You turned around, leaning against the dresser as you looked at him.

“It isn’t that simple.”

“You didn’t say any vows yet. It could be that simple.”

“But it isn’t,” you assert with a groan. You sit next to him on the bed. “I made a commitment. Sure, it’s not on paper just yet. But I’m not a quitter, and Sam… You don’t get it. I can’t just leave him.”

He sighed softly, just looking at you. He always looked at you like that, you realized. Like he was trying to memorize every square centimeter of your face. You breathed gently, chest rising and falling with each inhale. It was… quiet. In a good way. It always felt that way with Clark.

“I’m happy I came,” you say, changing the subject.

He looked a little disappointed, but nodded. “I am, too. Thank you. For coming.”

“Thanks for convincing me, Superman,” you said, nudging his shoulder with a small smile.

“Oh, quit.”

“What?”

He smiles when he sees you grinning back at him. “You keep making fun of the name.”

“It’s kinda silly, to be fair.”

“Alright, alright. It’s a little silly. But totally true,” he muttered with a wide grin, subtly flexing just to make you laugh.

“Cocky bastard,” you chuckle.

He hummed once, happily. This felt normal. Right. Like it should. He felt a funny feeling in his stomach when your head dropped carefully on his shoulder, and he let his hand rest on your knee in return.

“I’ve really missed you.”

“We still see each other,” you said, glancing up at him.

“I know, but… Not enough. It’s like right when we started really getting close and spending more time together, you… you kinda disappeared on me cause of him.”

“I didn’t disappear.”

“May as well have.”

You sat with that for a few moments, then lifted your head. You looked at him, close enough to really see each and every little fleck of gold in his bright blue eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”

“Kinda is.”

“No. It isn’t,” he reaffirmed.

You took in a slow breath. It felt nice, good even, not to be blamed. You’d grown too accustomed to taking the hit for everything that could feasibly be pinned on you. Even some things that didn’t seem like they made much sense ended up being your fault. Talked into blame over and over. You let your eyes trail over Clark’s face again. You’d always cared about him. Always had a crush. But it never seemed to go anywhere. Every lingering glance, every time you’d spent your evening laying together under the stars in the summertime, those few times during the year he and his parents would drop by for a surprise visit… It never led to anything.

Butterflies in your stomach, Clark’s blushed cheeks, and your mom asking what you two had talked about on your trip to the swimming hole. That’s all it ever amounted to. He never made a move. You never worked up the courage to tell him you liked him. Now, you were constantly under surveillance from your fiancé, noticing that you two were close. Maybe you stayed with Sam because underneath it all you were guilty. Or maybe he was just there when nobody else was a couple years prior. You didn’t really know why you stayed, only that you promised you would.

It didn’t feel like enough at that moment, though.

You leaned in before you knew it, lips pressing to Clark’s like you’d always wanted to. You heard him make a soft, surprised noise. But he didn’t pull back. Not right away.

You let yourself melt into it, hand against his stubbled cheek.

He pulled back first, his eyes wide and shocked, muttering apologies as if he’d been the one to kiss you first. 

You had a long week after that.

It was almost a month before you spoke again. One text from him, simply checking in. Neither of you talked about the kiss after it happened, but you never stopped thinking about it. But that one text turned to at least a handful every day. A quick hello turned into meeting up at cafés, telling Sam you were going out with a girl friend from work. Shared glances turned into hugs that lingered for far too long in Clark’s living room.

You sat on the chair in his apartment, and he leaned back on his arms on the ottoman across from you. You laughed, sharing stories from childhood and nightmares you’d dealt with at work. You finally picked up a few freelance ghost writing gigs on the side, but you were still stuck peddling wedding dresses on the side at a local boutique. Clark had really made his way at the Daily Planet. You were proud.

“You really need to get an actual couch. This sad, lonely chair in front of the tv just screams single-guy bachelor pad,” you mentioned with a snorted laugh.

“To be fair, I am a single guy.” He chuckles.

“Mm…” you hummed softly, nodding once as your smile faltered a little. Right. Single guy friend. Available guy friend. Just not to you. “I told Sam I was with Rebecca tonight, but honestly I don’t think he even listened.”

Clark swallowed. His guilt built and built every time Sam was brought up. He couldn’t stop thinking about you kissing him in his childhood bedroom. He’d always wanted to kiss you, he’d wondered what it would feel like since forever. He just didn’t expect it to happen while you were engaged to somebody else. He couldn’t stand Sam at all, but he didn’t feel right about moving in on you while you were with somebody. It wasn’t right. 

But you were so sweet. So pretty. So… taken.

“Maybe you shouldn’t keep lying to him. About where you are.”

You raised a brow. “Clark. Come on, he’d never let me out of the house again if he found out I was hanging out with you.”

“That’s not right.”

“Just… let me have this. It’s working. He’s been… happier. I get to see you. It’s a win-win.”

“But you’re lying to him.”

“Why does that matter?”

He let out a breath, his jaw clenching. He wished he had a good answer to that. One that you would listen to. But if he did get through to you and make you listen, he might not see you again. He couldn’t risk that. 

He scooted closer, holding out his hands until you placed yours in his. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, one of them snagging on the diamond on your hand. He looked at it, twisting it a little.

“Can’t believe you’re gonna get married.”

“It’s… so weird. We were like five years old yesterday.”

He huffed a short laugh. “Yeah. Now you’re… all grown up.”

“So are you.”

He smiled a little, looking up at you. He tried, he really tried not to let his eyes drop. But you were looking at him the same way you did when you’d kissed him. His gaze fell to your lips, a sinking feeling in his stomach and a stirring in his pants made his heart race a little faster.

But… no.

He couldn’t.

You left not long after with a smile that covered up your disappointment. You didn’t exactly go over to his place with the intent to cheat on your fiancé. You knew that was wrong. You knew you should end things. But… Sam had a way of making you feel like you couldn’t leave. He’d all but said so with how many times he reminded you how lucky you were that he was so forgiving, that he put up with you and your mood swings. You knew you shouldn’t put up with him, but how do you get out from under someone's shoe? You hadn’t yet figured it out.

How do you leave someone you thought would be your forever?

How do you tell the person who’s always been there that you really want them?

Does it make you a bad person for not wanting to have to think about it? It certainly didn’t feel good or right, that much you knew. But you also knew that kissing Sam had never felt like kissing Clark.

Months passed. You still couldn’t stay away from him. At every chance you were making some excuse to sneak out of the apartment to meet with Clark. He’d bring you to all of your favorite places, never letting you pay a dime. He rationalized that if he did, you risked Sam finding out. If he paid, it wouldn’t be reflected on you at all. 

It helped that Sam had taken a third shift position. His pay increased, which was great for him. He was around a lot less, which was great for you. It started getting riskier, though. You’d begun inviting Clark to your apartment, and he’d only slip away once you fell asleep against his chest. You’d wake to Sam barging into your bedroom rather than Clark’s head on the pillow next to yours, trying to mask the obvious disappointment you felt each time it happened.

Things with him hadn’t gotten better. Less frequent, sure, with him being gone more often. But he was a master at picking fights, and at winning them. Each time you so much as suggested something he didn’t like, it was your fault. You were unkind, inconsiderate. He’d thrown around insults, but never directly. It kept the blame off of him on a technicality. It was exhausting.

So you’d hide away in your mind, covering up your sorrow using Clark’s arms as a shield.

But everyone has their breaking point.

“I just don’t know what to do,” you sighed, leaning into Clark’s side on your couch.

Clark glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “You know what would change things.”

“You can’t expect me to do that.”

“You’re miserable.”

“Not when I’m with you,” you try a small joke.

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile. “I just wish you’d… I wish you would move on. You deserve better than him. He doesn’t treat you well.”

You reached for his hand, playing with his fingers. He watched you do it, trying not to focus on the ring that was still ever-present.

“Are you really going to marry him?”

You didn’t answer. He looked at you.

“I don’t know. You could always object. It would be super dramatic.”

He huffed once. “That isn’t funny.”

You shrugged, tracing his face with your eyes yet again. As always, the gaze settled on his lips. He wet them once, drawing your attention even further. But the moment you leaned in, he backed away.

“Don’t.”

You went to protest, but he wouldn’t hear it. He stood, hands on his hips as he paced in your living room. It’s not that he didn’t want to kiss you, he just didn’t want it to happen because you were sad. He wanted you to kiss him because you loved him. He lingered in front of the door of the balcony. You called his name once, but he didn’t respond.

His back was turned, his eyes on the city below. It always needed him, there was always a way he could pick up the pieces for Metropolis. He didn’t know how to pick up the pieces for you without crossing some kind of line that he wasn’t sure he could live with.

He wanted you. More than anything. But not if he couldn’t keep you.

You watched him as he went through it all in his head. The way he tensed and relaxed as the thoughts cycled through. His back a wide expanse that covered your view from the door of your balcony. You were on the verge of begging. You weren’t above the action. You just needed something, needed him. So you sank to your knees silently, looking up at him.

“Clark,” you whispered, eyes trained on the back of his head.

“Yeah?”

You didn’t answer, just knelt there, waiting. He finally turned, his throat bobbing as he looked down at you. You stared up at him with wide, wanting eyes. On your knees like it was a form of worship. He opened his mouth, but words never came.

“Please.”

A short, breathy sound escaped his lips. “Honey, don’t–”

“Please. Please, Clark. You’ve always been there for me.”

He watched in awe and horror as you crawled closer, hands on his thighs with your wide, sparkling gaze on his.

“We can’t,” he whispered back as if it hurt him to say. You noticed the way his eyes went glossy. “I can’t. Not like this.”

“I need you.”

“No.”

“Yes.” You nuzzled your cheek against his leg, his body tensing as he tried to will away the erection straining against his jeans. “You’re always so sweet to me. You always have been. You always look out for me and you protect me and–”

“And I can’t help you cheat on someone.”

“You think what we’ve been doing already is totally kosher?”

He froze, looking down at you with a furrowed brow. He hadn’t touched you, he hadn’t crossed that line other than one measly kiss that he hadn’t even initiated. What had he done? Why was it wrong to be there for you? Someone had to make you feel special. To be considerate, to make you laugh, to hold you when you needed it. It wasn’t romantic. Not overtly. 

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“Clark,” you said with a soft voice, shaking your head. “You can’t seriously tell me all of this hasn’t meant anything.”

“Not… not nothing. Just not that.”

“So you don’t like me? I’ve seen the way you look at me. The way you lean into me at every chance. We’ve practically been dating the past few months. I think we already crossed that line.”

He murmured your name with closed eyes, his jaw tense. He didn’t want to think about that. He wasn’t that kind of person. He wouldn’t ever help someone cheat.

But he had.

He didn’t want to admit it, but you were right. The way he held you, the way he spoke with you, the way he looked at you… none of it had been friendly as of late. But if he never touched you, did it really count? He wished it didn’t. He wished it had happened in a different way. That you were single and free, and he had swept you off your feet. That he’d have kissed you on the first date, not that you’d leaned in first in his childhood home because you were lonely and desperate and knew he wouldn’t back away. He’d have taken you to bed after the fifth or sixth date, making sure you felt as special as he believed you to be. He’d have gone home to his parents, telling them he finally got the girl.

He didn’t think it would be like this. He didn’t feel like the good guy this time.

“I can’t do this. I can’t. You’re right, it’s gone too far already, and I can’t cross this line.”

Your lip quivered, face still pressed to his thigh as your eyes closed. You were broken down, tired, hurt… and you wanted this more than you’d wanted anything before. You wanted to feel loved. Not blamed.

“I’m so tired, Clark.”

“I know. I know you are,” he mumbled, voice low. He sank down with you on the floor, gathering you into his arms. “I know, but I can’t do that. You can’t ask me that.”

A rattling breath left your lungs, your face pressed to his neck. “I… I’ll leave him.”

Clark paused, stilling entirely. He hardly took a breath.

“You’ll…what?”

“I’ll leave him. I promise I will.”

His eyes found yours, searching them for something. Some kind of confirmation that you weren’t lying. That you’d actually do it. 

“You will?”

“Yes. I promise I will, I just… Give me a reason to.”

He nearly whimpered, pressing his forehead to yours silently. He sniffed, feeling the tears on his cheeks before he really realized he’d begun crying. He didn’t mean to. He was just overcome with emotion. Guilt, joy, need, love.

“Promise?”

You nodded, reaching up to wipe the tears from under his eyes. “Promise.”

He finally gave in. His hands framed your face as his lips met yours. You weren’t in the clear yet, but you promised you would be. He held onto that promise with an iron grip. He let you lead him to the bedroom you’d shared with your fiancé. He wondered how many times he’d taken you here. If you even enjoyed it, or if you faked it and had to take care of yourself later in the shower. He tried putting it all out of his head as he watched you sprawl out on the bed, peeling off your clothes. He blindly tugged all of his off, spurred on once you were bare, your legs spread for him. Just for him.

He felt himself puff up with pride when your eyes locked onto his length, throbbing and leaking for you. Begging to be inside of you. But not yet.

His eyes were locked on your face, your chest, your neck. He watched your every movement and every small breath from between your legs, grinding himself against the bed as he tasted you. He couldn’t get enough. He knew you’d be perfect, but this was like heaven. His eyes fluttered when your hands tangled in his hair, pushing him further into your cunt. 

He moaned, circling your entrance with one thick finger. He teased until you were whining and whimpering so much he was sure you’d start crying at any moment from wanting. The feeling was mutual for him. He finally sunk his finger inside of you, eyes locked on your face as you gasped and writhed under him. He groaned into you when you moaned out his name over and over. He liked that. He liked being the one you were begging for.

He fit another finger into you, trying to prepare you for his cock. He wanted it to feel as good as possible, to leave a stellar first impression. He hoped you’d let him reshape you to every vein and ridge and inch of him over time. He hoped you’d never take anyone else.

It wasn’t long before you were over the edge, body convulsing and soaking his face as your orgasm hit you hard. He sucked hard on your clit, forcing it out of you with such tender care that you were certain you saw the light. You pushed his head away from you after a moment, sufficiently overstimulated.

“Good?” He looked at you, face searching for approval.

You nodded easily. “So good. Need you.”

He let out a breath, accepting a condom you’d pulled out of your nightstand. It was a tight fit, but he managed to get it on, gazing down between your legs, so wet and inviting, drawing him in. He dragged himself through your wetness, his tip leaking precum into the condom already. He almost lost himself when his eyes trailed up your body, landing on your face.

“Please,” you whispered.

“Almost there, baby. Almost. Gotta go slow.”

“You’re so big.”

“I know, honey. Shh…”

He pressed his tip in, a choked sound in his throat as he watched you swallow him. Your soft, needy sounds were music to his ears. He pushed in further, little by little, torn between watching your face and your cunt. He was halfway in when he collapsed on top of you, wrapping your legs around his waist, his face in your neck. His lips left sloppy kisses along the slope of your shoulder, shallow thrusts beginning to open you up for him. 

“Oh, fuck… just like that, Clark.”

“Okay,” he whispered back, nodding.

He tried keeping it slow, only pushing in further when he was sure you could take it. He was almost seated entirely when you both heard a soft snapping noise.

You looked confused for a second, but when you noticed the shocked expression on Clark’s face, it was no longer a mystery: the condom broke. But he didn’t stop. His moans grew louder, needier, as he felt all of you. Your warmth choking out his length.

“M’sorry. I’m sorry, it feels too good. Don’t hate me,” he whined, sheathing himself fully as he continued pushing against you despite the break. His hips moved faster, each thrust pushing your body into the mattress. “So good.”

You moaned in the back of your throat, hands moving over his shoulders and back, scratching your nails through his hair. He shuddered against you as he felt the sharp drag against his scalp, cock jumping inside of you.

“Baby, m’sorry,” he repeated, his tears soaking your skin. He didn’t just mean the condom breaking. He was sorry for all of it. For not being with you sooner. For being the other man. “I’m sorry.”

“D-don’t. Fuck. Don’t be sorry, Clarkie. Don’t be. This is perfect. I need it. I need you.”

He let out a shaking breath as he ground his hips against yours, relishing in the way your walls clung to him. He felt locked inside of you, like he couldn't escape you if he tried. Maybe he couldn’t. He’d always wanted this, to be close to you. He dreamed of it more times than he could count, ruining his sheets by the time he woke up, his skin burning with the ghost of your hands on him. Nothing compared to the real thing.

The sound of your soft breaths, tiny, sweet noises falling from your lips every time he thrusted into you. It was everything he wanted, and it was all wrong. He groaned, dragging his teeth up your neck. His hand pushed your arm up onto the pillows beneath your head, his eyes glancing upward. His thrusts became a little sharper when he saw that terrible little ring on your finger sparkling at him.

“Clark…” you moaned, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut.

He looked down at you, a soft whine in the back of his throat. The girl he’d loved forever. He finally had you, but… he didn’t. Not yet. He swallowed, kissing your lips once before he moved his hand over yours. He felt for the stone sticking out on the band of the ring, closing his fingers around it. He tugged, putting in a little effort to pull it off of your finger. You opened your eyes, seeing his brows furrowed after he’d taken your ring off. Oh.

You watched, only a few moans leaving your throat instead of words that probably should’ve told him to stop as he tossed the ring towards your closet. 

“Tell me I’m better.”

“What?” 

He grunts. “Tell me I’m better. I know you better, I can please you better than he can. I know I can. I kn–oh. I know it. Am I bigger?”

“Y-yeah. Yes, you’re bigger.”

“I’m better?”

“So much better, baby.”

Soft groans left him. He fucked into you faster, harder, but still like he loved you more than anything. He blinked away tears again, his hands bracketing your face as he kissed over your cheeks and lips.

“M’close,” you breathed out.

“I know. I can feel it. I can hear your heart.”

“Gonna cum.”

“I know, baby.”

He moved his hips more intentionally, trying hard to hit that soft spot in you each and every time. His breathing sped up, his lips parted as he watched you come undone from his cock. He couldn’t imagine anything better than this.

“M’gonna cum,” you moaned again.

“Yes. Yes, you can cum, baby. Cum for me. Please, I want to feel you.”

You whined, voice loud and broken as you finished for the second time that night, squeezing his dick hard. He gasped, eyes fluttering as he watched your face twist in pleasure. Pleasure he gave to you. You’d never felt anything quite like it. Not like this. 

“Baby… shoot. I’m…”

“Don’t pull out.”

Clark’s eyes fell to yours, shining. “What?”

“Don’t pull out, please.”

“The condom broke.”

“I know.”

Clark shattered, tears falling again, the drops landing on your face as he held himself up above you, his forehead pressed to yours. You felt him tense, spilling inside of you with a cry of your name over and over again. You tasted the salt of his tears on your lips, his hips still grinding against yours.

“Oh… I… I love you. I love you.”

“What?” you whimpered.

Shit. Clark shuddered, finally stilling on top of you. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Not right now.

You breathed heavily under the weight of his body, hands still around his shoulders.

“Clark?”

“I–I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“You… did you mean it, though?”

His lip was pulled between his teeth as he leaned back up, looking at you flushed and gorgeous underneath him. Of course he meant it.

“Yes. I mean it.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t mean to say it, though, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s okay.” You smiled, brushing a few stray hairs from his forehead.

He sighed against your lips as you kissed him again, letting himself melt into your touch.

He spent the next few days in a flurry of emotions. He hardly slept, he was sloppy at work, distracted as Superman. He told you he loved you, and you kissed him. But you didn’t say it back. You told him you’d break things off with Sam, but he didn’t know if you actually had or not. He couldn’t stop thinking about what it had felt like to touch you.

He waited almost a week before he heard from you again. His phone rang in his pocket on his walk home, and he quickly fished it out. He breathed out your name as he answered, pressing the device to his ear. You greeted him back.

“We should… we should talk. If you’re free tonight.”

He gulped. “G-good news or bad news?”

“Your place? Around eight?”

He agreed, his stomach doing cartwheels. He didn’t know what to make of this. He hoped that you were coming to tell him it was over with Sam. He was terrified that you would tell him you couldn’t. 

He did his rounds after work as Superman, intervening in every tiny dispute he heard across the city just to kill the time. To try to not think about it. He finally got home, cleaned every square inch of his apartment, and took a long shower.

It seemed like forever before he heard your soft knock on the door of his apartment. He rushed over, pulling the door open quickly. A hard breath left his mouth when he looked down to see you toting along a duffel bag and a suitcase.

“Oh, thank goodness,” he breathed, pulling you into his arms. “You did it?”

“Yes.”

He tilted your head up, lips against yours before you could blink twice. You let him pull you inside, his arms around your waist to hold you against his body. Your arms circled his neck, your bags left by his front door that he kicked closed.

His entire being was consumed. All he could feel and think was you, you, you. Over and over again. All night long. 

You woke to the sun streaming through the window, groggy and mentally preparing for the slam of a door invading your ears. But it never came. What did come was Clark’s arms around your waist, his chest pressed to your back.

“Good morning,” he whispered, hearing your breathing shift as you woke.

You turned in his arms, kissing him. “Good morning.”

“A-are you okay?”

“I’m so… so happy.”

He smiled brightly, kissing you once more. You leaned back, watching his face for a minute. He looked at you in the softest way imaginable. Like he loved you. Because he did.

“I don’t want to be presumptuous, but… would you maybe want to go out with me?”

You chuckled. “Yeah. Yes, I’d really like that.”

“Good,” he said, his voice dreamy and deep. “I’ll, uh… I’ll go make us some coffee, okay?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

He started moving, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Clark?”

He stopped, turning his head towards you. “Yeah?”

Saturday means the same coffee stand on the corner where the barista with the chipped purple nail polish starts making his drink the second she sees him coming. It means the farmer’s market under the green-striped awnings in the square, where he buys a loaf of crusty sourdough from the old Polish couple in stall fourteen and fresh eggs from the woman who always insists the yolks are brighter in spring. It means peaches if they’re in season, because one summer in Wakanda he had bitten into one so ripe it had run down his wrist and made him laugh out loud in the middle of a field, and ever since then peaches have felt like proof of life. It means flowers some3times, too, if the apartment feels especially bare. Something cheap and cheerful in a mason jar on the kitchen counter. Something that says a man can make a home even if he was taught for years he did not deserve one.

It is a good routine. A hard-won one. Bucky likes the honesty of it, the way these small rituals ask nothing of him except that he show up.

This morning, June sun already warming the pavement, his paper cup of coffee hot in his hand, he feels almost light. The market is crowded enough to buzz but not so packed he gets hemmed in. A violinist near the fountain is playing something bright and quick. Someone’s kid is trying to pet every dog within reach. The air smells like basil and strawberries and the faint yeasty sweetness of fresh bread.

Bucky buys his loaf first. Then tomatoes. Then a bunch of green onions. He pauses at the peach stand, testing one for give with his thumb, and decides they need another week.

By the time he reaches the citrus table, the vendor is rearranging pyramids of lemons in rough wooden crates, their skins bright and dimpled in the morning light. Bucky reaches automatically, already picturing chicken piccata for dinner, and another hand reaches at the same exact moment.

Your fingers brush his.

The world splits open.

One second he is standing in the farmer’s market with coffee on his breath and sunlight on the back of his neck, and the next—

Neon. Laughter. Chapel bells tinny through cheap speakers. Your mouth, painted the color of a ripe cherry, open on a breathless laugh. White satin clinging to your hips. A fake Elvis in a rhinestone jumpsuit grinning around too-big teeth beneath a plastic crucifix bolted crooked over the altar.

Bucky gasps.

The bag of lemons slips from both your hands and tumbles to the pavement, yellow fruit rolling in wild directions as if they’ve been startled too.

The vision doesn’t stop there. Visions of different lifetimes flash through his eyes like he’s watching the life of ten different couples all at once. 

A steering wheel under his palms, worn smooth with use. Summer wind through open windows. You in cutoff shorts, feet on the dashboard, singing badly and loudly while the road curls ahead of you like a dare.

White sheets. Lace curtains breathing in a warm midnight breeze. Gold band on your finger catching moonlight where your hand presses against his chest. Your mouth moving against his throat with a broken little sound that is half laughter, half prayer.

A rough cabin wall. Splintered pine under his palm. You in a wool shift with your hair braided down your back, cheeks wind-burned, smiling over your shoulder as foxes cry somewhere out in the dark and a baby sleeps in a cradle by the fire.

Smoke and jazz and blackout curtains. East London. Silk black as sin against your skin. Your hand catching his by the wrist before he can disappear back into the war.

A beach. Bright afternoon. Children shrieking at the tide. Orange drinks sweating in glass pitchers while he kneels in the sand with his sleeves rolled up, helping a little girl press shell fragments into the turret of a sandcastle, and you walk toward him laughing, sunlight at your back so fierce it turns you to gold.

Then all of it is gone.

The market snaps back into focus so suddenly it hurts. Sound crashes in—vendors shouting prices, stroller wheels rattling, the violinist sawing away by the fountain. Bucky stumbles backward a step. Across from him, you catch yourself on the edge of the citrus crate, looking exactly as wrecked as he feels.

Your eyes lock on his.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Bucky’s heart is pounding hard enough to bruise. “You saw that too.”

It isn’t a question.

In this world, everybody knows about soulmarks and first-flashes. Knows that when you meet the person your soul is tied to, memory can strike like lightning. Some people get a single image. A porch swing. A train platform. A hand in a hospital room. Some get a rush of several lives at once, enough to leave them reeling for days. Most people dream of it when they’re young. Spend adolescence looking at every stranger a little too long. Wondering when it will happen, if it will happen, whether the person on the other end of them is alive or halfway across the planet or just around the corner.

Bucky stopped wondering a long time ago.

HYDRA did not leave much room for destiny.

You swallow. “That was not normal.”

“No,” he says, voice rough. “No, that was… not.”

The lemon vendor is gathering the fallen fruit with admirable indifference, the kind that says he has seen stranger things at this market and will see stranger still. “You two need a minute?” he asks.

You make a sound that could be a laugh or a near-sob. “Maybe five.”

Bucky buys the entire bag of lemons because it feels like the least insane thing he can do, then follows you blindly toward the edge of the square where there’s a row of benches under a sycamore tree. The shade dapples your face when you sit, and for one unmoored second he knows the pattern of it. Not from now. From somewhere else.

He stays standing until you glance up at him and pat the spot beside you with a shaky hand.

“You’re real?” you ask once he sits.

He almost laughs. “I was about to ask you that.”

You rub your palms over your knees as if trying to ground yourself. You’re wearing denim shorts and a white tank top and sunglasses pushed up into your hair, and you look like someone who belongs to summer. Not delicate exactly, but bright. Alive in a way that makes Bucky’s ribs ache. “I know this is a weird question,” you say, “but are you going to tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you fake-Elvis-groom in my head?”

“Bucky,” he says automatically. Then, because he has spent years relearning how to offer the softer pieces of himself without flinching, he adds, “James. But people call me Bucky.”

Your mouth curves, the first real smile since the vision hit. “I’m glad to know at least one of us looked better in Vegas.”

He huffs out a breath that is almost a laugh. “I looked good.”

“You looked reckless.”

“That too.”

You tell him your name, and the moment it lands between you something in his chest settles with a frightening kind of certainty. Not because fate says so. Not because the universe stamped your names together in some cosmic ledger. Because the sound of it moves through him like recognition. Like stepping into a room he did not realize he had been trying to get back to his whole life.

For a while neither of you says anything. The market hums on around you. Somewhere nearby, a dog sneezes. Someone drops a crate. Bucky stares at the paper sleeve around his cooling coffee and tries to swallow around the strange thickness in his throat.

“I’ve heard of people getting strong first-flashes,” you say at last, quieter now. “But not like that. That was… a lot.”

“A lot,” he agrees.

You tilt your head toward him. “How many do you remember already?”

He thinks of the chapel. The truck. The bed with the lace curtains. The cabin. The club in London. The beach. “Six,” he says. “You?”

“Same.”

A breeze stirs the leaves overhead. It smells like sun-warmed bark and citrus oil.

“I don’t know what to do now,” you admit.

That, strangely, is what steadies him.

Because Bucky knows that feeling. Knows what it is to be handed something overwhelming and not know where to put it. Knows that survival sometimes looks like doing the next smallest thing instead of solving the whole impossible shape at once.

He glances toward the coffee stand, then back at you. “You want to start with coffee?”

You look at him for one long beat, then laugh softly, incredulously, like maybe you can’t believe that is the question that just saved you from bolting. “Yeah,” you say. “I think I do.”

So that is how it begins.

Not with thunder. Not with immediate declarations. Not with some cinematic collision that resolves every loneliness in a heartbeat.

With coffee. With your hand wrapped around a paper cup. With the two of you sitting at the edge of the market, dizzy on each other’s borrowed memories, learning the outlines of the present slowly enough to survive it.

He learns that you come to the farmer’s market most Saturdays too, though usually later. That you always buy flowers you don’t strictly need. That you live twenty minutes away in an apartment with bad plumbing and excellent light. That you work in graphic design and keep odd hours and have a weakness for peaches even when they’re underripe. You learn that he is in therapy. That he likes routine because sometimes routine is the difference between drifting and staying. That his apartment in Brooklyn is small but his windows face west and the light there in the evening is good. That he cooks. That he bakes bread when the weather turns cold because kneading something until it rises feels like a miracle he can participate in.

He does not tell you everything that morning. Not about HYDRA, not about the winter that lasted decades, not about the names he no longer answers to. But you do not push. Maybe because you can feel, in the strange echoing chambers of whatever ties the two of you together, that he has already been dragged open too many times to count.

When you part, it is almost noon.

You both hover awkwardly by the fountain, neither one wanting to be the first to say goodbye.

“So,” you say, shifting the bouquet of daisies and feverfew you bought somewhere along the way into one hand. “Do soulmate rules say we’re supposed to immediately move in together now, or is there like a grace period?”

Bucky smiles before he can stop himself. “I think there’s paperwork.”

“Tragic.”

He glances at the lemons peeking out of your canvas bag. “You still owe me half of these.”

You grin then, bright and quick and devastating. “That sounds fake.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s a reason to see you again.”

Something softens in your expression. “Okay,” you say. “Then I’ll take the fake reason.”

He gives you his number. You type your own into his phone and hand it back, your fingers brushing his again. No flash this time. Just warmth. Just the sharp, impossible awareness of skin.

“All right, Bucky Barnes,” you say. “Text me when you want to split custody of the lemons.”

He watches you walk away.

At the corner, you turn and look back.

The city seems to hold its breath.

Then you smile at him one more time and disappear into the crowd.

Jesus Christ on a plastic sign

The Vegas lifetime comes back first.

Not all at once. In drips. In flashes that catch Bucky at strange moments over the next few days, as if the memory has been jarred loose and is still deciding how much of itself to reveal.

He is washing dishes on Tuesday night when he looks down at a ring of soap suds circling the drain and suddenly he is twenty-six—or thirty, or some other age in some other body—and the air smells like desert heat trapped in asphalt. He can hear slot machines from the lobby below the motel balcony and your laugh from inside the room, where the air conditioner is fighting a losing battle and you are standing in front of the cracked mirror pinning your hair up with bobby pins you bought from the gift shop downstairs.

“Tell me again,” you say, smiling at him through the mirror, “why exactly we’re doing this.”

Because you had met forty-eight hours earlier in line for dollar margaritas and spent the night talking until sunrise on the motel roof. Because you had missed your flight on purpose. Because he had looked at you over watery eggs in a diner the next morning and known, with the same bone-deep certainty he feels now on a Brooklyn Tuesday in a kitchen lit by one warm overhead bulb, that life was sometimes simplest when it was ridiculous.

Because you had asked if he wanted to get married as a joke and then kept grinning at him after he said yes.

“Tax benefits,” he answers solemnly, sitting on the end of the bed in his borrowed suit jacket.

You laugh. “Romantic.”

“Practical.”

“Liar.”

You cross the room barefoot, white dress swishing around your thighs. It is not really a wedding dress. It is a satin slip from a resale shop with a tiny champagne stain at the hem and thin straps that make him forget his own name every time he looks at you. You stop between his knees and hook your fingers in the lapels of his jacket.

“Tell me not to do it,” you whisper. There is laughter in your voice but something trembling under it too, a softness that asks to be taken seriously. “Tell me we’re being insane and I’ll call it off.”

He looks up at you and feels his whole impossible life narrow into one clean, brilliant line. “I think,” he says, resting his hands on your hips, “that if we don’t do this, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering why I let the best idea I ever had walk out of a motel in Vegas.”

Your expression cracks open into something so nakedly happy it almost undoes him.

The chapel is tiny and tacky and perfect. The plastic crucifix is screwed above a velvet curtain backdrop. The fake Elvis officiant keeps winking like he personally invented love. You say your vows through laughter because your bouquet is made of silk roses that smell faintly like dust and the minister’s sideburn is half detached. Bucky can barely get the ring onto your finger because his hands won’t stop shaking.

Afterward, you run into the sun with your shoes in one hand, your new husband’s name in your mouth as if you were born to say it.

On the sidewalk outside the chapel, there’s a sign for a twenty-four-hour wedding package with JESUS CHRIST LOVES YOU printed above a blinking arrow in red bulbs, and the whole thing is so absurd that you double over laughing. Bucky catches you around the waist before you can fall.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he says into your hair, tasting the words.

You lift your face to his, eyes wet from laughing. “That sounds made up.”

“Probably is.”

You kiss him anyway.

In the present, water runs cold over Bucky’s hands in the sink. He blinks hard and finds himself staring at a plate gone slippery in his grip.

He dries his hands, sits on the edge of the counter, and texts you before he can think better of it.

Got another one. Vegas.

The reply comes so fast it is almost a breath.

me too

Then, after a beat:

did we really get married because the line for margaritas was too long and we needed something else to do?

Bucky smiles helplessly at his phone.

we were committed to the bit

You start texting every day after that.

At first it is practical. Did you remember this detail? Did the chapel carpet have stars on it or was that just me? Do you think the fake Elvis was secretly judging us? 

But the practical gives way to easy almost before either of you notices. He sends you a picture of a dog in a raincoat outside the bodega. You send him a photo of the flowers you bought even though your rational brain said you didn’t need them. He tells you when therapy goes badly. You tell him when work is making your eyes cross. By Friday, your name on his screen feels less like a surprise and more like the continuation of something that was already in motion long before lemons hit pavement.

The next Saturday, he finds you at the market before he reaches the citrus stand.

You are standing at the peach table, frowning at a fruit in your hand with the seriousness of someone evaluating a gemstone.

“You know those need another week,” he says.

You glance up and smile in a way that makes his whole body wake up. “I know. I’m being optimistic.”

“Reckless.”

“Wow. You meet one man in Vegas and suddenly he thinks he knows you.”

He laughs, and there is no fear in it this time.

You spend the morning together again. Coffee, bread, flowers. At the tomato stall your shoulder brushes his and warmth skates down his spine, but no memory comes. At the herb table he tucks a stray basil stem behind your ear and your breath catches, but still nothing.

It hits later, when the two of you are leaving the market and pass an old pickup truck parked crooked by the curb, windows down, classic rock spilling tinny from the speakers. You stop dead. So does he.

Your head turns toward him.

His chest caves in around a heartbeat that is no longer entirely his own.

Winding roads, doing manual drive

In that life, you are eighteen and everything feels enormous.

Summer stretches in front of you like a dare. The town is small enough to suffocate if you stay still too long, so you never do. Bucky has a beat-up blue truck with a sticky clutch and a radio that only works when you slap the dashboard in exactly the right place. He teaches you how to drive manual in the abandoned church parking lot at the edge of town, laughing every time the engine stalls because you keep popping the clutch too fast.

“You’re mean,” you tell him, gripping the steering wheel.

“I’m helpful.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Because you cuss like my grandpa.”

You cut him a glare so ineffective it makes him grin wider. He reaches across the bench seat to guide your hand to the gearshift, his palm warm over your knuckles.

“Slow,” he says. “Feel it catch. Don’t force it.”

Outside, cicadas scream in the heat. The sun is dropping behind the trees, turning the windshield gold.

You try again. This time the truck lurches, shudders, then rolls forward smooth as breath.

“Oh my God,” you say, startled into laughter. “I did it.”

Bucky looks at you the way boys in movies are always supposed to look but almost never do in real life—like the sight of you happy is enough to rearrange his whole future. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You did.”

Once you know how, you drive everywhere with no destination at all. Back roads. County lines. Winding stretches of blacktop between soybean fields and creeks and gas stations with flickering signs. You drive because gas is cheap and the cab of the truck is a world no one else can enter. You drive because Bucky’s knee pressed against yours feels better than anything either of you have a name for yet. You drive because being young and in love can make movement feel holy.

Sometimes you pull over on the shoulder just to watch the sky bruise purple over the fields. Sometimes you kiss at red lights until the truck behind you honks. Sometimes you park at the overlook above the quarry and share a bag of gas station peanuts while Bucky tells you all the places he wants to see one day, voice gone soft with wanting.

“Anywhere specific?” you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder. “As long as you’re there.”

You laugh because you think he is teasing. Then you look at him and realize he is not.

The air changes.

He reaches up, pushes a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. “I know we’re eighteen,” he says, trying for casual and failing spectacularly. “I know people say that means we don’t know anything. But I know this.”

Your breath catches.

Behind you, the truck ticks and cools in the dusk.

“I know,” he says again, “that I could drive with you forever and never get tired of the road.”

Then he kisses you, and the whole wide summer tilts.

The memory drops away while a bus sighs to the curb and someone nearby curses over a jammed stroller wheel.

You are breathing hard. So is Bucky.

“That one hurt,” you say quietly.

He knows what you mean. Not because it was bad. Because it was good in the simple devastating way only youth can be. Because watching some other version of yourself love with that much unguarded certainty feels like pressing a bruise you didn’t know you had.

“You drove stick,” he says.

“I was bad at it.”

“You were terrible.”

You laugh then, startled and watery, and he thinks he would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound.

There is a diner half a block away with cracked vinyl booths and a waitress who calls everyone honey. He nods toward it. “Come on.”

“Is this where we process our cosmic psychic episodes now?”

“Pancakes seem medically necessary.”

So you sit across from each other in a booth smelling faintly of syrup and coffee grounds while the waitress tops off your mugs and pretends not to notice that the two of you keep staring. The market bag rests by Bucky’s boots. Your flowers lie across the seat beside you like a witness.

“You ever think about what it means?” you ask after a while.

He traces a thumb over the seam of his coffee cup. “The past lives?”

“The soulmate thing. Any of it.” Your gaze is steady on his. “Like… are we supposed to just trust that because we loved each other before, we automatically will now?”

Bucky is quiet for so long, the waitress comes by to ask if he wants more bacon.

When she leaves, he exhales. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I think maybe it’d scare me if it worked like that.”

You nod once. “Me too.”

Because obligation is not love. Because destiny without choice starts to look too much like a cage.

Bucky leans forward, forearms on the table. “I don’t want this to be automatic,” he says, surprising himself with the urgency in his own voice. “I don’t want you because of… cosmic paperwork.” Your mouth twitches at that. He presses on. “I want to know you. Now. Here. I want whatever this is to be because we choose it.”

Something in your face softens so completely it leaves him winded.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat. “Then we do it the hard way.”

His mouth curves. “Dating?”

“Scandalous, I know.”

He looks at you across the table, sunlight striping the booth through the blinds, and feels a piece of his life click gently into place.

“Yeah,” he says. “Dating.”

The smile you give him then follows him home and waits with him through the week and sits with him at the edge of sleep. It is still there when he picks you up for your first actual date on Thursday, when you buzz him into your apartment building wearing jeans and a green top that makes your eyes look unfair, when he spends ten whole seconds forgetting why he came.

You cook together in his kitchen because restaurants feel like too much too soon. Lemon chicken. Roasted potatoes. Salad with too much parmesan because you insist there is no such thing.

It is simple. It is easy in the kind of way Bucky once would have distrusted on principle. You move around his kitchen as if you’ve already learned its shape. You lean against the counter and steal bites from the pan. You laugh when he pretends to guard the sauce from you and do not look startled when he laughs back.

After dinner, you help him wash dishes. After dishes, you stand by the open window drinking wine while the city breathes warm and loud below.

“I had a nice time,” you say, glancing at him over the rim of your glass.

His pulse kicks. “Good.”

“I’m serious. For a man who hoards lemons as a manipulation tactic, you clean up pretty well.”

He snorts. “I’ll put that on my dating profile.”

“You should. Honest branding.”

He smiles, and you smile back, and the air between you changes.

It is not sudden. Not violent. Just the slow, unmistakable tightening of a thread.

He sets his glass down first.

You do the same.

When he steps closer, you do not move away.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, because in every life he has ever loved you there has been want in it, but in this one he wants the shape of your yes more than he wants air.

Your eyes go soft. “Please.”

He kisses you carefully at first, because he is not eighteen in a truck anymore and he is not some reckless fool in Vegas with rings in his pocket and a grin too wide for his face. He is a man who has taken years to learn how to touch gently. Who knows what damage carelessness can do.

But then your hand lifts to his cheek and your mouth opens beneath his and the careful part of him turns molten.

The flash hits so hard he breaks the kiss with a gasp.

You are hit by it too. He sees it in the way your pupils blow wide, the way your hand clutches the front of his shirt.

“Oh,” you breathe.

The apartment falls away.

Early nights in white sheets with lace curtains

The room is small and gold with lamplight.

In that life, you have been married for six hours.

Your shoes are by the door. Your veil lies in a pearly heap over the chair back. Somewhere downstairs the last of the wedding guests are still laughing over cake and champagne, but up here the inn is quiet except for the tick of rain against the lace-curtained window and your own uneven breathing.

You stand with your back to Bucky near the bed, fingers trembling where they rest at your throat. The silk of your nightdress skims the backs of your knees. Your wedding band glints like a promise.

He has never seen anything more beautiful.

You are not delicate. Nor candlelight that makes you look like something painted. You are real in all the ways that matter most—nervous and wanting and trying to be brave.

You glance at him over your shoulder, and the vulnerability in your face brings him to his knees faster than reverence ever could.

“We don’t have to,” he says softly.

Your brows draw together. “I want to.”

“I know.” He steps closer, slow enough to stop if you need it. “But I want you to know we don’t have to do anything tonight except be married.”

Something in you loosens. Relief. Love. A tenderness so intense it almost aches to look at.

“I want to be married,” you whisper.

He smiles, cupping your jaw. “You already are.”

“No,” you say, eyes luminous. “I mean like this. Here. With you.” Your breath shakes. “I want tonight.”

He kisses you then, gentle enough to ask, deep enough to answer.

The nightdress slips from your shoulders a little at a time. He learns your skin by lamplight and fingertips, by the soft sounds you make when he touches somewhere that matters, by the way you cling to him when pleasure finally starts to outrun nerves. The white sheets twist around your legs. The lace curtains stir in the open window. Rain cools the room, but your bodies are all heat.

You are not shy for long.

He kisses his way down the column of your throat, your collarbones, the slope of your breast. Your fingers knot in his hair when his mouth finds your nipple and he sucks gently, then harder at the sound that tears from you. By the time he lowers you onto the bed your hair is loose around your shoulders and your face is flushed and he is so hard it hurts.

“Bucky,” you whisper, reaching for him.

“Tell me what you need.”

You laugh softly, dazed with wanting. “You. Obviously.”

He smiles against your mouth, then works two fingers between your thighs and nearly loses his mind at how wet you are for him already. Your hips jerk. Your eyes flutter shut.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “There you go.”

He takes his time because he can. Because there is no war waiting outside this room, no clock to race. Because after the vows and the music and the endless hands grabbing at you all day, he wants this moment to belong only to the two of you. He strokes you until your body learns the shape of pleasure under his hands. He brings you apart once with his fingers, your back arching off the bed, then again with his mouth until you are clutching the sheets and crying his name into the rain-soft dark.

When he finally settles between your thighs, braced on one forearm, your gaze on his is wrecked and certain all at once.

“You still sure?” he asks, voice gone rough as gravel.

You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down until your foreheads touch. “I have never been more sure of anything.”

He pushes into you slowly, giving you every inch with a care that feels like worship. The stretch of you around him steals the breath from his lungs. Your mouth opens on a gasp. He stills.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod, biting your lip. “Move.”

So he does.

Slow at first. Then deeper when your nails dig into his shoulders and you lift to meet him. The bed creaks softly. Rain taps the window. He kisses you whenever your face crumples with feeling, every thrust turning more desperate as your body opens for him. You cling to him, legs wrapped around his hips, whispering his name like a secret you intend to keep forever.

When you come, it is with your mouth against his throat and tears bright at the corners of your eyes.

He follows with his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with it.

Afterward, you lie tangled in white sheets gone warm and wrinkled around you, the lace curtains stirring like breath. He draws lazy circles over your stomach while you trace the line of his mouth with one sleepy fingertip.

“This counts as a successful wedding night,” you murmur.

He laughs softly. “Good. I was hoping.”

You turn into him, already half asleep. “Anywhere is home,” you whisper, the words blurred at the edges with exhaustion, “if you’re in the bed.”

He never forgets them.

When the memory releases you both, Bucky is still standing in his apartment with his chest heaving and your hands fisted in his shirt.

The kitchen light is too bright. The city outside the window too loud. He can taste you without ever having had you in this life.

Your face is flushed all the way down your neck.

“Well,” you say after a stunned second, voice frayed. “That was wildly inconvenient timing.”

He laughs once, brokenly, because if he does not laugh he might combust.

“You okay?” he asks.

Your gaze lifts to his, honest and heated. “Ask me in five minutes.”

He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, a touch so careful it is almost absurd after what you both just saw. “I mean it.”

“I know.” Your hand slides down to cover his where it rests against your face. “Yeah. I’m okay. A little overwhelmed. A lot turned on. But okay.”

Heat hits him hard and immediate. He closes his eyes for a second.

You laugh softly. “Right. Sorry. That was—”

“Don’t apologize.”

When he opens his eyes again, your expression has gentled. “Bucky.”

He knows what you are asking. Not just whether he wants you. That is almost insultingly obvious. You are asking whether he can separate memory from present. Whether he can stand in this kitchen and want what is in front of him without letting the weight of every before crush what could be now.

He answers by leaning down and resting his forehead against yours.

“I want this,” he says quietly. “But I want our first time in this life to be ours.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush. So does some tightness in his chest he hadn’t fully realized he was carrying.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you once more, soft and lingering. Then he walks you home because if you stay the night he is not sure either of you will survive your own restraint, and because there is something holy in wanting badly and still choosing patience.

At your door, you touch his wrist before he can step back.

“For the record,” you murmur, eyes warm, “that other us had very good taste.”

He grins helplessly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I get it now.”

Then you kiss him quick and disappear inside with a smile that haunts him for days.

The weeks that follow feel like being built from the inside out.

The flashbacks do not stop, but they become less like ambushes and more like weather—still sudden, still powerful, but no longer catastrophic. A scent, a sound, a patch of light can call one up. Sometimes you text each other in the middle of the workday with fragments: did you remember the red truck in the mountain life had one broken taillight? or I think Bucharest-you stole that robe from the hotel. Sometimes a memory arrives whole when you are together and leaves both of you laughing or aching or red-faced in its wake.

In between, you date.

Real dates. Present-tense ones.

You go to a bookstore in Cobble Hill and accidentally spend two hours arguing about whether people who dog-ear paperbacks can be trusted. You sit in the park eating takeout and watch a wedding party take photos under the arch. You make pasta in your kitchen and burn the garlic because you are too busy kissing against the fridge. You let him meet your friends, who like him immediately and try not to look too smug about it. He tells Sam about you over beers and gets stared at for a full ten seconds before Sam breaks into the kind of grin that means Bucky will never hear the end of this.

And slowly, because slowness is another name for mercy, you get used to the fact of each other.

One night in late July, you fall asleep on Bucky’s couch halfway through a movie. Your head ends up in his lap, your bare feet tucked under his thigh, the credits rolling blue light over the room. He does not move for an hour because the weight of you there feels too precious to disturb.

When you wake, drowsy and disoriented, you blink up at him and smile.

“There you are,” he says before he can stop himself.

The words do something strange to the air.

You sit up slowly, blanket slipping down your shoulders. “What?”

He swallows. “Nothing. I just—”

But then the memory comes, not violent this time. Gentle as smoke.

You see it in each other’s faces as it arrives.

Sleepyhead ’cause all the fucking foxes kept me awake last night

The cabin is barely more than one room and a stubborn prayer.

In that life, winter has a vendetta against you. The land is raw and half-finished around you—trees felled and stacked, fields only partly cleared, the nearest neighbors hours away by horse. Everything aches. Your hands, your backs, your hope.

And still, you build.

By day Bucky swings an axe until his shoulders burn and your tiny patch of earth starts, slowly, to look like something that might feed you come spring. By day you mend, cook, scrub, carry water, keep accounts in a little ledger with cramped neat writing, and somehow still find the energy to laugh when the hen gets loose again and wreaks havoc under the table.

By night you sit by the fire mending his shirts while he carves handles for tools and the baby—your daughter, round-cheeked and solemn—sleeps in a cradle made from wood Bucky planed himself.

It is not easy. God, it is not easy. There are weeks when the roof leaks and the wind gets through the chinks in the walls and your flour goes sour and the loneliness of so much open land makes your chest feel flayed raw. There are days Bucky comes in from the field looking so worn you have to bite the inside of your cheek not to cry.

But there is you. There is him. There is the little sleeping weight of your child and the fire and the bed you built with your own hands.

Sometimes that is enough to make hardship look almost like devotion.

One night in early autumn, the foxes scream outside the cabin so long and loud that neither of you gets any real sleep. By dawn you are cross and bleary-eyed, hair half falling from its braid as you stand over the hearth trying to stir cornmeal mush that refuses to thicken.

“Sleepyhead,” Bucky says softly when he comes up behind you.

You elbow him weakly. “I’ll kill you.”

He laughs into your hair and wraps his arms around your waist anyway, his chin settling on your shoulder. Outside, the new fence leans and the world is still cold and demanding. Inside, his body is warm all along your back.

“We’re doing it,” he murmurs after a while.

You blink at the pot. “Doing what?”

“Building it.” He turns his face into your temple. “A life.”

The words are simple. They hit with the force of revelation.

You tip your head back against his shoulder and close your eyes. In the other room your daughter stirs. The foxes have gone quiet. Morning light pushes pale and stubborn through the little window above the table.

“We are,” you whisper.

He kisses your cheek. “Told you I’d build you something.”

You smile, tired and full to aching. “You built me everything.”

The memory fades with the warm dim glow of Bucky’s living room around you.

You are still on his couch, the television a muted wash of menu screens no one bothered to turn off. For a while neither of you says anything.

Then you reach out and lace your fingers through his.

“That one felt different,” you say.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Not youthful. Not fevered. Not all heat and spark and want. That life had been built plank by plank. Through work. Through weather. Through choosing each other when the choosing was made of practical things—fences, soup, babies, roofs, morning fires.

It lands in him heavier than some of the others. Maybe because recovery has taught him what it means to build anything worth having by hand.

“I liked them,” you say quietly. “That version of us.”

He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “Me too.”

You glance around his apartment then, at the bookshelf he assembled crooked and fixed himself, at the herb pot on the windowsill, at the loaf of bread cooling under a dish towel on the counter.

“You’re doing it too, you know,” you murmur.

He looks at you. “Doing what?”

“Building a life.”

The thing in his chest, scarred and careful and too often braced for loss, goes very still.

You squeeze his hand. “It’s a good one.”

He kisses you then because there is no other answer big enough.

By August, you keep a toothbrush at his place.

By September, there is a sweater of yours folded over the back of one of his dining chairs, two hair ties on his bathroom sink, a half-used bottle of your fancy conditioner in his shower that he is under strict orders not to touch. None of it is dramatic. None of it is announced. The shape of your presence simply grows until it feels absurd to remember the apartment before it.

The flash that takes you next comes in early October, on a rainy Thursday when you duck with him into a jazz bar in the West Village to escape a downpour.

The room is all amber light and low ceilings and cigarette-scarred booths preserved from another era. A singer in a black dress stands by the piano, crooning into a microphone. Bucky goes still before you even make it to the bar.

You know before the memory hits what it will be.

The note hangs in the air.

Then London rushes in.

late nights in black silk in east london

The war has made everything look dimmer around the edges.

Bucky is young in the way only war can make a man young—old enough to be exhausted by it, young enough to still be surprised by beauty. He is stationed overseas for too long in a city stitched with blackout curtains and ration books and the bruise-colored exhaustion of people trying very hard to act as if life is still ordinary.

Then one wet December night, a fellow soldier drags him down a narrow stairwell off an alley in East London and the whole world changes shape.

The club is hidden beneath a tailor’s shop with no sign out front. Music seeps through the floorboards before the door even opens. Inside, the room glows low and gold around the edges, tables crowded close, voices pitched just above the band. Women in silk and men in uniform and civilians with danger in their smiles. Someone is laughing at the bar like the war has never existed. Someone else is dancing with one shoe off.

And there you are.

You should not stick out. You’re not center stage or demanding attention. You’re leaning one hip against the bar in black silk gloves and a slip dress that gleams when you move, listening to the pianist with your head tilted slightly as if you know a secret about the song.

Bucky sees you and forgets how war works.

Maybe he forgets how breathing works too.

“Careful,” his friend  mutters, following his line of sight. “That one looks expensive.”

Bucky barely hears him.

When you look over and catch him staring, you smile. Not coy. Curious, amused, entirely too direct. Then you lift your glass in a tiny salute.

He is doomed.

Later, after he has found enough courage or foolishness to cross the room, you tell him your brother runs supplies out of the docks and your mother thinks this place is scandalous and your favorite thing in the world is men who look like they’d fall apart if a woman in black silk talked to them too long.

“I am not falling apart,” he says, already half gone.

You laugh, low and delighted. “No? That’s a shame. You’d be awfully handsome doing it.”

You dance with him before midnight. Then again after. The band slows, the room blurs, and you fit against him so easily it feels less like meeting and more like remembering a step he somehow learned before birth.

Outside, the rain has stopped. The alley smells like wet brick and smoke.

“Are you always this easy?” you ask when he walks you to the corner.

“Only in London.”

“Convenient.”

You stop beneath a streetlamp draped in wartime dimming paint. Your lipstick has worn soft at the edges. His gloves are damp. Somewhere far off, a siren starts and then dies.

“I don’t know how long I’m here,” he says, because war steals the illusion of endless time from a man pretty quick.

You look at him with that same level, fearless steadiness you will carry in every life. “Then don’t waste the nights you’ve got.”

So he doesn’t.

He spends every free hour he can find with you in that black silk East London life. Dancing in hidden clubs. Eating chips from newspaper parcels by the river. Kissing in doorways while the city holds its breath between bombings. Falling in love so fast it would look irresponsible to anyone not living under the same shadow.

On his last night before shipping out again, this time to Bucharest, he finds you in the club after closing, curled barefoot on the stage in your black dress with your knees drawn up, humming to yourself while the pianist smokes by the door.

He sits beside you. The stage creaks.

You do not ask him if he is leaving. You already know.

For a long moment you just lean into him shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the dark.

Then you take his hand and lace your fingers with his as if you have always had the right.

“I hate war,” you say flatly.

“Yeah.”

“I hate that it teaches people to love in a hurry.”

He turns to look at you, but your face is tipped toward the empty room. “Maybe,” he says after a while, “it just teaches people not to waste time pretending they don’t.”

That makes you smile a little, though your eyes shine.

When you finally kiss him, it feels like grief and promise all tangled together.

“I’d have found you anyway,” you whisper against his mouth.

He believes you.

Presently, the jazz bar swims back around you in amber and brass.

Your hand is flat over your heart. Bucky is gripping the edge of the bar hard enough his knuckles ache.

“You were terrifying in that one,” he murmurs.

You blink at him. “Terrifying?”

“You had me done in about twelve seconds.”

Your laugh spills out warm and bright enough to make nearby heads turn. “Good.”

He stares at you, at the woman in front of him and the woman in black silk and the impossible thread between them, and something old in him loosens. That London memory is the first one that brushes directly up against the era he remembers in his bones. The first one that lets him feel, without the cold hand of history around its throat, that he once had youth. Flirtation. A version of himself that existed before damage became the loudest fact in the room.

Later, walking you home under a shared umbrella, he tells you more.

Not everything. Not all at once. But more.

About Brooklyn in the forties. About enlisted men and too much bravado and the way the world sharpened at the edges when war started circling. About the years after, in pieces, with pauses long enough to breathe in between. You listen without interrupting except to ask where it hurts. Not where it happened. Where it hurts. The difference matters so much he nearly stops in the middle of the sidewalk.

At your building, rain dripping from the umbrella’s edges, you cup his face and kiss him like he is something to return to, not something to be rescued.

That night he sleeps six straight hours for the first time in weeks.

The last of the big memories comes in November.

By then, the market has become yours together. Saturday mornings are no longer Bucky’s alone. They are yours in the plural, so natural now he sometimes forgets to be startled by it. Coffee for two. Bread for two. Peaches finally back in season for a heartbeat before the weather turns. Your fingers hooked through one of the canvas bag straps while he carries the heavier side.

At the stall with the glass-bottled lemonades and orange sodas, you reach for a bright neon-orange drink at the same time he does.

The glass knocks against his ring finger.

Sunlight slams through him.

Neon orange drinks on the beach

Salt lives in the walls of that house.

Here, you and Bucky live in a little coastal town where everyone knows everybody’s business and no one minds much as long as you bring enough food to the potluck. The house is white clapboard with a porch swing and chipped blue shutters. Sand collects in the doorway no matter how often you sweep. Wind rattles the windows in winter and smells like sunscreen in summer.

You have children in that life. Three of them.

A girl with your laugh and Bucky’s serious eyes. A boy who climbs everything he’s told not to. A baby still soft at the wrists who rides your hip with one fist full of your shirt.

The beach is five minutes from your front door. On hot afternoons you walk there loaded like pack animals—blankets, towels, snacks, toys, a cooler that bumps against Bucky’s leg every other step, the toddler already whining for the ocean before you’ve even crossed the dune grass.

It is a beautiful chaos. Your favorite kind.

The day memory gives you is bright enough to ache.

The sky is clear blue from edge to edge. Your youngest is asleep under the shade tent with one plump foot sticking free of the blanket. Your son is digging a moat around a sandcastle with all the focus of a man handling explosives. Your daughter, solemn with purpose, is handing Bucky shell fragments one by one so he can decorate the towers properly.

“No, Daddy,” she says with immense patience. “That one goes there.”

Bucky, thirty-something and sun-browned and already half buried in sand because the children have no respect for rank, nods gravely. “My mistake.”

You come down from the boardwalk carrying a tray of neon-orange lemonades in plastic cups, ice clinking. Condensation slicks your fingers. The sun catches on the rims of the cups until they glow like tiny lanterns.

Bucky looks up when your shadow falls across the sand.

Even after years, even with sunscreen on your nose and beach hair whipping your cheeks, he looks at you like there has never been anyone else worth the trouble of sight.

“You’re my favorite person,” he says as you hand him a drink.

You arch a brow. “Even over the tiny tyrants?”

“Depends. Are they giving me lemonade?”

Your daughter takes her cup in both hands and squints up at you. “Mama, Daddy made the castle wrong.”

You laugh. “I’m shocked.”

“It was sabotage,” Bucky says.

The children shout over each other. The baby wakes and starts fussing. A gull swoops dangerously low near the pretzel bag. The tide inches closer. Everything is loud and sandy and sticky and imperfect.

It is paradise.

Later, when the children are collapsing in a sugar crash on towels striped green and white, Bucky stretches out beside you and tugs you down until your head rests on his chest. The ocean hisses and folds itself a few yards away.

“You think,” he says after a while, fingers combing absently through your damp hair, “we’ll ever get tired of this?”

You tip your face up. “The beach?”

“This.”

The life. The family. The ordinary miracle of it.

You can feel the answer in him before he says it. In the steady beat under your ear. In the salt-warmed skin of him. In the children making sleepy, disgruntled sounds nearby because even paradise requires snacks and naps and somebody always getting sunscreen in their eye.

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think so.”

His mouth brushes your forehead. “Good.”

Because in every lifetime, it turns out, what the two of you build is not grandeur.

It is a table. A bed. A road. A cabin. A dance floor. A beach towel in the sun. A thousand tiny places where love gets to put its shoes by the door and stay awhile.

When the memory loosens its grip, you are back at the market with cold glass sweating in your hand.

You are crying.

So is Bucky, though he only realizes it when you reach up and wipe at his cheek with your thumb.

“That one was rude,” you say thickly.

He laughs through the ache in his throat. “Yeah.”

It isn’t the children, not really. Though that got him. It’s the ordinariness of it. The ease. The way love in that life had settled into the bones of things so thoroughly that joy looked almost plain. A beach day. Lemonade. Sand. A family.

A future.

You look at him with tears still bright in your eyes. “Do you ever think maybe that’s why it keeps happening?”

“What?”

“Us.” You glance down at the bottle in your hand, the impossible orange brightness of it. “Not because we’re destined in some giant dramatic way. Maybe just because every time the universe throws us somewhere new, we keep making the same choice.”

The market blurs around the edges.

Bucky takes the bottle from your hand and sets both your drinks down on the stall so he can hold your face in both palms.

“I think,” he says, voice low and unsteady, “that no matter where I find you, you keep teaching me that a life doesn’t have to be extraordinary to matter.”

You inhale sharply.

He goes on because he has spent too much of his existence losing time, losing names, losing chances to say what needed saying. Because he will not waste this one.

“I loved you in a chapel with a plastic sign. In a truck on back roads. In a bed with lace curtains. In a cabin when we had almost nothing. In London when the whole world was on fire. On a beach with kids climbing all over me and sand in places there should never be sand.” Your mouth trembles around a laugh. His thumbs catch the tears on your cheeks. “And every time, it wasn’t because things were perfect. It was because it was you.”

Your hand covers one of his. “Bucky—”

“In this life,” he says, holding your gaze, “I don’t care what fate says. I don’t care what we were before unless it helps me be better to you now. I just…” He exhales, helpless in it. “I just know I am more myself when you’re in the room. And I want to keep choosing that. For however long I get.”

Something breaks open in your face.

Then you are kissing him in the middle of the farmer’s market, November wind cold around your ears and strangers surely staring and lemons probably within a three-yard radius somehow, and Bucky does not care about any of it.

When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead to his and laugh wetly.

“You took forever to say that,” you whisper.

He blinks. “I did?”

“Yes.” You kiss him once, quick and smiling. “It’s okay. I was going to let you.”

That night you come home with him.

Home, because that is what it is now no matter how recently he learned to say it.

The apartment smells like the rosemary chicken you cooked together and the bread he baked that morning and the cold air that followed you in when he opened the door. Your overnight bag sits by the couch. Your laughter is still in the walls from where you nearly dropped the oranges while making cocktails because he kissed your neck and ruined your concentration on purpose.

There are no visions this time.

No past lives pouring through the cracks.

Just the two of you in the warm gold hush of his bedroom, lamplight soft on the sheets, your sweater slipping from one shoulder as you sit on the edge of the mattress and look up at him.

“This is ours,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You reach for him.

The first time you make love in this life is not a reenactment of any before. There are echoes, maybe. The same reverence. The same hunger braided with tenderness. But this is its own living thing, shaped by who you are now—older in different ways, scarred in different places, more careful and more certain all at once.

He undresses you slowly, like unwrapping something he intends to keep. You do the same for him, kissing each mark on his body as if introducing yourself to every chapter. When your fingers brush the long scars at his shoulder and side, you do not hesitate. You just look at him for permission and then kiss them too.

His throat goes tight.

On the bed, he takes his time. He is afraid this time, rather he wants to feel every second of being chosen with full knowledge. Your skin under his mouth. Your breath hitching when he drags his thumb over your clit. The way you smile against his lips when he says your name like a marvel. He works you open with his hands first, then his mouth, until you are clutching the sheets and half laughing, half sobbing because pleasure in this body, in this life, feels new and familiar all at once.

“Bucky,” you whisper when he comes back up over you, eyes dark and wrecked.

“I’ve got you.”

You nod, hands framing his face. “I know.”

When he pushes into you, slow and careful, your mouths are open against each other. He feels your body welcome him in inch by inch, feels your legs tighten around his hips, feels the tremor that runs through you when he finally settles deep. It is overwhelming in the simplest way. Not because of memory. Because of presence. Because you are here. Because he is too.

He moves. You move with him.

Outside, the city keeps being itself. A siren in the distance. Somebody laughing on the street. Heat clanking faintly through old pipes. Inside, his bedroom narrows to breath and skin and the soft wreck of your voice. You scratch lightly through his hair and murmur yes against his mouth and he nearly comes from the sound alone. He holds himself back long enough to watch the exact moment pleasure overtakes you, the way your eyes go bright and your body arches up into his with a cry he feels all the way to his ribs.

He follows soon after, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, your names tangled together in the dark.

Afterward you lie under the sheets while the room cools around you. Your head rests on his chest. His hand drifts up and down your bare spine. The curtains are plain cotton, not lace. The sheets are soft gray, not white. The city outside is Brooklyn and not some inn in another century. It does not matter.

You draw lazy circles over his sternum.

“You know,” you murmur sleepily, “I think I liked every version of you.”

His fingers still for a second. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You tilt your chin to look at him. “But this one might be my favorite.”

Emotion catches him so hard it almost hurts.

He bends and kisses your forehead because if he tries to speak right then, he will probably embarrass himself beyond repair.

Months later, when winter gives way to spring and then, at last, to summer again, Saturday morning finds the two of you at the farmer’s market under the same green-striped awnings where everything began.

Bucky has two coffees in a cardboard carrier. You have a bouquet of sunflowers tucked under one arm. The bread guy waves. The peach stand is finally, gloriously in season. The lemon vendor clocks you both and grins like he has been expecting to see how this turns out.

“Need a bag today?” he asks.

You glance at Bucky. Bucky glances at you.

Then, smiling, you both reach for the same lemon on purpose.

No flash comes.

There is no need.

Your fingers lace together instead, easy as breath.

The square is bright with morning. The violinist by the fountain is playing something warm and sweet. Coffee steams between you. Peaches perfume the air. Beside you, your soulmate—your chosen person, your present-tense miracle—squeezes your hand.

And because love, in the end, is often this simple, you walk the market together like you have done it all your life.

Maybe you have.

Maybe you will again.

Either way, the peaches are ripe, the bread is warm, and Bucky Barnes is laughing at something you said with his whole face open to the sun.

It is not a dramatic ending.

It is better.

It is a life.

And every ordinary second of it feels, impossibly, like falling in love again and again.

you peered down for a second, feeling bucky’s lips kiss your knee gently, over and over until he went a little further up your leg. his eyes were closed, lashes resting gently on his cheekbones and his hair was tucked back into a low bun. a few curly strands of hair had fallen out of the bun and were framing his face. you reached out and pushed one behind his ear and his eyes opened, big blue needy eyes meeting yours. you gave him a small smile, caressing the side of his face as you cupped his cheek. he leaned into your palm, missing the feeling of your hand on his face while he was looking up at you.

he whined as you let go of his face and you turned your attention back to the laptop sitting in front of you. he knew you had other duties, but couldn’t you see how needy and desperate he was just for some sort of release? he angled his legs so your leg was right between him, his cock pressing harshly against his sweats and on your calf. you could feel how hard he was through the fabric and while it made you soaked thinking he was just sitting here as a silly little whore, you had to finish this paper.

but that didn’t mean you couldn’t let him have some relief.

opening your legs up a little bit without looking down at him, he took that as his advantage right away. his hands splayed across your thighs and squeezing them gently. he licked his lips, watching you shift a little as he squeezed your thighs, knowing you were getting a tad bit distracted. he smiled to himself, metal fingers ghosting lightly over the fabric enough to make you suck in a breath and take a short pause, acting as if you saw something incriminating on your job site.

but in all reality, you were focused on how his fingers moved closer towards your clothed core, the fabric of your jeans pressing against your clit. licking his lips, he popped the button open with ease, and you moved your hips enough to let him shimmy your pants off tossing them to the side.

he let out a breath, looking back up at you again but you weren’t looking in his direction. your eyes were skimming over your laptop, anything to distract you from him kissing up your thigh and how his hips were moving against your leg— dying to get some friction against his hard cock

your soft skin felt like heaven against his rough and calloused hands, the cool metal fingers digging into your skin as he massaged the flesh. occasionally his tongue poked out against your skin as he pulled you closer to him before nudging you clothed clit with his nose. he inhaled deeply, his cock twitching in his sweats at how good you smelled, how soaking wet you were through your panties.

his tongue licked up a stripe on your clothed slit, and you had to suck in a breath to keep your composure. he knew for a fact that you wouldn’t be able to last long, but that didn’t mean he couldn't tease you a little bit. as he kept licking, he pulled your panties to the side before his hot tongue found its way to your slit.

“fuck..” he groaned against you, tongue dancing up and down your cunt, lapping up your slick before pulling back. looking down, his lips were glistening with your slick, and a smile adorned his beautiful face. 

“take yourself out for me, baby. wanna hear you stroke that pretty cock while you eat my pussy.” his cheeks heated up, nodding quickly as he shoved his sweats down. he didn’t ever bother to wear boxers anymore, mostly because they got in the way when he wanted to fuck you into oblivion.

his cock was red and throbbing, pre-cum dripping down the tip onto his length as he grabbed the base of his cock and tugged on it a few times. spitting in his hand, he started to stroke himself as he leaned back in and lapped at your clit gently. the squelching sounds mixed with him jerking himself off, and it made you even more wet at the thought.

he brought his other hand from your thigh, prodding your hole with his middle finger before pushing it in. you felt the stretch immediately, moaning softly as you sat back, opening your legs wider for him as he nestled closer. smiling against your cunt, he pushed a second finger in, curling them so they were hitting the sweet spot your fingers could never reach.

going at a slow pace as he fucked your cunt with his fingers, his hands worked his cock at the same speed, tugging the tip before rubbing his thumb around the slit. you watched as he fucked into you slowly, his hand matching the speed on his cock before he easily slipped in a third.

“fuck..sweetheart. you’re soaking..” you moaned gently, feeling your slick run down your crack knowing that it was making a little wet spot on the chair. he felt his palm soaked, flowing down his wrist and arm.

he picked up the pace, twisting his wrist and curling his fingers inside of you while he pulled away and rubbed your clit with his thumb. he rested his cheek on your knee, stroking himself a little harder as he made eye contact with you for a split second before you closed your eyes and bucked your hips up into his fingers.

“baby..’m gonna cum.. keep going, jus’ like that.” you gripped the edges of the chair, his assault on your cunt never faltering as he kept going, rubbing your clit harder with his thumb. his eyes were blown out, no longer being able to see the soft blue eyes that always were so inviting.

instead he was here to take from you, something that he knew you needed from being so stressed out for days. he felt you clench around his sensitive fingers, his hand on his cock picking up as you rolled your hips hard against his hand.

“thas’ it, sweetheart. take what you need, go on..” he egged you on softly, the sweet praises laced with his tone of wanting to be used by him, taking whatever you needed from him. your hands gripped the sides of the chair tightly as you felt your orgasm wash over you, strings of moans and his name falling from your lips were music to his ears. he was panting softly leaned against you, bucking into his own hand as he tugged and gripped the tip of his cock, not wanting to cum just yet.

he whined as he felt your cunt squeeze his fingers hard, pulling another orgasm unexpectedly from you before he slowed his movements, taking his fingers from you and popping them into his mouth tasting you. you let out a long breath, looking down at him underneath the table and in between your legs as he sucked on his fingers. your cream was ringed around his knuckles dripping down his wrist and his hand twisting his cock before he let it go. 

another drop of pre-cum fell from the tip of his cock, and you licked your lips, needing to feel full of him. you leaned down, pushing the chair out enough to grab his chin and smash your lips against his in a heated kiss— tasting you on his lips. he let his lips part, tongues dancing with each other in need before you managed to get his tongue and suck hard on it.

he groaned, pushing the chair all the way back as he stood up, his fingers that were just in your cunt wrapped around your neck, the dynamic changing quickly the second he squeezed.

“do that again and im pumping you full of cum all night, princess.” you smiled against his lips, and he groaned, picking you up easily and tossing you over his shoulder before walking away with you towards the bedroom. your palms pressed against his lower back and you could hear his cock slapping his thighs with each step, making your mouth salivate at the thought of having it in your cunt.

you let out a squeal as he tossed you onto the bed and hovered over you, eyes looking over your face for a quick second before pushing his cock over your folds. your jaw fell over, the tip of his cock teasing your entrance with each rock of his hips and snagging your clit each time. 

“pl - please buck..” you begged softly, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, letting your legs fall open a bit more for him as he fully slid in between your legs. he pulled away, grabbing the base of his cock and tapped the tip on your clit, making you jolt your hips a little at the feeling.

“Is this what you want, doll?” you nodded, biting your lip as you tugged your shirt off and exposing your chest to him. he let out a quiet ‘fuck’ as you toyed with your nipples, tugging and pulling at them.

he shook his head though, stroking himself as he watched you touch yourself. “beg for it, then.” you pout your lips, in hopes that would make him change his mind but it didn’t. he pushed the tip of his cock into your hole, making you moan and shifting your hips for more before he held you down with his other arm.

“c’mon, sweetheart, use those words. tell me you want my fat cock splitting you open. its the least you could do for being a fucking tease all week.” you felt your face heat up, licking your lips and instantly losing all self control as he kept just the tip in your dripping hole. he could feel you squeezing it, jaw clenching with each squeeze trying to draw him in.

“ple - please daddy, need your cock so bad..” you whined softly, biting your lower lip as he smiled, pushing his cock deep inside you with a single thrust. he threw his head back, moaning out how warm and wet you were, reveling in the feeling of your pussy fluttering around his cock.

“fuck baby, missed my sweet pussy,” he drew his hips back, before slamming back into you, grabbing your legs and bringing them up to his shoulders balancing your ankles on his shoulders. he turned to kiss one of your ankles, watching the way your anklet engraved with a little ‘b’ bounced with each thrust.

you couldn’t take your eyes off of him as he fucked into you. he was so pretty— more strands of his brown and messy hair fell in front of his face and sticking to his forehead. his eyes only trained on the way your cunt swallowed his cock perfectly, how easily you stretched out around his fat cock. you were both drunk on each other starting just from some simple touching.

you whined gently, trying to muffle the sounds as you felt his cock spear into you, each thrust making you lose your mind more and more until your thoughts were only filled with getting pounded. he could see it too— the way your eyes rolled back into your skull, your back arching just to get him deeper, and how you gripped the sheets.

“like that, baby?” he smirked as he watched you nod, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “awe, too cockdrunk to answer me? that’s okay, daddy will give you exactly. what. you. need.” he accentuated each word with his thrusts, digging his hands into your hips and pulling you up a little more, his balls slapping onto your tight hole as your slick ran down his balls and onto the sheets.

at some point you felt the blood rushing to your ears a he fucked into you, your body moving up with each thrust until the pillow your head was on backed against the headboard. he smiled watching you squirm under him, toes curling and mouth hanging open. leaning over he gripped your cheeks, spitting right onto our tongue and you moaned as you swallowed. you were more bent in half in this position, the dog tags he wore around his neck dangling in front of your face.

you took it between your teeth as he fucked into you, and the moan that left his mouth made you squeeze around his cock. he hissed, bringing one of his hands in between your bodies where you were connected and furiously rubbed your clit. you moaned dumbly, mumbling incoherent sounds as he fucked into you.

“you feel me here, baby?” he pushed against your stomach with his metal hand, slowing his strokes enough for you to feel his cock protruding through your stomach perfectly. he was rearranging your guts and he was smirking about it since you couldn't actually say anything back.

“yeah you do, my perfect little cockdrunk slut.” as soon as the words left his mouth, you felt your orgasm rush through your entire body, lighting up and igniting each and every single nerve . you squirted on his chest and his cock, a loud moan leaving your lips as you squirmed under him. his thrusts didn’t let up, instead — you squirting encouraged him to fuck you through it while he held onto yoi tightly.

“that’s a good girl, fuck baby,” he was loosing self control as your cunt pulsed around him, milking his cock for his cum. his thrusts became erratic, pushing his hips flush with yours and you felt his hot cum filling your cunt up to the brim.

he leaned his weight against you, your legs falling from his shoulders and next you, his cock twitching inside of you as he moved his hips slowly. the squelching sound mixed with yours and his cum was enough to make you needy all over again.

he leaned up, kissing you softly before pulling out and you felt his cum drip down your hole and onto the messy sheets. he leaned back, admiring his handiwork before scooping up some of his cum and fucking it back into your cunt.

“bucky, please..” you tried to move away but he held your hips down with his metal hand, he tsked, pushing his fingers all the want into your pussy and feeling your walls clench around him from the overstimulation

“i think you can give me one more, hm princess? just for the blue balls you left me with all week.” you whined, and he just smiled as he kept fucking into you. he pushed his palm right up against your clit making you moan, grabbing his wrist and keeping it there as you needily grinded into him

“thats what i thought baby, you just can’t get enough huh? need me to fuck my cum back into this sweet little pussy. my little cumslut.” you nodded, completely fucked out and agreeing to whatever he said because you were drunk on his touch, anything that he would give you.

you felt your orgasm wash over you with a particular twist of his wrist, squeezing his fingers as more of his cum spilled out of you, making him groan. pulling his fingers from your abused cunt, he marveled in his work as your pussy fluttered around nothing.

But you’ve seen the way he looks at plums.

Two weekends in a row at the farmer’s market, you’ve watched him pause at the stand. He never says anything, never reaches out, just slows down enough to glance. His fingers twitch once, like he might pick one up, then he keeps walking.

Both times, you’d asked, “You like plums?”

And both times, he’d shrugged, all casual like it didn’t matter. “They’re okay.”

But Bucky Barnes is a terrible liar when it comes to the small things.

So today, when he’d left for a quick mission debrief and told you he’d be back before dinner, you’d gone straight to the market and bought a whole basket.

Now the pie sits finished on the counter, golden and bubbling slightly at the edges where the filling has peeked through. You’ve been hovering around it for the last ten minutes, checking it, turning it, pretending you’re not a little nervous.

It’s just a pie.

It’s not even for anything.

No anniversary, no birthday, no reason at all.

You just… couldn’t stand watching him walk past something he clearly wanted.

The sound of the front door unlocking makes your head snap up.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice carries through the apartment, low and familiar, a little rough around the edges from the day.

“In the kitchen!” you call back, wiping your hands on a towel and tryingnnot to hover.

His footsteps are heavy, grounded, moving closer. There’s the soft clink of his gear being set down, the quiet exhale he always lets out when he finally steps inside, like he can breathe properly again.

Then he rounds the corner.

And stops.

You watch it happen in real time—the way his brows pull together first, confusion flickering across his face as his gaze lands on you, then shifts past you, catching on the pie.

He blinks.

“What… is that?”

You huff a small laugh, suddenly shy under his stare. “It’s a pie, Buck.”

“I can see that,” he says slowly, stepping further into the kitchen like he’s approaching something fragile. “I mean, why is there a pie?”

You lean back against the counter, shrugging like it’s no big deal even though your heart is doing something a little too loud in your chest. “I made it.”

He looks at you like that explains absolutely nothing.

“Yeah,” he says, dragging the word out. “I got that part.”

You bite your lip, then gesture toward it. “It’s plum.”

That’s what does it.

It’s subtle, so subtle most people wouldn’t catch it, but you see the way his entire expression shifts. The confusion is still there, but it softens, something else slipping in underneath it. Something quieter.

“…plum?” he repeats.

You nod, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “You kept looking at them. At the market.”

His eyes flick up to yours, sharp now. “You noticed that?”

“Of course I noticed,” you say, like it’s obvious. Because it is. Because you notice everything about him, even the things he tries not to show. “You didn’t buy any. Twice. It was starting to bother me.”

A faint, disbelieving huff of breath leaves him, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

“So,” you add, softer now, gesturing again to the pie, “I got some. And I figured… I don’t know. Maybe you wanted them but weren’t gonna get them for yourself.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

Bucky just stands there, staring at the pie like it’s something he’s not entirely sure is real. His metal hand flexes once at his side, the faint whir of it loud in the quiet kitchen.

“You made this,” he says finally.

“Yeah.”

“For me.”

It’s not a question, but you answer anyway.

“Yeah, Buck.”

“Why?”

You blink at him, thrown off by the genuine confusion in his voice. “What do you mean, why?”

His jaw shifts, like he’s trying to find the words and coming up short. “There’s no—” he gestures vaguely, “—thing. It’s not a special day or—”

You let out a soft laugh, pushing off the counter to step closer to him. “Do I need a reason?”

He looks at you like maybe you do. Like that’s the only way this makes sense in his head.

“You’ve been… lookin’ at plums,” you say, gentler now, reaching out to take his hand, threading your fingers through his. “That’s it. That’s the reason.”

Something in his expression cracks.

It’s quiet, the way it happens. His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing out of him like he’s setting something down he didn’t realize he was carrying.

“You made me a whole pie,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “because I looked at some fruit.”

You smile, soft and a little teasing. “When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. Just awe. “Nobody does that.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “I do.”

That lands somewhere deep.

You can see it in the way his throat bobs, the way his grip on your hand tightens just a little.

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you, like he’s trying to memorize the moment, or maybe understand it.

Then, before you can say anything else, he pulls you in.

His arms wrap around you, solid and warm, tucking you against his chest like he needs you close. Like this is the thing he’s been missing.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he mutters into your hair.

You laugh softly against him, your hands sliding up his back. “It’s just a pie.”

“No,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes bright in a way that makes your chest ache. “It’s not.”

His gaze flicks back to the counter, to the golden crust, then back to you.

“It’s you seein’ me,” he says quietly. “Even when I don’t say nothin’.”

Your expression softens.

“I always see you, Buck.”

You don’t even get another word out before he’s kissing you, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t quite say into it. His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek where the flour still sits, and he huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth when he notices it.

“Got flour on your face,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?” you smile, breathless. “Worth it?”

He glances at the pie, then back at you, something warm and certain settling into his features.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Worth it.”

And later, when you finally cut into it and he takes his first bite, the way his eyes close—like he’s tasting something familiar, something he didn’t realize he missed—tells you everything you need to know.

You didn’t need a reason.

first of all he does not do small. if he’s proposing, he’s proposing. the ring is huge. obnoxiously huge. the kind of rock that makes your friends grab your hand and go “what the hell.” he shrugs like it’s nothing. says something like, “yeah well if i’m putting my name on something it’s gonna be top tier.” acts like the price tag didn’t make the jeweller blink twice. but he’ll spend anything to make his girl happy.

he definitely pretends it wasn’t a big deal. you catch him watching you twist it around your finger in the truck and he goes “what, it’s just a ring.” meanwhile he spent weeks researching cuts and clarity like it was storm data.

he likes that the ring is big. not just because he can afford it, but because it’s obvious. because anyone who looks at your hand knows you’re taken.

he does not call you his fiancé. ever. you’re ‘my girl.’ that’s it. someone congratulates him on the engagement and he’s got his arm around your waist like yeah, she’s my girl. always has been. the word fiancé feels too formal.

lowkey territorial about the ring. if someone grabs your hand for too long he’s right there behind you like careful, that’s custom.

he proposed in a way that felt very him. not overly sentimental in public, but when it was just you two he was quieter than usual. serious. a little breathless. like he’d faced down a hundred tornadoes but this was the one thing that actually scared him.

he absolutely uses the engagement as an excuse to be worse. calls you future mrs miller in that smug tone when you’re arguing. you roll your eyes and he just grins because he knows you love it.

he absolutely uses the ring to win arguments. not even in a serious way. you're mid fight and he just grabs your hand, lifts it between you, stares at the diamond like “huh. crazy how you still said yes though.” you hate that it works.

when people ask about wedding planning he gets all dismissive. says something like she’ll handle the pretty stuff. but then later you catch him looking at venues online. cross referencing weather patterns for the month you mentioned. because of course he is.

he acts like the ring was nothing but if you ever joke about taking it off? his whole demeanor shifts. jaw tight. don’t. just don’t.

he keeps calling you my wife by accident. not in a joking way. just slips out. like it’s already decided in his head.

when he’s tired after a chase he’ll rest his forehead against yours and mumble that “he can’t believe you said yes.” like he still doesn’t fully trust that he gets to keep you.

he gets meaner in that teasing way now that you’re engaged. leans down and murmurs “you gonna behave, or do i need to remind you who bought that ring?” and you hate that it makes your stomach flip.

sometimes he’ll take your hand, thumb brushing over the diamond, and his voice drops just a little when he says “you’re stuck with me now, girl.” and it’s not a threat. it’s a promise.

The work trip had only one goal: It was normal that when people transitioned from the spring to the autumn season, they got sick. You, more than anyone, knew that very well. That was why you took care of yourself as best you could, because you hated injections. It was a trauma you'd had since you were a child, due to your weak immune system. They had to give you shots for almost two full weeks, and for a twelve-year-old girl, you had to admit it was a real trauma. So, to avoid going through the same thing again, you took a packet of vitamin C every morning. And there was no problem with that, because that way you managed not to get sick.

Now that you had a boyfriend like Clark, it was clear that you always sought to take care of both of you. Ever since you moved in with him, you kept up your morning vitamin routine. And even before you found out his big secret—that he was Superman and led a double life—Clark took his vitamin with you. So you would prepare two glasses with the dissolved vitamin powder, and he would drink it without complaint. He never said anything, never grumbled. He just smiled and drank it while looking at you affectionately.

That lasted until he told you his secret, in the middle of the living room, sitting together on the sofa. He looked at you with fear, having revealed something so monumental, as if he thought you might get scared or angry. But you just stayed silent for a moment, thinking.

"So you can't get sick?" you asked, staring at him.

Clark smiled, feeling very relieved to be able to tell his secret to the most special person in his life. "No," he said, and very carefully tucked your stray hair behind your ear.

You frowned, a little confused. "And if you can't get sick, why do you take the vitamin I give you to prevent getting sick?" you asked, looking at him curiously.

His cheeks flushed deeply, so much so that he hesitated a bit before answering. "Well… it's a routine I enjoy sharing with you," he admitted with a slightly shy smile.

You smiled too, because you found it very endearing. From that moment on, Clark stopped taking the vitamin, since he truly didn't need it. But that didn't stop you from still taking care of him just the same. If you went out and it started to rain, you would take off your coat and give him his to put on.

"Beautiful, I don't get sick," he would say, laughing a little.

But you would look at him with those eyes he could never refuse. "But we match," you would tell him. And it was true, because you both had blue coats, so he would put it on just to keep you at ease.

In winter, when the cold was too harsh, you would wrap his scarf around his neck before going out. And on sunny days, you would put on your cap and he would do the same, because you had bought an identical one for him. He always told you the same thing: "I can't get sick. I'm strong." But you still weren't entirely sure. To you, he was still Clark, your boyfriend, and you wanted to protect him just as he protected you.

Even so, for several days you had known that the Justice League was facing a very powerful enemy. The news said Superman was having difficulties, and that left you on edge, very nervous. You worked in a call center office, and whenever you could, you checked your phone. But there was no message from Clark. He had gone three days without rest, and you were very worried about his health. When you got home that night, you realized it would be your fourth night without sleeping beside him. You missed him terribly.

You sighed and paced back and forth across the living room, not knowing what to do. The sun set completely and everything went dark. Then you heard a thud at the window. You saw Green Lantern helping Clark inside, stumbling, almost falling.

"Here's your woman, Clark," said Guy Gardner, the Green Lantern, and then he looked at you.

"Guy? What happened?" you asked, running toward Clark, who was moving very slowly, as if struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

"I'm fine," Clark said, but you heard something off in his voice. You noticed he didn't pronounce the letter 'e' correctly.

"You're not fine," Guy said. "His exposure to the enemy—by the way, we already defeated him—weakened him a lot." Guy placed him on the sofa you pointed to. "And you could say, in human terms, he has a fever."

You looked at Clark, who was pale and shaking slightly. You were about to touch him, but Gardner stopped you with his hand. "He's boiling. He can't cool down on his own until the sun rises in about eight hours," he explained.

You nodded, looking at Clark with concern. "I suppose it's like a human cold, right?" you said.

Gardner nodded. Just then, Clark sneezed. It was such a powerful sneeze that the whole apartment shook, and even your crystal vase fell to the floor and shattered.

"Sorry," Clark said, sniffling hard.

"I'll handle it," you told the Green Lantern, your voice firm.

"You sure?" Guy asked. You nodded again. "Anything happens, you know how to contact us. Good luck with your man and his sudden changes," he said, and flew off swiftly through the window.

You closed the window and started thinking. "First, we'll bring your temperature down," you announced, moving quickly. "I'll get the blankets out here, and we'll change your clothes."

"I'm fine," Clark said again, but his voice sounded weak. Then another sneeze shook the air, and this time a picture hanging on the wall fell down, making you jump. "Sorry," he whispered, sniffling again, a small pout on his lips. He looked like a big child who didn't want to cause trouble.

You ran to the bedroom and brought everything to the living room: blankets, a pillow, his pajamas. First, Clark lay down on the sofa with a pillow, with nothing covering him. You placed a large bucket with water and a lot of ice, too much ice. You reached out to touch his forehead, and barely grazing his skin, you had to pull away immediately. It burned as if you had touched a lit stove.

"Oh, Clark," you said, your eyes wide. "You're super hot. I can't even touch you."

He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "I know… it hurts," he whispered, and another sneeze made the windows rattle. This time, a glass on the table fell and rolled across the floor, but luckily it didn't break.

You carefully took the cloth, dipped it in the ice water, and brought it close to his skin. The moment the cold cloth touched his forehead, it started to steam slightly. The ice melted instantly. You had to wet the cloth again and again, nonstop. Every time you placed it, he sighed in relief for a second, but then groaned again as the heat returned.

"Again," he asked, his voice broken. "Put it on again, please." And you did, over and over, without tiring. Your hands were already red from constantly plunging them into the icy water, but you didn't care.

Nearly an hour passed like this. Clark sneezed every few minutes, and each sneeze made the furniture shift slightly or caused something to fall. At one point, he sneezed so hard that the ceiling lamp swayed as if an earthquake had hit.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he said, his eyes teary, pouting again. His lower lip trembled. "I don't want to break anything, love. I don't want to…"

"It's okay," you told him, gently wiping the cloth across his face. "The things don't matter. You're the one who matters."

When the cloth finally started to stay cold on his skin for longer, you felt brave enough to remove his suit. Very carefully, you began taking it off him. He could barely move, so you had to help him by lifting his arms little by little. You left him in just his underwear, and at that moment, his skin changed completely. Suddenly, the heat vanished as if someone had extinguished a fire.

"I'm cold," Clark whispered, and his voice sounded so small it broke your heart. "So cold, love."

He began to tremble uncontrollably. His teeth chattered together, making a tiny sound. His lips turned purple, and his face became as pale as snow. You touched him, and this time it was like touching a block of ice. You were a little frightened, but you remembered what Guy had told you: sudden changes.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," you said, rushing to get more blankets. You grabbed every single one you had in the closet, even the oldest and thinnest. You piled them on him one by one. First one, then another, then another. Clark was still shivering, so you added two more. You lay down beside him on the sofa and held him tight, rubbing his arms and back to warm him up.

"Don't let go," he said, his voice breaking. "Please, don't let me go."

"I won't let you go," you promised, squeezing him tighter.

Several minutes passed until he finally stopped trembling. He sighed deeply and buried his face in your neck. "Stay with me," he whispered. And you stroked his hair, kissing his head every so often.

Suddenly, Clark coughed. It was a dry, harsh cough, and as he coughed, a blast of icy wind came from his mouth, freezing a patch of the floor. You looked at the ice, then at him. His eyes were wide, frightened.

"I'm so sorry," he said, and again he made that pout with his lips, like a child who has just accidentally broken something. "I don't want to hurt anything."

"It's nothing, Clark," you told him with a calm smile. "I'm going to make you soup and tea for the cough. But first, I need you to blow your nose."

You handed him a clean cloth, and he blew his nose. It was a very loud sound, like a trumpet, and as he did, another sneeze shook the living room. This time, the vase on the shelf fell and shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Oh no," Clark moaned, and a tear escaped down his cheek. "Everything breaks. I'm a wreck when I'm sick, and the neighbors are going to come and complain to you."

You knelt in front of him and wiped the tear away with your finger. "Hey, look at me," you said, affectionate but firm. "You take care of everyone, all the time. Now it's my turn to take care of you. If things break, that's fine. If the neighbors complain, I'll find an excuse. Do you understand?"

Clark nodded, but he was still pouting. "Do you still love me even if I break all your things?"

"I love you even if you break the whole building," you told him, and he let out a weak laugh that ended in another cough.

You went to the kitchen and prepared a hot soup and some tea. When you returned with the bowl and the cup on the small table, Clark was calmer, but still very weak. You helped him sit up a little, placing a pillow behind his back.

"Here, eat slowly," you told him, bringing the spoon closer.

He ate very slowly. Every other spoonful, he would sneeze or cough, and you already had the cloth ready to cover his mouth or wipe his nose. At one point, while eating, he started talking to himself, his eyes half-closed.

"My mom… my mom makes soup like this," he murmured, and then smiled goofily. "But you make it better… don't tell her."

You smiled, knowing he was delirious again. "I won't tell her," you whispered.

"And flowers… you like yellow flowers," he continued, moving his head from side to side. "I'm going to buy you a whole field of them. An entire field just for you. Would you like that?"

"I would love that," you replied, giving him another spoonful of soup.

"And peaches," he added, his eyes glossy and unfocused. "You like peaches. I'm going to bring you peaches from space. The peaches from Krypton are the best… though I don't know if there are peaches on Krypton." He paused, confused. "I don't think there are. But I'll get you some anyway."

You couldn't help but laugh softly. He was so adorable, talking in his sleep. He finished the soup and drank all the tea. Then you used your last remedy: two packets of vitamin C. He took them whole, and as he swallowed them, he made a face like a child given bad-tasting medicine.

"Disgusting," he protested, frowning. "Why do I have to take this if I'm already getting better?"

"Because I said so," you answered, and he made another pout, but this time softer, more like a pretend one.

Finally, he managed to half-open his eyes. They were teary and blue, and they looked at you weakly. He was very depleted. You had never seen him like this, so sick.

"I never get sick because I'm strong," you repeated what he always said, but this time with tenderness.

He sniffled, and that made you smile. "When the sun rises, you'll get better," you whispered, stroking his cheek again.

"I hate being like this," he said in a small voice. "I hate not being able to hug you tight because my arms are shaking. I hate sneezing and breaking things. I hate you seeing me so weak."

"You're not weak," you told him, taking his hand in yours. "You're sick. It's different. And I don't mind seeing you like this, because I've looked like this many times myself, and you never left me alone."

Clark looked at you with his big, wet eyes. "Will you stay with me until the sun comes out?"

"I'll stay," you said without hesitation.

"And do you still love me even when I pout?"

You smiled and touched his nose with your finger. "I love you more when you pout."

He smiled weakly and then yawned. "Take the vitamins again," you said confidently, leaving no room for doubt.

"I just need a little sunlight," he replied, shaking his head slightly, but without letting go of your hand.

"And vitamins," you said, and then yawned without being able to stop it.

"Go to sleep, you're tired," he said, his tone a little ashamed.

You shook your head. "You're here. I've spent three days alone in the bedroom. I want to be with you," you admitted, looking into his eyes.

He nodded, understanding. Then you stayed by his side, curled up next to him on the sofa, one hand on his chest to feel his breathing. Clark sneezed two more times, but they were softer now, and you wiped the cloth without saying anything, just kissing his shoulder. He made a small pout each time, as if apologizing, and you just smiled at him.

The hours passed like that, until four-thirty in the morning, when he finally managed to fall asleep. You fell asleep on the small sofa, with a blanket over you, but without letting go of his hand.

When you woke up, you turned over and felt that you were in your bed. You opened your eyes and sat up immediately, so fast that you felt a little dizzy. You looked at the clock: it was eight-thirty in the morning. You had barely slept four hours. You blinked, trying to wake up properly, and walked to the kitchen. Things were already prepared: bread, juice, everything tidy. Then you turned and saw Clark sitting on a chair, looking out the window. The sun was shining directly on his face, and he looked rested.

You smiled and approached without making a sound. You placed yourself behind him, without moving him. He tilted his head back to see you, and you kissed his forehead. It was normal, no fever.

"Did I wake you?" he whispered, his voice calm.

"No, I just got up and you weren't in the living room anymore," you said, wrapping your arms around him.

"As soon as the sun came up, I carried you to bed and came here to recharge. I didn't want you to sleep badly," he explained. He pulled back slightly and stood up to come closer to you. "Let's go sleep. Yesterday was a very long night for you," he said as his thumb gently traced the dark circles under your eyes. "Thank you for taking care of me," he added, holding your cheeks in his large, warm hands.

You smiled, your cheeks squished by his hands. "I would do it my whole life," you admitted without hesitation.

He smiled and kissed you softly. "Now you have to listen to me when it rains or gets cold, and always take your vitamins," you said, pointing to the spot where the vase and the pictures used to be, which were gone now because they had broken. "Otherwise, next time you'll end up destroying the whole apartment."

"Yes, sorry," he said, laughing softly as he took your hand and led you toward the bedroom.

They lay down together, and he hugged you tightly. You closed your eyes, feeling at peace, and the two of you slept again, finally resting.

Dating an older man really did sound good in theory.

Everyone always said girls matured faster than boys, so you figured the math would math. Older boyfriend meant stable. A little boring, maybe. A little steadier. Someone who had already done the whole fuckboy lap around the block and come out the other side with a job, a routine, and the ability to go a few hours without needing proof you still liked him.

James Buchanan Barnes should have fit the brief.

He was older by ten years, and you’d been seeing him for seven months now. You were twenty-five. Your frontal lobe was fully developed. You liked to remind yourself of that whenever you did something questionable and then tried to justify it later, like, technically you were a grown woman with your own apartment and a 401(k). Technically you were not being preyed upon. Technically you made this choice with my eyes open.

Because you had.

You matched with him on Tinder on a bored Tuesday night, half in the mood to flirt, half in the mood to just entertain yourself with strangers, and there he was. Pretty eyes. Broad shoulders. Hot as hell, in this quiet, earnest way like he didn’t realise he was hot, which unfortunately made him hotter.

Even with his corny ass mustache.

It should have been a dealbreaker. It was not.

It was actually… kind of doing it for you, which was embarrassing, because you had a preference to maintain. You liked men clean-cut and put together. You liked men who looked like they knew how to order a drink without stuttering. You did not, in theory, like a man who looked like he’d tip his hat at you and call you “doll.”

Except Bucky did that sometimes, in this soft, old-fashioned way that made you feel simultaneously adored and slightly like you were being courted in 1945. He held doors. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for dinners and surprised you with expensive gifts.

And you were pleasantly surprised by his big heart.

Even more so, his big dick.

If you were being honest, that was where half your patience came from. That and the way he acted like touching you was this privilege he didn’t want to take for granted. Like he could get needy and clingy, and still somehow turn around and treat you like you were precious. He overdid it, yes. He went too hard, yes. But he was sweet in a way that didn’t feel fake.

And, yes, there were red flags.

The texts, for one.

In the beginning you told yourself it was just excitement. He was older, he was awkward, he probably hadn’t dated much, and he definitely hadn’t dated someone like you. You were fun. You were pretty. You were not afraid to tell him “no” and then kiss him anyway. You made him feel brave.

He texted good morning. Then another good morning in case you missed the first. Then a third message that was just, “Hope your day is going okay.” Then, “No pressure to respond, I just like talking to you.” Then, “Sorry, that sounded weird. I’m not weird.” Then, somehow, you’d look down and realise he’d sent you five messages in a row and you’d been at work the whole time.

It was… a lot. But it was also weirdly flattering.

It wasn’t even love bombing in the normal slick, manipulative way. It was messy and unintentional. Like he didn’t understand the difference between affection and intensity yet, so he just threw it all at you and hoped you caught it. You could tell he wasn’t trying to impress you. He was trying to keep you.

And the clinginess didn’t exactly get better with time. It just got more comfortable. More familiar. Like a habit. Like you belonged to him now in the way he looked at you, in the way he reached for you in his sleep, in the way he convinced you to sleep over at his house numerous times a week.

You probably should have dumped him. You friends had already told you it wasn’t your job to manage a thirty-five-year-old man’s feelings.

Unfortunately, you didn’t give a fuck. And you told yourself you could handle the rest. That you could rein him in when you needed to. That you could keep the good parts, and teach him how to calm down.

You really, truly believed that.

And you tried to hold onto it while you were out with the girls at some new club opening up on the Lower East Side. Packed shoulder to shoulder, lights low and red, bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat.

You felt good. You looked good. You were supposed to be having a good time.

And like clockwork, every fifteen minutes, you felt your purse buzz.

You couldn’t even stay on the dance floor long without circling back to this little quiet corner by the bar or the wall, checking your phone like it was a habit you did not want your friends to notice. At first, it was manageable. Sweet. A check-in. The first hour was almost normal.

james barnes (bucky) Are you having fun, beautiful? | 10:22pm

You lots. music is peak. we got free drinks too | 10:37pm

james barnes (bucky) Oh, really? From who? | 10:37pm Was it the bartender or some random men? | 10:38pm Doll? | 10:39pm

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, letting the music wash over you while your brain did that stupid thing where it tried to decide the exact right balance of response. Too short and he’d spiral. Too detailed and you’d be feeding it.

You locked your phone, tossed it back into your purse, and went back to the girls like you didn’t just feel your mood get tugged sideways.

But it didn’t stop.

By the time you were heading to the bathroom, you were already sighing before you even unzipped your purse. You could see the stack of notifications lighting up the screen through the little transparent window of your purse, like your phone was trying to pre-warn you.

You slid into the closest open spot at the counter and swiped up.

More messages had piled in.

james barnes (bucky) Where did you get the free drinks from? | 10:44pm Who are you with right now? | 10:45pm Just text me back for two seconds, doll. | 10:46pm

“Isn’t it past your grandpa’s bedtime?” Nicole said from your left, reapplying her cheap lip liner.

You didn’t look up right away. You kept your eyes on the screen, jaw tight, like you could will the irritation away by ignoring it.

“Don’t call him that,” you muttered. “And he’s not that old.”

“Yeah, and the sky isn’t blue, and my boobs are real.” Nicole snorted, still looking at herself. “Being paroled by an old ass man is crazy work. Could never be me.”

You knew she was being shady as fuck. And you knew your man was being annoying as hell. But you weren’t about to let this bitch act like she had moral high ground when her life was a revolving door of men who didn’t even like her.

“Come talk to me when you find a man who’ll eat your ass without having to ask,” you said lifting your eyes. “And not a baby daddy who thinks child support is optional.”

Nicole’s mouth snapped shut.

MJ and Darcy were behind you in the mirror, MJ adjusting her earrings, Darcy washing her hands, both of them watching you. They exchanged a quick look like they were sharing a thought without saying it out loud.

Nicole held your gaze for a second longer, nostrils flaring, then rolled her eyes like she hadn’t just gotten read.

“Whatever,” she muttered, tossing her lip liner back into her bag, and she pushed out of the bathroom without waiting for anyone.

You barely acknowledged it. You just looked back down at your phone, thumb resting over the keyboard again.

You just the bartender. relax | 10:56pm he was flirting w Darcy half the time anyway | 10:57pm and you know im w MJ nd Darcy | 10:58pm

james barnes (bucky) Right. I’m sorry, honey. | 10:59pm I just don’t like the idea of anyone bothering you. | 11:00pm

You stared at that for a second, jaw working. It was always like this…. he’d pull, you’d give him an inch, and then he’d act grateful like you’d done him a favour by letting him breathe.

“Girl.” MJ’s voice cut through it.

You looked up and caught her in the mirror. She was standing a little behind you, brows raised, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh but couldn’t fully hide the exasperation either.

“Michelle,” you said back, tilting your head.

She shook her head, amused but pointed, and slid her hand over your shoulder as she brushed past you to the door.

“Just remember this is a girls’ night,” she said. “No hate. Just… saying.”

“Two minutes,” you muttered, eyes back on the screen.

Darcy, already halfway to the door, turned her head. “I’m timing it,” she announced. “Like, actually. One-twenty seconds. And if you’re still in here, I’m coming back and I’m flushing your fucking phone.”

MJ grabbed Darcy by the wrist and tugged her out, laughing under her breath as they disappeared back into the noise.

You exhaled, it came from deep down within your chest, and your screen lit again before you could even lock it.

james barnes (bucky) When are you heading home? | 11:02pm Do you want me to pick you up? You can stay at my place. | 11:03pm

It was honestly impressive how fast he typed. For a man who acted like technology was out to get him, he was weirdly efficient when it came to blowing up your phone. Full sentences, no typos, like he was sitting upright at his kitchen table drafting these messages like professional emails.

You im sleeping over at MJs. girls night remember | 11:05pm and i literally slept over the other day 😭 pls stop | 11:05pm

You knew exactly why you’d put that emoji. Not because it was funny, because it softened your words. Because it made it sound playful instead of like you were getting irritated.

You rolled your eyes and shoved your phone back in your purse before you could get sucked into another back-and-forth. You stepped out into the hallway, bass immediately swallowing you again, lights flashing harsh and bright as the crowd pressed past.

Your purse buzzed, faint against your hip. Again. You didn’t even look.

james barnes (bucky) I will, sorry. | 11:06pm Tomorrow night then? I miss you. | 11:06pm Message me when you’re safe at Michelle’s please. | 11:07pm

You found MJ and Darcy posted at the bar the second you stepped out of the bathroom . Darcy was half-turned in her seat, pointing into the crowd and laughing so hard her shoulders were shaking. MJ was rolling her eyes at whatever Darcy was saying, but there was an unwilling little smile on her mouth like she didn’t even want to fight it.

The second you got close, MJ’s eyes slid right to you.

Darcy followed her gaze and started clapping softly. “Shame. Shame. Shame.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your own brain for a second, but that just made them both worse. MJ started up too, syncing up with Darcy. “Shame, shame, shame.”

They were both snickering by the time you slid onto the barstool between them. Darcy didn’t even ask what you wanted, just shoved a cold glass of something colourful into your hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, taking a sip. The drink was too sweet, too strong, exactly what you needed. “Laugh while you bitches can.”

You tried to get your head back into the night. The bass was steady, the lights were doing that neon blur thing, bodies moving around you like one big wave. For a couple seconds it worked. You let yourself sink into it, let the noise swallow your thoughts.

Then MJ, from your left, “You know I love you, right?”

You groaned into your drink on instinct. “MJ. Not right now.”

Darcy laughed beside you.

“I do,” MJ said anyway, undeterred. “I love you.”

“—Michelle, please.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to jump you. I’m just asking… what are we doing right now?”

You let out a slow breath and looked down at your glass. “We’re drinking right now.”

“Mm-hm.”

Darcy jumped in before MJ could keep going, because Darcy physically could not let a serious moment live longer than ten seconds.

“Sweetie, we’re not judging you,” Darcy said, talking with her hands. “But your man is on some serious Joe Goldberg crap.”

You couldn’t help the snort that came out of you.

Darcy took that as encouragement and leaned forward, eyes wide under her glasses like she was swearing on a Bible. “No, I’m serious. Like I would not be shocked in the slightest if he’s here right now. Somewhere we can’t see. Just… posted up in a corner and watching you.”

“Darcy,” MJ said, exasperated.

“What?” Darcy swung on her stool and started scanning the room, craning dramatically like she was about to catch him hiding behind a speaker. “Men do weird shit like that all the time.”

You laughed despite yourself, watching her spin like a damn security camera.

MJ pinched the bridge of her nose. “Darcy, please.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you took another sip. The alcohol was settling warm in your chest now, smoothing everything out around the edges. Megan was blasting through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the metal footrest of the stool, and for a minute the three of you just sat there listening to the music and watching people move around the packed dance floor.

Then your shoulders dropped a little.

You looked down at your glass, turning it slowly between your hands before speaking. “So what should I do?”

“Dump him.”

“Dump his old creepy ass.”

MJ and Darcy answered at the exact same time.

“Wow,” you said dryly. “Thank you two so much for helping me find a mature, adult solution for my boyfriend who I actually care about.”

Darcy, completely unfazed, took your empty glass out of your hand and replaced it with a fresh drink. “You asked,” she said.

MJ leaned against the bar, eyes still on you. “Then take a break.”

You turned your head slowly. “A break?”

“A break,” she repeated with a nod. Then she lifted a hand before you could interrupt. “Now hold on now. Not a breakup. I’m not saying dump him, block him and start the healing process. I’m saying… maybe spend some time apart so he can calm the hell down.”

You frowned faintly, listening.

“Because right now?” MJ continued, voice even, “that man wakes up, thinks about you. Goes to work, thinks about you. Eats, sleeps, breathes you. And I know you think it’s cute—”

You tilted your head. “It’s a little cute.”

“—but it’s not healthy,” she finished. “He needs to remember there’s a world around him that doesn’t revolve around you.”

Something in your expression shifted at that. You looked down at your drink again, thumb tracing the condensation on the glass. The idea rubbed you the wrong way immediately—the thought of him not orbiting you quite so hard. Which probably said something bad about you too.

Still… the rest of it sounded reasonable.

A break wasn’t a breakup. Just some distance. Some breathing room. Time for him to remember he was a grown man with a grown life and grown responsibilities outside of you.

“A break,” you repeated slowly, more thoughtful this time.

The conversation about a “break” had been looping in your head for some time, a persistent mental itch you couldn’t quite scratch.

You knew you had to do it—sooner or later—but as you let out a low, guttural moan, your back arching and sliding against the cool, expensive glide of Bucky’s Egyptian cotton sheets, the idea felt so far away.

It was hard to maintain a level head when your body was being systematically wrecked by the man beneath you.

The room was filled with the heavy, wet sound of unapologetic squelching that echoed in the quiet of his massive bedroom. You let out a sudden, sharp squeal, your hips jerking upward as you spared a glance down.

There he was.

Still in his slacks and that crisp button-down, his tie loosened and hanging haphazardly around his neck, looking every bit the stable, put-together man the world saw. But here, with your legs draped heavily over his broad shoulders and his face buried deep in your cunt, he was nothing but a starving man.

He had been at it for five minutes, meticulously edging you, driving you toward a peak he refused to let you hit.

He shifted, sucking your outer lips into his mouth one by one with this concentrated pressure, before sliding his tongue up your slit. He licked you from bottom to top, over and over, his tongue flat and insistent.

When he finally suctioned his lips over your clit, the vacuum was intense, pulling a loud, broken moan from your throat. You could feel the faint, rough scratch of his mustache against your mound, as he pushed his tongue inside you, humming low in his throat.

The vibration of that traveled straight through your nerves, making your walls clench tight around him. You collapsed back into the pillows, breathless and frustrated, your voice sounding strained.

“Bucky—please... just give it to me,” you whimpered.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a muffled, groan against your skin, his voice vibrating against your folds. He paused for just a second, glancing up at you with dark, blown-out pupils.

“I know, baby,” he rasped, his voice gravelly and thick that made you clench again. “But I’m just taking my time with her. Spent the whole damn day at the office thinkin’ about her...”

He leaned back in, his tongue swirling around your clit . “She’s so happy to see me, isn’t she? Look at her... just soaking wet for me.”

A broken, whiny sound escaped your throat as you felt the blunt pressure of one of Bucky’s thick fingers probing your entrance.

He didn’t rush; he sank in slowly, stretching you open, and the relief was so instantaneous that you instinctively arched your hips, pushing yourself hard against his hand to swallow him whole. Your fingers dove blindly into his hair, gripping the thick strands and scratching at his scalp.

Bucky let out a low hum, his body reacting to the touch like a devoted dog getting a scratch behind the ears.

“Another one,” you sighed, your voice breathless and strained, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Baby, please... another one.”

He paused, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was a glistening, wet mess, coated in your slick, his lips swollen from the suction. Bucky didn’t pull his finger out; instead, he kept it thrusting in a slow, rhythmic pace that made your toes curl.

“Another one?” he murmured.

He looked down at where he was joined with you, a smile playing on his lips. “Look at her... she’s greedy, isn’t she? Just begging for more.”

“Bucky, stop talking to my pussy and just do it,“ you whined.

He let out an amused, condescending huff, “I know, honey. I know you’re desperate.”

Without another word, he slid a second finger inside. The fullness made you gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him as he began to drive both fingers deep into you. His pace quickening as he found the exact spot that made your vision blur.

He shifted his weight, sliding upward until his heavy, broad frame blanketed your body.

He leaned down, pressing his chest against yours, until your noses were touching. His lips parted, hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours.

You clenched your eyes shut, your breath coming in shallow hitches. You were practically just moaning and breathing directly into his open mouth.

“Tell me how it feels,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell me how much you need me to fill you up.”

“I need... I need you,” you whimpered, your hips stuttering against his hand. “Please, Bucky, I can’t—I’m going to—”

“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you,” he said hoarsely.

He didn’t give you a moment to breathe, his fingers curling deep inside you, hooking upward to snag that hypersensitive sweet spot that made your brain short-circuit.

He trailed a line of searing kisses from your flushed cheek down to the sensitive curve of your neck.

“Uh-huh... okay,” you nodded insistently into the crook of his neck, your breath coming in jagged gasps. You could feel the heavy, rigid bulge of him through his slacks, grinding firmly into your stomach with every thrust of his fingers.

“Cum for me, baby. I wanna feel it,” he breathed against your lips. He nibbled at your bottom lip, teasing the skin before pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it. While his mouth claimed yours, his thumb found your clit, rubbing in fast, heavy circles.

“Bucky, please—”

“Look at me,” he insisted, his eyes locking onto yours. “Just let go for me.”

As he curled his fingers one last time, digging deep and applying a sudden, sharp pressure, you let out a loud, guttural moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk!”

An overwhelming volcano of pleasure surged through you, your pussy spasming violently around his fingers in tight contractions. Your back arched off the bed, your body straining upward, trying to push yourself even deeper into his touch as your orgasm rolled over you in waves.

As your peak subsided, you slumped back into this sheets, your chest heaving and your limbs feeling like lead.

Slowly, he slid his fingers out of you with a wet, suctioning sound. Without breaking eye contact, you watched through an amused, exhausted daze as he brought his hand up to his face, sliding his fingers into his mouth to taste the remnants of your orgasm.

He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the taste of you.

“God, you taste so good,” he hummed, his eyes snapping open to look at you.

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, reaching up to shove at his chest. “You are so weird.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. “You love it,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip your ass with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Now, tell me how much you missed me today.”

“Ha ha,” you mumbled sarcastically, rolling your eyes. You tried to maintain a shred of your composure as the heavy weight of him shifted off you.

Bucky loomed over your naked body, while he began to unbutton his shirt, the fabric straining against the breadth of his shoulders.

“How was your day, doll?” he asked casually.

Your mind was the furthest thing from a professional debrief. As the buttons gave way, revealing the expanse of his broad, muscular chest and the dusting of hair that trailed down toward his waistband, you felt a familiar, insistent tingle returning to your core.

“I really do not wanna talk about my day right now, Bucky. Thanks,” you breathed, your eyes locked on him.

You watched him like it was your own private strip show, your gaze tracing the line of his abs as his hands finally reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the quiet room.

Almost as a reflex, your thighs squeezed together, a subconscious attempt to soothe the ache building between them.

Bucky didn’t miss a thing. He let out an endearing, husky chuckle, “Still need me, huh? Good girl.”

With one fluid motion, he shoved his pants and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free with a heavy thud, slapping against his stomach, bobbing up and down. It was thick, veiny, and the head was a deep, angry red, looking almost painfully engorged after how long he’d been eating you out.

“You ready for me?” he murmured.

You didn’t even use words. You nodded enthusiastically, your attitude completely gone. You swiftly turned away from him, shifting to your knees and arching your back in a deep curve as you wiggled your ass at him.

Behind you, he let out a jagged exhale, and before you could even blink, you felt one of his massive hands clamp onto your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, before both hands moved to spread your cheeks wide, exposing your still soaking pussy to the cool air.

You let out a small, pleased sigh, as you felt the scorching tip of him slide against your slit, teasing the entrance.

He didn’t go in yet; instead, he dragged the length of his cock slowly across your cheeks and through your slick, painting you in his pre-cum.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, almost fixated on the sight of his cock sliding between your cheeks. “Been thinkin’ about this all day. Just imagining me filling you up, stretching you out.”

“Just—fuck, put it in,” you whimpered impatiently, glancing back at him over your shoulder.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulled you back toward him until there was no space left between your skin and his, and then, without warning, your world shifted. With a sudden movement, he flipped you onto your back.

You let out a small, surprised squeak as he gripped your ankles, dragging you by your legs to the very edge of the bed. He hoisted your legs up, draping your feet over his broad shoulders, leaving you completely open for him.

“Need to see my baby’s face while I fuck her,” he rasped.

As you shifted your hips impatiently, trying to bridge the gap, he dragged the head of his cock over your slit one more time. The blunt tip caught your clit perfectly, sending a jolt of electricity through your spine that made you gasp.

He didn’t let the moment sit for too long; he nudged his tip against your entrance, popping the head in with a firm thrust that forced a loud, guttural moan from your throat.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he felt the friction of your walls clamping down on him. He groaned, a sound of pure, agonized pleasure. “God, stretched you out so many times, but you’re still so tight for me... s’like you’re tryin’ to squeeze the life outta me.”

He paused for a second, buried just an inch deep, letting the pressure build. “You like feeling me in there, yeah? Like knowing I’m the only one who gets to do this to you.”

“Yes... please, baby, all the way,” you begged, your hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms.

“I got you, doll,” he whispered.

And just like that he drove the rest of his cock home, bottoming out with a heavy slap against your thighs that knocked the breath from your lungs.

You cried out, your eyes fluttering shut as he filled every available space inside you, the sensation of being completely stuffed making your mind go blank.

He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving, a low groan rumbling from deep in his throat as he savoured the feeling of being completely encased in your pussy, your walls fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper.

“Feel that, baby?” he rasped, his voice ragged and strained. “Feel how much I need to be inside you? You’re fuckin’ perfect... made for me.”

He began to move, starting with slow, agonizingly deep strokes that made you whimper with every pull. Each time he withdrew, he dragged the thick ridge of his crown against your inner walls, coaxing out a wet, obscene sound before he slammed back in.

Standing at the edge of the bed, he began to drive into you like a man possessed. The slaps of skin against skin was the only thing you could hear right now, alongside the wet squelch of your slick coating every inch of him.

His balls repeatedly slapped against your ass, and you could do nothing but dig your nails into the sheets, your body bouncing helplessly with every thrust.

Bucky’s eyes were locked on where your bodies met, his jaw slack, his lips parted as he watched his cock disappear into you over and over.

“Look at that,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Look how pretty she looks taking my cock, sweetheart. She’s so happy... she’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, like she never wants me to leave.”

You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a broken moan as he angled his hips, finding that deep, sensitive spot that made your vision blur.

“You like being fucked like this?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You like knowing I can’t get enough of you? That I wake up every morning thinkin’ about burying myself inside you?”

“Yes... yes, Bucky...” you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sounds of your bodies colliding.

The frustration that had been simmering in Bucky’s chest finally boiled over—the desperate, gnawing need to be as close to you as humanly possible. His hips were already hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, but it wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

Without breaking his pace, he hooked his hands under your knees and slid your legs from his shoulders, guiding them to wrap around his waist.

The shift in angle made him sink even deeper, and you let out a choked sob as he adjusted.

Then he leaned forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips continued their brutal assault, the force of his thrusts actually pushing your body up the bed. He crawled over you, his chest hovering just above yours, his breath ghosting hot and ragged across your face.

For a moment, his eyes dropped; fixated on the way your breasts bounced. His mouth twitched, the urge to lean down and suck one of those hard nipples between his lips almost overwhelming.

But he forced his gaze back up, traveling the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, until he found your face. Your eyes were closed, your lips parted, your expression slack and utterly lost in the sensation of being fucked senseless.

He didn’t like that. He needed you with him.

He released your hips and reached for your hands, prying your fingers from the crumpled sheets you were gripping. He laced his fingers through yours, pressing your palms flat against the mattress on either side of your head.

Your eyes fluttered open meeting his. Those barely-blue irises were blown wide, dark with something raw and animalistic.

“This house is always so big and quiet, baby,” he breathed against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear before he nipped at your earlobe.

You could feel the thick ridge of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building a pressure so intense it made your toes curl.

“I miss you when you’re not here,” he continued, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his words muffled against your skin. “I hate it. Hate coming home and not seeing you. Hate sleeping alone.”

You were barely coherent, lost in the haze of being absolutely pounded into the mattress. The world had narrowed to the sound of his grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin. You couldn’t form words, only broken moans and gasps.

Then his next sentence caught your attention.

“Think you should move in with me.”

He punctuated the words with little nibbles along your jaw, his teeth scraping against the tender skin before his tongue soothed the sting.

You were so dazed, your brain so thoroughly scrambled by the relentless fucking, that you didn’t even have the strength to turn your head and glare at him through half-lidded eyes.

He kept thrusting, kept spewing his nonsense into your ear like a prayer.

“I’ll fuck you every morning when we wake up—” He felt your walls flutter around him at the words, and mistook it for encouragement, his pace quickening. “—and every night before we go to sleep. You like that, huh? Wake up to me buried inside you, feel me stretching you out before you even open your eyes.”

He shifted his weight, pressing his chest flush against yours so that every inch of his sweat-slicked skin was molded to your own.

“And you can change anything in the house you want, doll. Paint the walls. Buy new furniture. I don’t care.” His voice dropped to a fevered whisper, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “Just come home to me. Let me take care of you.”

You finally managed to pry one eye open, staring at him through your lashes, your voice a breathless, broken mess. “Bucky, what the fuck are you talking abo—Oh fuck!”

He pulled back nearly all the way out, the thick, glistening head of his cock catching on your rim, and then drove back in with one devastating, deep thrust that hit the spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

The sudden, blinding orgasm tore through you without warning, ripping a cry from your throat as your body arched beneath him, your inner walls clamping down on him in a vise-like grip that made him groan like a man possessed.

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, his hips stuttering as he tried to keep thrusting through your climax, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. “That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that. Cum for me.”

The aftershocks of your orgasm were still rippling through you in waves, each clench of your inner walls drawing a deep grunt from deep in Bucky’s chest.

His hips never faltered driving into you, the loud, wet squelch of his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked pussy sounding obscene in the quiet room.

“Almost there, doll,” he rasped against your throat, the words barely intelligible through his heavy breathing. “So close. Fuck, you feel so good.”

You were still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm, your limbs heavy and useless, but something nagged at the back of your hazy mind.

Something important.

It took you a second to remember it—the empty pack of birth control pills sitting on your nightstand. The new pack you hadn’t started yet. The four-day gap you were in the middle of… which Bucky knew.

Your eyes snapped open, clarity cutting through the fog like a blade.

“Baby,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse and breathless. “Remember to pull out.”

He didn’t seem to hear you. His hips kept hammering, his rhythm growing sloppier, more desperate. You could see the strain in his face, the pinch of his brows, the way his mouth hung open with broken, breathy groans.

He was seconds away, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you with every thrust.

“Bucky.” You managed to untangle one of your hands from his, slapping weakly at his shoulder. “Don’t cum in me.”

It barely fazed him. He caught your wrist and pressed it back into the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours again as he smashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss.

His tongue thrust into your mouth in rhythm with his hips, and he spoke against your lips, his voice a low, pleading groan.

“She’s gripping me so tight, honey,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours with every word. “I don’t think I can pull out.”

Your eyes flew open, your words muffled against his mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I can’t help it, doll.” His voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and his face flushed red. “I’ll die if I don’t cum in her. Do you want me to die, doll? Do you?”

You could barely make sense of his absurd words, your brain still scrambled from the relentless fucking.

You tried to push at his shoulder again, but he was solid as a mountain. He captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your protests as his hips slammed forward one last time.

He stilled with a long, agonized groan that seemed to tear from the very depths of his chest. You gasped against his lips as you felt it—hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your insides, painting your walls with his release.

He pulsed inside you, his hips twitching through the aftershocks, holding himself buried so deep you could feel every spasm.

When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly, almost lazily, rocked his hips, milking every last drop of his release into you.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice thick with post-orgasmic bliss. He pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Couldn’t help it, sweetheart. She was begging for it.”

His hand slid down your sweat-slicked stomach, coming to rest on the soft swell just above where you were still joined. His palm pressed down, and you felt a fresh trickle of warmth as his cum began to leak around him.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. “But what a way to g— ow!”

The smack echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room, connecting with the back of his skull with a satisfying crack that made him yelp.

His head snapped to the side, the lazy smile wiped clean off his face, replaced by a wide-eyed, dazed confusion that would’ve been almost endearing if you weren’t so overly irritated.

“Clean. Me.” Your glare could’ve curdled milk.

It took a full three seconds for the words to penetrate his post-coital fog. You watched the realization dawn slow, then all at once.

Bucky’s mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, and you watched the guilt wash over his features; the sheepish crinkle of his brow, the way his gaze dropped to where you were still joined, a sticky mess of his cum leaking out around him.

He swallowed hard, and you felt the bastard twitch inside you at your smack, his half-hard cock giving an involuntary pulse that made your eye twitch.

“Right. ’Course. Yeah, I got it, doll.” He pulled out slowly, a wince crossing his face as he watched his release leak down your thigh. “Shit. Let me just—”

You said nothing.

Just stared at him until he scrambled off the bed, his softening cock bobbing between his thighs as his pale ass disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

You heard water running, the rustle of a cloth, and then he was back, kneeling between your legs with the careful, contrite air of a man who knew he’d pissed you off.

You lay there stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. He worked in silence, dabbing at the mess he’d made, pressing kisses to your inner thighs when he was done.

You yanked the sheet up over yourself and turned onto your side, your back firmly to him as you reached for the remote on the nightstand.

And so began the silent treatment.

Bucky, to his credit, seemed to understand the gravity of his transgression. He shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, he reappeared with a plate bearing a warm brownie, a generous dollop of whipped cream melting on top, and a glass of ice water.

He set it on the nightstand beside you, then climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress as he slid up behind you. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder.

You ignored him, reaching for the brownie.

He kissed your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the shell of your ear. You ignored him like a persistent mosquito, taking a bite, letting the silence stretch.

“You know I love you, yeah?”

You paused mid-chew, turning your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. You hummed, a noncommittal and flat sound, and went back to your brownie.

His arm tightened around your midsection, pulling you closer, his lips finding the curve of your neck in a series of featherlight kisses. “But you know, sweetheart... if you hadn’t been squeezing me so tight, I might’ve had a fighting chance. How’s a guy supposed to think straight when you’re milking him like that?

You set your fork down, turned your head just enough to fix him with a deadpan stare. “Are you seriously trying to blame your cumming inside me on my pussy?”

He had the decency to look caught, his blue eyes wide and innocent in a way that was utterly unconvincing. “No, no—I’m just saying—”

“Uh-huh.” You hummed, turning back to the TV.

He sighed against your neck, his arm tightening around your waist. “I love you,” he murmured, trying a different angle. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

You took another bite, pointedly ignoring him.

At least the fool had enough sense not to bring up that moving in, living with him bullshit he’d been spewing while he was balls-deep inside you.

You had no idea where that came from.

His hand slid up to rest over your heart, his thumb tracing a soft circle over your collarbone. “And you know you love me too. Even when you’re mad. Even when you’re giving me the silent treatment like a brat.”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t rise to the bait.

You felt his lips press a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. His hand moving down to rub slow circles on your stomach, the gesture soothing, possessive.

Yeah, you thought, staring at the flickering TV screen, a break is definitely needed.

But even as you thought it, you leaned back into his chest, just a fraction, and felt him exhale against your neck. The idiot thought he was winning you over.

Let him think that.

“A break?”

The word hung in the air like a bad smell neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You stood awkwardly in his living room, your jacket still on, keys clutched in your hand, a clear signal that you weren’t staying, despite the way he’d lit up when you walked through the door.

Bucky was frozen across the room, a bowl of popcorn balanced in his hands. He’d made it fresh, the buttery smell still wafting through the air, probably with that hopeful little grin on his face when he’d heard your knock. 

Perfect timing, doll, I just—

Except you’d cut him off before he could finish. Told him you couldn’t stay long. Watched his face cycle through confusion, hurt, and now this—a weird, controlled stillness that felt more unsettling than if he’d just thrown the bowl at the wall.

He set the popcorn down on the coffee table with exaggerated care as he rubbed his forehead.

“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low and carefully measured. “What—what does that mean?”

You let out a long exhale, shifting your weight from one heel to the other. “Time to spend away from each other while we—”

“—so you’re breaking up with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, flat and accusing, like you’d already handed him the pink slip.

“No, I’m not breaking up with you, I’m—”

“—then what are you saying?” His voice became rougher. He gestured vaguely, a jerky motion that nearly sent a lamp flying off the end table.

He caught it at the last second, fumbling it back into place, and the near-miss only seemed to rattle him more, “Because it sounds like you’re saying you wanna leave me. Like you’re done. Like I’m—”

“If you let me speak, then maybe I can fucking explain!”

You snapped it before you could stop yourself, the words sharp and loud enough to make him blink. His mouth snapped shut. His eyes went wide, completely startled.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and incredibly awkward.

You squeezed your eyes shut, took a long breath, and counted to four in your head. One. Two. Three. Four. 

When you opened your eyes, you plastered on your sunniest customer-service smile, the one you reserved for difficult clients and, apparently, emotionally unstable boyfriends.

“A break,” you repeated, infusing the word with forced cheerfulness, “means we take some time apart. Space from one another. Time for ourselves. To breathe.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He was trying to stay calm, you could see it in the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides, in the way he kept swallowing like he was forcing down words he wanted to say.

His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching, and the longer you stared back, the more he started shaking his head.

“Why?” His voice cracked on the single syllable. “Why do we need that?”

You opened your mouth, then paused. The truth was, you’d rehearsed this conversation about six different ways and still hadn’t landed on a script that didn’t make you sound like an asshole. So you winged it.

“To... grow as separate people. Become less... dependent on each other.” The words tasted like bullshit coming out.

He stared at you like you’d just started speaking in tongues. His brows furrowed, that deep V forming between them. “But we’re not dependent on each other.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

No, you thought. I’m not. But you sure as hell are.

You let out a small, exasperated sigh. The popcorn on the coffee table was definitely cold now. The lamp he’d nearly knocked over had stopped swaying. And you were this close to just walking out the door.

“I mean, sweetie, c’mon. Let’s be honest with ourselves right now.”

You were dumb enough to take your eyes off him for just a second, glancing toward the hallway, mentally calculating the escape route, and that’s when you heard the shift of his weight, the quick, determined stride of his boots on the hardwood.

“Bucky, what are—hmph—”

Before you could finish, his hands were on your face. Not gently. Gripping. His palms cupped your cheeks like you were a football he was about to punt, and then his mouth was on yours.

His tongue pushed past your lips before you could even register what was happening, and for a solid three seconds, you just stood there, frozen, letting him practically molest your mouth with the enthusiasm of a man trying to kiss the words right out of your brain.

What the fuck.

He broke the kiss with a wet smack, but before you could say anything—before you could even catch your breath—his fingers squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a fish-like pout. Your lips puckered involuntarily. Your words came out garbled.

“Mmph—Bucky—”

“I love you,” he emphasised.

Kiss. Another one, quick and frantic, against your squished lips.

“And you love me.”

Kiss. This one lingered half a second longer, like he was trying to imprint the words onto your mouth.

“I need you, doll.”

And then he went in for a fourth kiss; longer, deeper, his tongue sliding back into your mouth while his fingers still kept your face hostage. You couldn’t breathe. Could only make muffled, indignant noises against his lips and slap at his chest with increasing urgency.

Slap. Slap. SLAP.

Finally, he pulled back, breathing hard, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed.

You gasped for air, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and stared at him in disbelief.

“What is wrong with you!” you said incredulously, shoving him back with both hands against his chest.

It was like pushing against a brick wall wrapped in an old knitted sweater. He barely budged, then tried to grab your wrists, those big, warm hands reaching for you like magnetic force,but you were faster. You dodged left, put the coffee table between you, and held up a warning finger.

“Don’t.”

The look on his face shifted from desperate to wounded to frustrated in about 0.3 seconds. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. That was his tell. The impending headache was already setting up camp behind his temples. His mouth set into a firm line, barely visible under that stupidly attractive mustache.

Then he started pacing. Back and forth across the living room rug.

“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” he said, and the laugh that followed wasn’t a laugh at all, more a cynical huff of air. “I’ve done everything for you. Everything.”

You froze. There was an edge to his voice now, a sharpness you hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.

“I buy you clothes.” Thud. Thud. “I pay for dinners.” Thud. “For hair appointments. For nails—”

Nails. Shit. You had an appointment with Yelena in thirty minutes.

“—I’ve been attentive. And supportive. And loyal.” His voice was rising, cracking with disbelief. “I don’t look at other women. I don’t think about other women. I don’t even notice other women exist unless they’re blocking my view of you. So what the fuck did I do wrong for you to break up with me?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, wounded and accusatory.

You opened your mouth to correct him—it’s a break, Bucky, a break, not a breakup—but he bulldozed right over you.

“Tell me.” He stepped closer. “What did I do?”

You scoffed.

Because suddenly every legitimate reason you had poofed right out of your head like smoke.

And still, despite the fact that he was standing there yelling at you like a madman, you had the decency to not want to hurt his feelings by calling him a clingy, obsessed loser.

You lifted a hand like it was obvious. “The texts,” you said, flat.

His eyes narrowed. Genuinely confused. Confused, like you’d just accused him of a crime he had no memory of committing. “What texts?”

You waved your hands around like you were crazy… because you felt it, the absurdity of having to explain this.

“The gazillion texts I get throughout the day from you. On the hour. Every hour. ‘Good morning, doll.’ ‘What are you eating for lunch, doll?’ ‘Did you see the sunset, doll?’ ‘Thinking about you, doll.’” You dropped your hands. “It’s a lot.”

He let out a disbelieving scoff, his head tilting back like he was seeking divine intervention. “You’re breaking up with me because I text too much?”

Your jaw dropped. There was no way this bastard was making you seem like the irrational one here.

“Okay, then how about asking me to move in with you during sex?” You crossed your arms, lifting your chin. “When I’m—when I’m literally so distracted and can’t form a coherent sentence?”

“Sue me for getting lost in the moment,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his sweater tight across his shoulders, and you hated that you noticed. “I don’t hear you ever complain when I say I’m gonna breed you. Or fuck you through the mattress. You seem pretty into it then.”

“Oh my God.” You covered your face with both hands, pressing your palms into your eye sockets like you could physically block out the absurdity of this conversation. The pressure made little pinpricks of light dance behind your lids. 

Bucky sighed, as if he genuinely believed he was the victim here. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then dragged it up through his hair. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me.”

And then he turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.

Your heart did that stupid thing it always did, lurched and twisted. Because the sadness in his voice was real. And you, absolute fool that you were, hurried after him, your heels clicking sharp and fast against the hardwood.

“For the last time, it’s a break, Bucky,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “It’s not forever. Just a few weeks… maybe a month or two… I don’t know, we’ll see.”

He was already at the entryway cabinet, the antique one with the brass handles that you’d helped him refinish last spring. He yanked open the drawers, rummaging through it with this kind of frantic energy that you did not notice at all.

“It doesn’t have to be this big dramatic thing. I just need—I dunno, space. To breathe without your texts vibrating in my pocket every forty-five minutes. To go a full day without you asking if I’ve eaten or if I’m still mad or what I’m wearing.” You waved a hand at his back. “Lots of couples do breaks, it strengthens the relationship.”

He shook his head, and you heard the soft click of his tongue against his teeth. “Can’t do a break, doll.”

You scoffed, irritation flaring hot again. “Well, that’s not really your choice to—”

He turned around.

And you stopped mid-sentence because he was holding a whole-ass gun in his hand.

You didn’t even register it at first, just a blur of metal and movement, but then he swung it, sweeping it in an arc like he was gesturing with it, and you ducked out of pure instinct, your shoulders hunching, your hands flying up.

“What the fuck!”

But Bucky didn’t look at you. He looked at the gun, turning it over in his hand like he was examining it for the first time. And then, without hesitation, he pressed the muzzle against his own temple.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Your hand clamped over your mouth, fingers pressing into your lips, “Why do you have that right by the door?”

He ignored you.

“You can’t leave me if I’m dead.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.

You just stared at him, mouth hanging open. The seconds stretched, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized you should probably be scared. Worried. Calling 911. But instead, all that came out was a long, exhausted sigh.

“Bucky. Oh my God.” You rubbed your forehead. “Put that down!”

“No.” His voice was firm. Petulant. The no of a toddler who’d decided he was done with vegetables.

And because you had apparently lost every shred of self-preservation instinct you’d ever possessed, you took a step forward, hand reaching out like you were just going to snatch the loaded revolver from this six-foot man.

He backed up immediately, the muzzle digging deeper into his temple, the skin whitening around the metal. “I swear I’ll kill myself. I will. Don’t test me, doll.”

“Oh my God.”

“I love you so much. I can’t live without you.” He shifted the gun down, pressing it under his chin, tilting his head back so he was looking down the barrel of his own mortality. “I can’t live without you. You know that. You’ve always known that.”

You stood there, frozen, arms hanging limp at your sides. And because your mouth had no filter, you heard yourself murmur, “We’ve only been dating for seven months.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, just a fraction. The gun wavered. And for a split second, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of embarrassment cross his face.

But then he recovered, pressing the barrel harder against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. “Seven months and twenty-five days.”

“You counted?”

“I know what I’ve got, sweetheart. And I’m not letting it go.” His voice dropped, low and serious, “Not even if it kills me.”

You could only stare at this fool for so long before your head dropped to your chest, a small, disbelieving chuckle slipping past your lips.

His brow furrowed. The gun stayed pressed under his chin, but his eyes narrowed, “I’m about to put a bullet through my skull and you’re laughing?”

You pursed your lips, trying to smother your smile, and let out a long exhale, tilting your head as you looked up at him, “I wanna say I’m too old for this shit,” you said dryly, “but you’re a hell of a lot older than me, so… what do we do now?”

“I—” He faltered. Adjusted his grip on the revolver. “That’s not how you’re supposed to talk to me.”

Your brows knit together. “How am I supposed to talk to you, then?”

The more unaffected you seemed, the more his frustration bled through. The barrel shifted slightly, a tiny wobble, and he reset it against the soft skin under his chin. His jaw tightened. He looked at you like you were the unreasonable one.

“You’re supposed to be begging me to stop. Crying. Telling me you love me.” He gestured with his free hand, the motion jerky, like he was trying to reassert control over the situation. “That’s how this works.”

You stared at him for a long moment after that, not really knowing what else to say anymore.

Instead you clapped your hands together, and sighed, “Well. I gotta go.”

“Wait—what?”

You started edging toward the door, slow and casual, like you were just stretching your legs. Your eyes never left his face, but your hand was already reaching behind you, fingers searching for the doorknob. “I’ve got a nail appointment in, like, ten minutes that I’m probably gonna be late for.”

His eye twitched. A micro-spasm of disbelief. The gun rotated in his grip, not raising, just… shifting.

“I’m about to kill myself,” he said, each word enunciated like he was speaking to a child, “and you’re leaving for a nail appointment.”

“Yeah,” you said flatly, your fingers brushing the brass knob. “And you know how expensive Yelena’s late fee is.”

“You can’t be serious.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost reasonable. “I’m standing here with a gun to my head, begging you not to leave me, and you’re worried about a late fee? Is that really what our relationship means to you?”

“I am completely serious,” you said, ignoring the barb.

Before he could retort, your hand finally found the doorknob. You turned it, yanked the door open.

Late afternoon air hit your face, and then you were moving, sliding through the gap, your heels clicking on the hardwood of the foyer onto the worn birch of his porch.

“For fuck’s sake—”

He yelled your name, the sound bouncing off the walls and chasing you down the steps. Behind you, you heard the heavy thunk of the gun hitting the floor and then the heavy thud of his shoes on the porch, scrambling after you.

You had a head start. By the time you reached your car, you could hear him gaining, swearing under his breath, probably calculating how much force it would take to haul you back inside.

Your key found the lock on the first try. You slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and had the engine roaring to life before he reached the bumper.

He stopped at the end of the driveway, hands on his hips, chest heaving.

You rolled down the window. just an inch, just enough for your voice to carry.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Your tone was calm, almost kind. “We’ll try and have this conversation again. Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone. And please, for the love of god Bucky, throw that thing away.”

His jaw tightened. His mouth opened, a cutting retort forming, something designed to burrow under your skin and make you feel guilty for walking out on a man who’d just threatened to blow his brains out—

But you were already pulling away from the curb, your taillights the only answer he got.

In your rearview mirror, you watched him stand there, frozen at the edge of the driveway, watching you disappear around the corner.

Let him stew, you thought, gunning the engine toward the salon. He’ll be fine. He always is.

“He pulled out a gun?”

Yelena didn’t look up from your hand, her focus razor-sharp as she filed the edge of your nail into a perfect almond shape.

The salon smelled like acetone and rose-scented hand cream, a combination that had become oddly comforting over the months you’d been coming here. Rows of pink-lit mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the quiet hum of drill bits and the occasional burst of Russian pop music from the speakers.

Yelena’s station was in the back corner, the one with the good lighting and the jar of complimentary vodka shots she kept under the counter for “loyal customers only.”

“Yeah,” you muttered dryly, adjusting your lashes as she moved to your left hand. “I won’t lie—for a moment there, I thought it was about to become a murder-suicide type of situation.”

Yelena pointed the file at you, nodding. “I see a lot of white American men do that on the news.” She tapped the file against her chin, thoughtful. “Where do they get such easy access to guns?”

You could only shrug, the movement pulling at the foil wraps on your other hand. “When you figure that out, please let me know.”

She made a noncommittal hum and returned to work, picking up a tube of gel glue and a single extension. 

“So,” she said, not looking up, “you are done with this mad man, da?”

You opened your mouth to answer. Then you closed it. Then you opened it again, but nothing came out. Your face must have done something odd, because Yelena’s eyes snapped to yours.

“Girl.”

“What?” you said defensively.

“You have that look,” she said, pressing the extension into place with practiced care. “That look where normal, beautiful women stay with ugly loser men.”

You pointed a finger at her. “He’s not ugly.”

Yelena just stared at you. Three full seconds of that unblinking Russian gaze. Then she shook her head slowly, “Da. Is confirmed. You are hopeless.”

“It is not that simple,” you said a bit hopelessly.

“Then make it simple so I understand,” she said bluntly. She picked up the UV lamp and slid your hand under it, the blue light casting a sterile glow across your fingers. “Explain to me like I am child.”

You let out a long exhale, slumping back into the chair. The cushion squeaked beneath you. Where to even start? How to explain the gravitational pull of a man who was equal parts sweet and suffocating? 

“See, being with a man—it’s like... taking the time to invest in him so it can benefit you a lot. And with James, I’ve invested a lot.” You gestured vaguely. “Time. Energy. Emotional labour. I know his routines, his moods, the way he takes his coffee. I’ve memorised which arguments get him to back down and which ones make him double down. That’s work, Yelena. That’s equity. And as a result I’ve grown very comfortable with him.”

She pulled your hand out of the lamp, inspected the nail, and grunted. “And you are still comfortable with the man even after he kept you hostage, threatening you with a gun?”

“But he wasn’t threatening me,” you emphasised, straightening up. “He threatened himself to keep me. There’s a difference.”

Yelena stopped. Set down the glue. Turned to face you fully, both hands flat on the table in front of her.

“There is no difference,” she said flatly. “Gun is gun. Threat is threat. Man who points gun at himself to make you stay is still pointing gun at you. You are just standing behind bullet path.”

“I probably sounds insane.”

“It is insane,” she corrected, picking up the glue again. “But I am not your mother. I am your friend, more importantly, nail technician. So I will make your nails beautiful, and you will go home to your crazy gun man, and maybe one day you will learn.”

She pressed another extension into place with a decisive click. “Or maybe you will be on news. I will watch and say, ‘I told her.’”

You stared at her.

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you finally said, your voice dry as the cotton balls in the jar beside you.

Yelena just lifted one sleek blonde brow, her expression flat as a frozen lake. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up your right hand, examined your natural nails, and then looked you dead in the eye.

“He must have a big dick, huh?”

The question came out flat, like she was asking about the weather or the price of gel. No judgment. Just pure, clinical curiosity.

You felt your cheeks warm despite yourself. “Yes he does.”

“Of course. Is always the way. Beautiful women stay with crazy men for one of two reasons; money or dick.” She picked up a file, examining the edge of your nail with a critical eye. “Big dick explains many things. The gun. The madness. The way you keep going back like a moth to flame. Is biological. Men with big dicks and small brains create chemical dependency in women. Very common in America.”

“But he’s kind,” you said, holding up your hand to count on your fingers. “And thoughtful. And attentive—”

“And crazy, and pathetic, and clingy,” she interrupted, picking up a new extension, examined it against your nail.

You rolled your eyes, actually rolled them, like a teenager being lectured.

She lifted her green eyes to yours, and there was something almost fond in them. “You are just as crazy as him.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are,” she repeated, “You like his craziness. And his clingyness. And even when you complain about it, it makes you feel special.” She paused, her gaze flicking to yours. “And horny.”

You opened your mouth to protest. Closed it.

You thought about the way Bucky’s texts made your stomach flip; equal parts annoyance and that warm, someone wants me satisfaction. The way his desperation and dominance in bed made you feel like the center of his entire universe.

“Oh fuck,” you said, the realization settling over you, “I’m a cliché.”

Yelena shrugged, reaching for the topcoat. “Da. But you are cliché with very nice nails. So at least you look good while being pathetic.”

“… Thanks,” you muttered dryly.

Then your phone rang.

You reached for it automatically, half expecting Bucky’s name to light up the screen with another round of I miss you texts. But instead, an unknown number stared back at you,a New York area code you didn’t recognize.

You frowned, swiped to answer, and pressed the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

Yelena pretended not to watch. She busied herself with oiling your cuticles, her blonde head bowed, her movements steady. But her eyes kept flicking up to you.

“He what?!”

The shriek tore out of you before you could stop it. The sound bounced off the salon’s white walls, and every head in the place swiveled toward you. You felt the weight of fifteen pairs of eyes on your back, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You listened. Nodded. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the wall where a poster advertised acrylics with a woman’s perfectly manicured hand draped across her face.

“Uh huh. Mhm-mhm.”

Your face scrunched. Then, slowly, your shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out of them as you let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.

“Seriously? Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, thank you.”

You hung up and turned to Yelena, who had stopped pretending to be disinterested. Her eyebrows were raised, as she tilted her head. “What was that?”

You let out a long, slow sigh and held up your freshly done nails, admiring the pink gloss under the neon light.

“Fool shot himself in the foot. Literally. And guess who was listed as his emergency contact?”

Yelena let out a low whistle and shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line of amused disbelief. She took the cash you dug out of your purse, counted it without looking, and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.

“That is a level of pathetic that has never been reached before,” she said. “Not even in my country.”

“Tell me about it.”

Your shoes clicked against the polished linoleum as you followed the signs to the orthopedics wing.

You still didn’t know what you were going to say to him. Every option cycled through your head—swearing him out, dumping him right there in the hospital bed, maybe throwing your heel at his head for good measure.

The words break up had been sitting on your tongue since you left the salon, a clean cut to end this unnecessary nonsense for good.

But then you rounded the corner to his floor, and your feet slowed without permission.

The door to his room was partially visible through the slatted blinds, and you slowed as you approached, your heels clicking to a stop on the linoleum. Through the narrow gaps, you could see him.

Bucky sat propped against the pillows, his right foot elevated in a crisp white cast that ran from mid-calf to his toes, the edges already starting to scuff from the hospital sheets.

He was still wearing that blue knitted sweater from earlier. It pulled tight across his chest as he sat up straight, hands resting on his thighs, nodding slowly at something the doctor was saying.

His jaw was set, brows furrowed in that serious, focused expression he used whenever he wasn’t speaking to someone other than you, the one that made him look very stoic and grouchy. A stark contrast to the disheveled, manic mess he’d been a few hours ago.

Bucky listened, his eyes fixed on her, the picture of a composed, well-adjusted adult. He didn’t look like a man who had accidentally shot himself in the foot.

And as you stood there, in the harsh fluorescent light of a hospital corridor, realized that you really did love him.

There was no way you were breaking up with him. Unfortunately, you were stuck with this idiot. This beautiful, emotionally unstable, big-hearted fool who couldn’t even orchestrate a proper suicide threat without maiming himself in the process.

The doctor finished her spiel, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. You stepped back, plastering a courteous smile on your face as she passed, her heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your own. Then you pushed the door open.

Bucky’s head snapped up, and his blue eyes found you instantly.

The guarded, stoic mask crumbled replaced by something embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips parting as if to speak but hesitating.

“Now before you say anything,” he started. “I really was planning on getting rid of it. And I did not plan on shooting myself in the foot. It was an accident. I was moving it, and I—”

You didn’t let him finish. You crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the collar of the blue sweater, and pressed your lips to his.

He made a surprised sound—a muffled mmph—but it melted into something softer, his hands finding your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer until your knees bumped the edge of the bed.

The kiss was warm, tasting faintly of hospital coffee and mint. His fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket, and you felt the tension drain out of his shoulders, his whole body sagging into you.

When you finally broke away, you were both breathing a little heavier. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “No break.”

His eyes fluttered open, and the look on his face was something else entirely. You’d never seen a man who accidentally shot himself in the foot look so happy. The corners of his mouth twitched, then spread into a slow, boyish grin that softened all the hard edges of his face.

And that’s how you ended up sprawled sideways across the narrow hospital bed, one leg dangling off the edge, clipboard balanced on your knee as you scribbled through the stack of discharge paperwork.

Bucky was propped beside you, his shoulder pressed into your side, his arm looping around your waist. Every few minutes, he’d shift, his lips brushing against your shoulder through the thin cotton of your top.

You were halfway through entering his insurance information when he lifted your free hand, and brought it to his mouth. His lips pressed against your knuckles, before he turned your hand over and examined the nails.

“Pretty,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the glossy edge.

You hummed, not looking up from the paperwork. “Yelena had a lot to say about us.”

“Yeah?” He shifted slightly, his interest piqued. “Like what?”

You shrugged, the motion jostling his head gently. “Just very true things.”

“Such as?” he pressed, his lips brushing your jaw, a gentle nudge.

You turned your face toward him, and he met you halfway. The kiss was brief and soft, your lips lingered just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath, the slight curve of a smile forming against yours.

“That we’re both crazy,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “And i agree.”

A beat of silence.

Then he let out a low chuckle, before settling his head back against your shoulder. “Whatever you say, doll.”

if you made it this far… thanks