Welcome To My Corner

It was becoming a problem.

He noticed the way you tied your hair up when the heat got unbearable, twisting it off your neck with one hand while holding your drink in the other. He noticed how you always hummed along to songs before you remembered the lyrics. He noticed that when you laughed too hard, you leaned forward like your joy was too big to keep upright.

Worst of all, he noticed that you looked for him.

In crowded rooms. Across Sam’s backyard. Through the steam rising off the grill and the buzz of cicadas in the trees. Your eyes would find his, quick and bright, then flick away like you had not meant to get caught.

But Bucky always caught it because he had been looking too.

Tonight was no different.

The summer air hung warm and honey-thick around Sam’s place, the kind of heat that made everyone lazy and loud. Someone had dragged a speaker out onto the porch. Music spilled into the yard, all electric longing and restless devotion, a song made for open windows and reckless hearts.

You were barefoot in the grass.

That was the first thing Bucky noticed.

Not the fireflies blinking near the fence. Not Sam arguing with Sarah over whether he had burned the burgers. Not Joaquin trying to balance three paper plates on one arm.

You.

Barefoot. Laughing. Holding a melting popsicle between your fingers, your lips stained cherry red.

Bucky forgot how to breathe for half a second. Which was stupid. He had seen worse things than a pretty mouth in July.

Still.

His brain went quiet in a way it rarely did, all the static softening into one clear thought.

There you are.

You looked up then, as if you had heard him.

Across the yard, your smile changed.

It was small at first. Just the corner of your mouth lifting. Then it grew warmer, private in a way that made Bucky’s chest feel too tight beneath his shirt.

He looked away.

Coward.

“Man,” Sam said beside him, flipping a spatula in his hand. “You are pathetic.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m standing here.”

“Exactly. Standing. Brooding. Making tragic little eyes across my yard.”

“I don’t make tragic little eyes.”

Sam snorted. “You make museum-quality tragic little eyes.”

Bucky took the beer from Sam’s hand and drank from it out of spite.

Sam didn’t even blink. “That was mine.”

“Was.”

Across the yard, you laughed at something Joaquin said, but your gaze slipped back to Bucky again. This time, you didn’t look away as quickly.

Neither did he.

The whole yard seemed to blur at the edges.

You lifted the popsicle in a tiny salute.

Bucky’s mouth twitched before he could stop it.

Sam groaned. “Go talk to her before the grass catches fire from all this unresolved tension.”

Bucky handed the beer back. “You always this dramatic?”

“Only when two emotionally constipated people are ruining my barbecue.”

Bucky ignored him or tried to. But his feet were already moving.

Each step across the yard felt ridiculous. He had crossed battlefields with steadier nerves. He had walked into gunfire. He had faced monsters and gods and men who thought themselves both.

And somehow, walking toward you with the sun setting behind your shoulders made his pulse kick like a drum.

You watched him come closer.

That was the thing that ruined him. You didn’t glance around. Didn’t pretend you hadn't been waiting. You just stood there in the grass, cherry red smile softening into something sweeter, something almost shy.

“Hi, Barnes,” you said.

“Hi.”

Terrible start.

One word. He had eighty years of languages, mission reports, coded phrases, and poetry somewhere in his head, and all he managed was hi.

Your smile widened like you knew exactly what he was thinking. “You having fun?”

He looked over his shoulder at Sam, who was very obviously watching while pretending to inspect burger buns.

“Fun might be generous.”

“You smiled at least twice.”

“Maybe it was heatstroke.”

You laughed, and there it was again. That feeling. A door opening somewhere in him that he had sworn was sealed shut.

You held out the popsicle. “Want some?”

Bucky stared at it, then at you.

Your fingers were sticky. The thing was melting down your wrist. A drop of red sugar slid toward your palm, and Bucky’s mind, traitorous and unhelpful, noticed the movement with far too much attention.

“No,” he said quickly.

Your eyebrows lifted. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Scared of germs, Sergeant?”

“Scared of you.”

That slipped out before he could stop it.

The air changed.

Your teasing expression softened, the laughter fading from your eyes but not the warmth. You lowered the popsicle, suddenly still.

Bucky wished he could take it back... no, he didn’t.

That was the problem. He didn’t want to take any of it back. Not the looking. Not the wanting. Not the quiet ache that had been building in him for weeks every time you said his name like it belonged in your mouth.

You glanced down, lashes hiding your eyes. “You shouldn’t be.”

Bucky’s voice came out low. “I know.”

“Do you?”

He swallowed.

The music shifted behind you, the song swelling into something bright and desperate. Summer folded itself around the two of you, warm wind moving through the trees, cicadas buzzing like tiny live wires, fireflies sparking gold in the grass.

Bucky stepped closer.

Not much. Just enough that he could smell sunscreen on your skin, sugar on your fingers, the faint clean scent of your shampoo underneath the smoke from the grill.

Your breath caught.

He noticed that too.

“Doll,” he said quietly.

Your eyes lifted to his.

The nickname landed differently this time. Not casual. Not easy. It hung between you, soft and trembling, waiting to see if either of you would be brave enough to touch it.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His name in your voice nearly undid him.

He had heard his name shouted. Ordered. Begged. Cursed. He had heard it through radios and nightmares and hospital rooms. But this was different.

This was summer-warm. This was wanting. This was you.

Bucky’s hand flexed at his side. “Tell me to stop looking at you like that.”

You did not blink. “I don’t want you to stop.”

The words hit him clean through the ribs.

Behind him, someone laughed too loudly. A plate clattered. Sam yelled something about burger integrity. The world continued, careless and alive.

But Bucky could not hear much past the blood rushing in his ears.

“You sure?” he asked.

Your smile trembled at the edge, nervous and hopeful all at once. “I’ve been sure for a while.”

Bucky let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in him for years.

He raised his hand slowly. You leaned into the space between you, your eyes fluttering when his knuckles brushed your cheek.

Soft.

You were so soft.

It terrified him. It made him want to be soft too.

His thumb swept lightly beneath your cheekbone. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

A helpless laugh escaped him, quiet and disbelieving.

Your smile turned radiant.

There, that was the moment.

Not the kiss. Not yet.

The moment before.

The breath before the match struck. Your face tipped up toward his. His hand at your cheek. The music spilling into the pink-orange dusk. The summer heat pressing close, turning the air molten.

Bucky leaned in slowly. So slowly he felt every inch of it.

Your eyes closed first.

That nearly killed him.

Then his mouth touched yours.

The kiss was gentle at first, almost a question. Your lips were warm, tasting faintly of cherry sugar, and Bucky felt the shock of it all the way down to his bones. Not sharp. Not violent. Just bright.

A sparkler in his chest.

Then you sighed against him. That tiny sound broke something loose.

Bucky stepped closer, his other hand finding your waist with careful reverence. You leaned into him, fingers curling in the front of his shirt, and the kiss deepened just enough to become an answer.

Yes.

Yes, this.

Yes, you.

The yard disappeared. The years disappeared. For one impossible second, there was no past waiting behind his eyes. No cold. No ghosts. No weight dragging at his name.

There was only your hand over his heart. Only the warm press of your mouth.

Only the dizzy, golden thought that maybe he had not been made solely to survive. Maybe he had been made for this too. For a summer evening. For a kiss that tasted like sugar and courage. For wanting someone and being wanted back without either of you having to run from it.

When you pulled away, it was barely far enough to breathe. Your forehead rested against his. Your fingers were still twisted in his shirt.

Bucky opened his eyes and found you already looking at him.

You looked stunned.

He probably did too.

“Hi,” you whispered again, breathless.

This time, Bucky smiled. A real one.

“Hi, doll.”

Your laugh came out soft and shaky, and Bucky wanted to kiss that too.

So he did.

Just once. Quick and sweet. Enough to make you smile against his mouth.

From across the yard, Sam shouted, “Finally!”

The entire barbecue erupted into noise.

You buried your face against Bucky’s chest with a groan. “I’m moving. I have to leave the country now.”

Bucky wrapped his arms around you, smiling into your hair. “I know a guy.”

You laughed, muffled against him. “You’re supposed to say no.”

“I’m considering my options.”

You tilted your head back, eyes bright with embarrassment and happiness and something so tender it made his throat ache. “Was that okay?”

Bucky stared at you.

The sun had nearly vanished, leaving gold caught in your lashes. The music was still playing. Sam was still yelling. The popsicle had melted completely, forgotten in the grass.

Bucky brushed his thumb over your cheek again.

“Best part of my summer,” he said.

Your smile went soft.

And Bucky Barnes, who had spent so much of his life bracing for winter, stood barefoot in the warm grass with you in his arms and let himself believe, just for tonight, that some things were allowed to last.

The kind that sat in the kitchen after midnight. The kind that waited in the hallway outside your room.

The kind that lived inside the empty chair at briefings, inside the untouched mug in the cabinet, inside the gaps between jokes no one knew how to make anymore because you had been the one brave enough, stupid enough, necessary enough to say them.

John stood in front of the counter with both hands braced on the edge, staring at your mug like it had personally betrayed him.

White ceramic, a chipped handle, a faded little cartoon ghost on the front because you had bought it in October and decided it was "seasonally immortal."

He had told you that was not a thing. You had told him he lacked vision.

He would have given anything to hear you say something ridiculous again.

The mug sat there because nobody wanted to move it. Nobody wanted to admit that some objects became holy after someone died. Even the stupid ones. Especially the stupid ones.

John reached for it, then stopped before his fingers could touch the handle. His chest tightened.

Coward.

The word came easily now. It had made a home in him.

Coward.

Because you had told him to wait. Because he hadn't listened. Because he had made the call. Because if he had not pushed through that door, if he had not been so sure, so damn certain that speed mattered more than caution, you would still be there.

You would still be leaning against the counter, drinking coffee you claimed tasted better from his mug because "emotional theft enhances flavor."

You would still be rolling your eyes at him.

Still be alive, still be his favorite problem.

John closed his eyes.

The mission came back whole, it always did.

The rain. The smoke. The red emergency lights flickering through the corridor. The compound walls sweating with heat from the charges buried somewhere deep inside the facility.

Your voice in his ear. "Walker, hold position."

He remembered gritting his teeth.

The intel had been bad. Worse than bad. Hostages moved. Enemy numbers doubled. The west corridor compromised. The extraction windows narrowing by the second.

He remembered hating the waiting. "Say again," he snapped.

"I said hold position," you repeated. "The west side is rigged. I saw trip lines near the stairwell. We need to reroute."

"There's no time."

"There's always time to not get blown up, John."

John... Not Walker, not Captain, John.

That should have stopped him.

But all he could think about was the hostage feed. The crying. The gunmen moving kids from one room to another. The seconds bleeding out while he stood there doing nothing.

"They're relocating the hostages," he said. "We push now."

"No," you said, sharp enough to cut through the static. "You don't know what's past that door."

"I know enough."

A pause.

Then your voice, quieter. "John, listen to me."

He heard you, that was the worst part. He heard you, and he ignored you. "On me," he ordered.

You cursed so viciously that even in the middle of a mission, he almost smiled.

Then he kicked the door in. The next few seconds became light.

White, orange, a sound so huge it became nothing at all.

John remembered being thrown backward. He remembered his shoulder slamming into concrete. He remembered the ringing in his ears, the taste of blood, the blur of smoke filling the corridor like something alive.

And then he remembered you.

Not beside him, not behind him. Ahead.

Because you had moved. Because you had seen what he hadn't.

Because while he was charging forward with all that stupid, righteous certainty, you crossed into the blast path and shoved one of the hostages away from the trip line.

A little girl with pink jacket, pigtails. Screaming without sound because John's hearing had gone wrong.

You saved her, of course you saved her. You were a pain in the ass like that. Always making the impossible choice and then acting like anyone else would have done the same.

John crawled toward you through smoke and debris, one arm dragging uselessly, shield scraping over shattered concrete.

He found blood first, too much of it. Then your glove. Then your hand.

"Hey," he rasped.

Your fingers twitched once.

"Hey, no. No, no, don't do that. Don't you dare."

Your head turned slightly.

There was dust in your lashes. Blood at your hairline. Your suit torn open at your side where shrapnel had punched through armor and found flesh.

But your eyes found him, they always did.

Then the ceiling collapsed.

That was where the memory always became unbearable.

The second explosion hit before the medics could reach you. Before John could lift you. Before anyone could drag you clear.

The world buckled.

Smoke swallowed the corridor.

Bucky's metal arm locked around John's chest from behind and yanked him back with brutal force.

John fought him.

He screamed your name until his throat tore raw. He saw one last glimpse of you through the smoke.

Your hand, your face, your mouth moving.

Then nothing.

No body, no signal, no heartbeat.

Nothing but fire, rubble, and the horrible certainty that he had watched the world take you from him.

The recovery team searched for hours, then days.

They found pieces of your gear. A cracked comm, blood on concrete, part of your jacket burned black at the edge.

But not you.

Eventually, the official report changed from missing to presumed dead.

Presumed.

John hated that word.

It was too soft. Too bureaucratic, too cowardly.

It let people say dead without choking on it. It let them fold a flag and give speeches and say brave things while refusing to admit that there had been nothing left to bring home.

So they mourned you.

The team held a service.

Bucky spoke. Bob stood silent with his jaw locked. Yelena left halfway through and came back with red eyes and a bottle she never opened. Alexei cried openly and loudly and without shame. Ava did not say anything, but she stayed beside your empty chair long after everyone else left.

John did not speak.

What could he have said?

I loved her. I killed her. I would trade every good thing I have ever done to hear her call me an idiot one more time. None of that belonged at a memorial. So he stood there in a suit that felt like punishment and stared at your photo until his vision blurred.

Now, weeks later, he stood in the kitchen with your mug in front of him and grief sitting heavy in his ribs.

He finally reached for it. His fingers closed around the chipped handle.

For a moment, he just held it. Then his hand shook, the mug slipped. It hit the tile and shattered. The sound cracked through the kitchen like a gunshot.

John froze.

For one wild second, his body waited for you. Waited for your voice from the hallway.

"Dramatic much?"

Nothing came.

Only the hum of the refrigerator. Only his own breathing, too loud, too uneven.

John sank to the floor before he realized his knees had given out.

The broken pieces surrounded him like wreckage from a smaller explosion.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

The words landed nowhere.

"I'm sorry."

He picked up one shard with trembling fingers. The ceramic bit into his palm, he didn't let go.

Pain was honest. Pain didn't tell him it was time to move on. Pain didn't put a hand on his shoulder and say you would want him to be happy.

People kept saying that. He hated them for it.

Maybe you would want that. Maybe you would call him an emotionally constipated flagpole and tell him to stop haunting the kitchen.

But wanting him happy did not make you less gone.

The elevator opened down the hall.

John didn't move.

Bucky appeared in the doorway a moment later.

For a long while, he said nothing.

Then, quietly, "You're bleeding."

John looked down at his hand. Blood curled between his fingers, bright against the white shard. "Yeah."

Bucky stepped into the kitchen, slow and careful. "She'd be pissed about the mug."

John's throat closed. "Yeah."

"She'd be more pissed that you're using it to cut yourself open."

"I'm not."

Bucky gave him a look.

It was the exact kind of look you used to give him.

Flat, annoyed, unimpressed by his nonsense.

John almost told him to stop. Instead, he looked away.

Bucky crouched and held out his hand.

John gripped the shard tighter. "Don't."

"John."

"I said don't."

Bucky's expression hardened. "You think she'd want this?"

John's head snapped up. "She's not here to want anything."

The words came out vicious, they landed worse.

Bucky said nothing.

John's chest heaved. "She's not here," he repeated, quieter now, like saying it again might finally make it feel real. "Because of me."

Bucky's eyes dropped for a second. Then he took a breath. "You made the wrong call."

John went still.

No one said it like that. Not Yelena, not the officials, not the reports. They called it difficult. Chaotic. A compromised situation. Unreliable intel. Tactical pressure.

Bucky said it plainly.

John almost hated him for it, almost thanked him.

"You made the wrong call," Bucky said again. "But she made the choice after."

John shook his head. "No."

"She saw the kid."

"Because I put us there."

"She moved because that's who she was."

"Stop."

"She saved that girl."

"Stop."

"She loved you."

John broke.

His face twisted, and the sob came out ugly. Torn from somewhere beneath the armor. He folded forward, one bloody hand pressed to the floor, the other still clutching the broken piece of your mug.

"She told me to wait," he choked. "She said my name, Buck. She said John, listen to me, and I didn't. I didn't listen."

Bucky lowered himself to sit across from him on the kitchen floor. For once, he did not try to fix anything. Maybe he knew there was no fixing this.

John stared at the tile through blurred eyes.

"She should be here," he whispered. "She should be here making fun of me for this."

"She would definitely make fun of you for this."

A broken laugh slipped out of John before he could stop it.

It hurt, everything hurt.

Bucky reached out again. This time, John let him take the shard. The moment it left his hand, he felt emptier.

Bucky set it aside and pulled a towel from the counter, wrapping it around John's bleeding palm.

They sat there in silence in the wreckage of your mug.

But you were not dead.

John didn't know that. The team did not know that.

The world had filed you away as a name on a report, a photograph beside a folded flag, a chair no one touched at briefings because grief had made it sacred and cruel.

Presumed dead.

That was what the official report said.

It sounded so clean, so neat, so bloodless.

It didn't say that you had woken up in a hospital three towns over with broken ribs, shrapnel in your side, and no memory of how you got there.

It didn't say that some stranger had found you near a drainage ditch after the explosion threw you farther than anyone thought possible, barely alive beneath rainwater and mud.

It didn't say that you had spent days unconscious under a name that was not yours because your gear had been burned, your comm destroyed, your ID lost somewhere in the rubble John still saw every time he closed his eyes.

It didn't say that when you finally remembered, when the fog in your skull lifted enough to give you one name, you woke up trying to rip an IV from your arm.

John.

The nurses thought you were delirious, you probably were.

Pain made the world strange. Medication made it stranger. Your body had become a map of bruises, stitches, and bandages. Breathing hurt. Laughing hurt. Existing hurt.

But rage?

Rage worked just fine.

Rage got you through the physical therapy. Rage made you grit your teeth when your legs shook beneath you. Rage sat beside your hospital bed every night, wearing John Walker's face and that stubborn, stupid expression he got whenever he thought he was right.

You had told him to hold position. You could still hear your own voice over comms.

"John, listen to me."

And he hadn't. That son of a bitch hadn't.

So when they finally discharged you, when the doctor told you to rest, avoid stress, and absolutely not do anything strenuous, you nodded with the calm, sweet expression of a woman planning a felony.

Then you signed the paperwork, walked out of the hospital in borrowed clothes, and took the first cab to the tower.

Every mile made your ribs ache. Every bump in the road sent pain flickering through your side.

You ignored all of it.

By the time the tower came into view, tall and silver against the bruised evening sky, your hands were clenched so tightly in your lap that your nails had left crescent moons in your palms.

You were going to yell at him, that was the plan.

You were going to march right into John Walker's room and tell him exactly what you thought of his reckless, arrogant, hero-complex nonsense. You were going to call him every name you had saved up in the hospital. You were going to make sure the next time he heard your voice in his ear telling him to wait, it echoed so loud through his thick skull that he obeyed out of pure survival instinct.

You limped through the front entrance with your jaw set.

The security system chirped once.

Then went silent.

The elevator opened. You stepped inside and pressed the button to John Walker's floor.

You leaned against the elevator wall as it rose, one hand pressed to your ribs. The reflection in the doors looked awful. Pale. Tired. Too thin. A bruise still yellowing along your cheekbone. Hair pulled back messily because lifting your arms too high hurt.

You looked like a ghost. Good, let him be haunted properly.

The doors opened. You walked straight down the hall.

You didn't stop when you passed the common room. Didn't stop when you heard voices somewhere in the distance. Didn't stop when the hallway cameras shifted to follow you, no doubt sending alerts to every tablet and phone in the building.

Let them panic, you had one destination.

John's door was closed.

You didn't knock, you shoved it open.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed.

For a second, neither of you moved.

John looked worse than you expected.

That was the first thing that hit you, sharp enough to cut through your anger.

He looked hollow.

His hair was a mess, like he had spent too many nights dragging his hands through it. His shirt was wrinkled. His jaw dark with stubble. There were shadows beneath his eyes so deep they looked carved in.

He was holding something in his hand.

A piece of ceramic. White, chipped, familiar... your mug, your stupid ghost mug.

John stared at you.

The ceramic slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.

He didn't blink, didn't breathe.

His face emptied first, then shattered.

You lifted one finger, ready to begin the speech you had rehearsed for weeks. "You," you said, voice rough, "absolute idiot."

John stood too fast.

For one terrible second, he only stared at you like his mind refused to believe what his eyes were seeing.

Then his mouth moved but no sound came out.

You took one limping step into the room. "That's right. I'm alive. Barely, no thanks to you, because when I say hold position, Walker, I usually mean it for a reason, you reckless, flag-wearing disaster of a man."

He still didn't speak.

Your throat tightened despite yourself. "Do you have any idea how pissed I am at you?"

John made a broken sound.

Not a word, not your name, just pain.

Then he dropped to his knees.

The anger inside you faltered.

John Walker, proud, stubborn John Walker, sank to the floor in front of you like his body had simply given up holding the weight of him.

His arms wrapped around your waist carefully at first, then tighter when you didn't vanish. He buried his face against your stomach, low enough to avoid your bandaged ribs, and clung to you like the world had opened beneath him.

"I'm sorry," he choked.

Your breath caught. "John."

"I'm sorry." His voice broke completely. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The words spilled out of him, frantic and ragged, each one pressed into you like a bruise. His shoulders shook. His hands fisted in the back of your borrowed shirt like he was terrified someone would come drag you away again.

You forgot every insult. Every speech. Every sharp, furious thing you had carried all the way there. Because John was on his knees in front of you, crying like something inside him had finally split open.

You lifted your hands, unsteady at first, then slid them into his hair. "Hey," you whispered.

He shook his head against you. "I killed you."

"No."

"I did. I made the call. You told me not to and I did it anyway."

"John."

"I watched you disappear. I watched that ceiling come down and I couldn't get to you. I couldn't get to you." His grip tightened. "I looked for you."

The words were small. Destroyed.

"I know."

"No, I looked. I kept looking. They told me there was nothing left, but I kept looking."

Something inside your chest twisted so hard it nearly stole your breath. You stroked his hair with trembling fingers. "I know."

"I'm sorry."

"You already said that."

"I'll keep saying it."

"Of course you will. You're dramatic."

A sound punched out of him, half sob, half laugh.

You smiled despite the ache in your face. "There he is," you whispered.

John lifted his head then. His eyes were red, wrecked. He looked at you like looking hurt. Like you were too much miracle for one body to survive. His hands moved from your waist to your hips, then back again, careful, reverent, afraid. "You're real," he said.

You swallowed. "Unfortunately for you, yes."

His laugh broke again, then his face crumpled. He pressed his forehead gently against your stomach. "I thought I lost you."

You closed your eyes. "I know."

"You were gone."

"I was not gone."

"You were gone to me."

That landed.

Your fingers stilled in his hair.

The anger had gotten you here. It had kept your spine straight. It had given you a purpose sharp enough to cut through the pain.

But this?

This ruined you.

John had buried you without a body. He had mourned a ghost with your face. He had lived in a world where your last words to him were swallowed by smoke and blood.

You bent slowly, wincing as your ribs protested, and cupped his face between your hands. "Look at me."

He did.

You brushed your thumbs beneath his eyes. "I'm here."

His breath shuddered.

"I'm here," you said again. "I'm hurt. I'm angry. I'm absolutely going to yell at you properly when I can do it without needing pain medication afterward."

A weak, broken smile flickered across his mouth.

"But I'm here, John."

His eyes searched yours, desperate and disbelieving.

Then he said it. Low and raw. Like the words had been dragged from the deepest part of him.

"I love you."

Everything went still. The room, the air, your pulse.

John looked terrified the second it left his mouth, but he didn't take it back.

"I love you," he said again, voice rougher now. "I should have told you before. I should've told you when you were stealing my coffee and making my life hell and acting like you weren't the best thing in it."

Your lips parted. "John."

"I love you," he whispered. "And I'm sorry I made you leave this world thinking I didn't say it."

You stared at him. Then your anger gave out completely.

Not vanished, you were still going to yell later.

When he had slept. When you had slept. When the world stopped swaying beneath you.

But right now, the only thing left was the way he looked at you. Like you were sunrise after weeks underground.

You slid your hands down to his jaw.

"You really are a dumbass," you whisper.

John lets out a broken breath against your hands. "I know."

"I was going to tell you too."

His eyes shut like the words hurt worse than the shrapnel ever did.

Your thumbs brush over his cheeks, damp from tears he has stopped trying to hide.

"I love you, John."

The sound that leaves him is ruined. Not a laugh. Not a sob. Something caught in the wreckage between the two.

He surges up from his knees, careful even in desperation, his hands catching your waist like he is terrified of holding too tight and more terrified of letting go.

His forehead presses to yours. "You're real," he says again, voice shaking.

"Unfortunately for you."

His mouth trembles. "Can I kiss you?"

The question nearly undoes you.

After everything. After the blast. After the hospital. After clawing your way back from a grave everyone else had already mourned.

Now he asks.

You slide your fingers into his hair and tug just enough to make his breath hitch. "John."

His eyes lock on yours.

"Kiss me before I change my mind and start yelling."

He does.

At first, it's barely a kiss.

His mouth touches yours softly, almost fearfully, like he thinks too much pressure might prove you are a dream. He breathes you in. Shivers. Pulls back only far enough to look at you again.

You can see the disbelief still sitting behind his eyes. You can see the guilt too.

Heavy. Rotting. Rooted deep.

You kiss him harder.

That snaps something in him.

John makes a rough sound and pulls you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other settling carefully at your waist, avoiding the bandages beneath your shirt. His mouth opens over yours, hot and desperate, and the first real taste of him sends a sharp, aching need through your whole body.

You have been in hospital beds for weeks.

Touched by doctors. Nurses. Machines. Needles. Cold hands and colder instruments.

This is different.

This is John's hand trembling against your skin. John's mouth moving like prayer and punishment. John, alive and warm and breaking apart because you came back.

You grip his shirt and drag him toward the bed.

He follows immediately, then catches himself.

"Wait," he rasps.

You glare up at him. "If you say my ribs, I swear to God."

"Your ribs."

"John."

"You were discharged from a hospital today."

"And you were discharged from common sense years ago, yet here we are."

A laugh cracks through his grief, raw and startled.

It lights something in your chest.

Then his face softens, and the hunger in his eyes turns careful again. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"I know you."

That silences him.

Your fingers loosen in his shirt, smoothing over his chest instead. "I need this," you whisper. "I need you. Not because I'm confused. Not because I'm fragile. Not because I don't know what I'm asking for."

His jaw tightens.

You step closer until your body brushes his.

"I spent weeks feeling like I was stitched together wrong. Like half of me got left in that hallway. I need to feel alive, John. I need to feel like I came back to something."

His eyes shine again. "You came back to me."

Your heart clenches. "Then stop looking at me like I'm already gone."

That lands.

His hands rise slowly to your face. "You're here."

"I'm here."

"You'll tell me if it hurts."

"Everything hurts."

His expression twists.

You catch his wrist. "But not you."

John's eyes drop to your mouth.

The air changes, thickens.

Grief doesn't leave the room. It only moves over, making space for something hotter, something shaking and hungry and alive.

"Tell me to stop," he says, voice low.

"I will."

"I mean it."

"I know."

"Say it."

You swallow. "If I tell you to stop, you stop."

"Immediately."

"Immediately."

His thumb drags along your bottom lip.

"And if I ask you to keep going?"

His eyes darken. "Then I keep going."

Your pulse kicks. "Good."

This time when he kisses you, he doesn't hold back as much.

He still keeps one hand gentle at your side, but the other slides into your hair, angling your head so he can kiss you deeper. His tongue strokes against yours, slow at first, then hungrier when you moan into his mouth.

The sound wrecks him.

You feel it in the way his body jerks against yours. In the way his fingers flex at your waist. In the way he pulls back just enough to curse under his breath.

"I thought I'd never hear that."

You tug him down by the collar. "Then earn another one."

His eyes flash.

There he is. Under all that grief. Under all that guilt, your John. Stubborn. Hungry. Devoted enough to ruin you.

He helps you sit on the edge of the bed, moving like every inch of you matters. Then he kneels again, but this time it doesn't look like collapse.

This time, it looks like worship.

Your breath catches as his hands slide up your thighs.

Slow and careful.

He watches your face the entire time, searching for pain, hesitation, anything that might make him stop.

You give him none.

"John," you whisper.

His hands still. "Tell me."

You look down at him, at the broad shoulders between your knees, at the red-rimmed eyes, at the mouth you have missed so badly you could scream from it.

"Take these off."

His breath leaves him hard. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your borrowed sweatpants and pauses.

You nod.

Only then does he ease them down, careful over your hips, your thighs, your knees, until they fall to the floor.

His gaze drops.

The room goes quiet except for his breathing.

You are not wearing anything underneath. You had not exactly planned this. Or maybe some part of you had.

John's hands tighten on your thighs, not enough to hurt, just enough for you to feel the effort it takes him to stay in control.

"Jesus," he whispers.

Heat blooms low in your stomach. "Still real?"

His eyes lift to yours. "Too real."

He leans in and presses his mouth to the inside of your knee. The kiss is soft. Then another, higher. Another, warmer.

Your fingers twist in the sheets. "John."

"I know," he murmurs.

Another kiss, higher still. "I've got you."

Your breath shudders. "That line is less comforting when you're between my legs."

His mouth curves against your skin. "Good."

Then he kisses the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed and slow, and your teasing vanishes.

He takes his time, painfully so.

He kisses up one thigh, then the other, avoiding bruises with a care that almost makes you ache worse. His hands spread you gently for him, thumbs stroking small circles into your skin.

When his mouth finally touches you, your whole body jolts.

He freezes instantly. "Pain?"

You shake your head, breath already uneven. "No."

His eyes hold yours from between your thighs. "Good?"

Your fingers slide into his hair. "Very."

Something in his face loosens. Then his mouth is on you again.

This time, he doesn't stop.

His tongue moves slowly at first, learning you, tasting you, dragging a moan from deep in your throat. The sound seems to feed him. His hands grip your thighs more firmly, keeping you open as he licks through you with a focus that makes your head tip back.

You bite your lip hard.

John notices. "Don't," he says against you, voice rough.

Your eyes flutter open. "What?"

"Don't swallow it." His mouth brushes your inner thigh. "I spent weeks thinking I'd never hear you again. Don't you dare hide from me now."

The words hit low and hot.

You let the next moan spill out.

His eyes go dark.

Then he groans like it does something to him and pulls you closer to his mouth.

Your back arches, then immediately protests. You hiss, and John stops at once, lifting his head.

"Easy," he murmurs, one hand sliding up to steady your hip. "Lean back on your elbows. Slow."

You want to argue but you also want his mouth back, so you obey.

Carefully, you brace yourself against the mattress, and John watches every movement until he's sure you're all right.

"Bossy," you breathe.

His mouth finds your thigh again. "You love it."

"I love you. There's a difference."

He goes still.

For a second, the heat fades into something painfully tender. Then he turns his head and kisses your palm where it rests against his cheek. "I love you," he says.

Before you can answer, his mouth returns to you.

The tenderness doesn't leave. It becomes part of the hunger.

His tongue strokes over your clit with slow, devastating pressure, then dips lower, tasting how wet you are for him. You gasp his name. His fingers dig into your thigh. He does it again, and again, until your legs start to tremble around his shoulders.

"John," you pant.

He hums against you. The vibration makes you curse.

You feel his smile.

"Don't get smug."

He lifts his eyes.

Too late.

Then he slides one hand from your thigh and presses a finger carefully inside you.

Your mouth falls open.

He watches you like you are the only thing left in the world. "Okay?"

You nod quickly.

"Words, sweetheart."

The name rolls through you. "Yes."

His finger moves slowly, curling in a way that makes your grip tighten in his hair. He groans at the pull, eyes fluttering for half a second before he steadies himself and adds his mouth again.

It's too much. Not in the way the hospital was too much. Not in the way pain was too much. This is too much in a way that makes you feel whole.

His mouth on you. His finger inside you. His free hand holding your thigh open while he draws pleasure from your body with the kind of patience he never has anywhere else.

Your orgasm builds slowly, then all at once. A wave cresting too high.

Your breath breaks. "John, I'm close."

He doesn't speed up, doesn't get rougher. He keeps the same steady rhythm, like he knows exactly what you need and refuses to let panic or desperation take it from you.

"That's it," he murmurs against you. "I've got you. Let me feel you."

Your body clenches around his finger. The first pulse of release tears through you so hard your vision blurs.

You cry out, hand fisting in his hair, and John groans like your pleasure hurts him in the best possible way. He keeps his mouth on you through it, softer now, coaxing every last tremor until you push weakly at his shoulder.

"Too much."

He stops immediately.

He kisses your thigh once. Then your hip. Then rests his forehead there, breathing hard.

You look down at him, dazed.

His mouth is wet, his eyes are wrecked. You almost come again just looking at him.

"Come here," you whisper.

He rises carefully, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a way that should not be as obscene as it is.

You catch his shirt. "Off."

For once, he doesn't argue. He pulls it over his head and drops it somewhere behind him.

Your hands go to his chest immediately.

Warm skin, hard muscle, the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palm.

Alive.

John bends over you, but keeps his weight off your body, one arm braced beside your head.

You kiss him and taste yourself on his tongue.

He shudders.

You slide your hand down his stomach. His muscles jump beneath your touch.

"You're shaking," you whisper.

"So are you."

"I have an excuse."

His mouth brushes yours. "So do I."

Your fingers reach the waistband of his sweats.

He catches your wrist. Not stopping you, checking.

You look up at him. "I want you."

His face tightens with restraint. "You have me."

"No." You push your hand beneath the fabric and wrap your fingers around him. "I want you like this."

John's head drops forward with a groan.

He is hard and hot in your hand, already leaking at the tip. The sound he makes when your thumb brushes over him sends satisfaction curling through you.

For once, he is the one unraveling. Good, he deserves to suffer a little.

"You were really going to come in here and yell at me?" he asks, voice rough.

"I still am."

His hips twitch into your hand. "While doing this?"

"Multitasking."

A breathless laugh leaves him, it turns into a groan when you stroke him again.

"Fuck," he mutters.

"You missed me."

His eyes snap open, the playfulness disappears. "Yes."

One word raw enough to bruise.

Your hand stills.

John lowers his forehead to yours. "I missed you every second."

Your throat tightens.

His voice drops. "I missed you in the kitchen. In briefings. In the hallway. In bed. I missed you so badly I couldn't breathe."

You kiss him because you cannot survive hearing more.

He kisses you back hard.

Then his sweats are gone, shoved down with impatient hands, and he's there between your thighs, bare and shaking, his cock heavy against your stomach as he holds himself above you.

He looks down at your body.

At the bandages. At the bruises. At the places the mission marked you.

His jaw works.

You catch his face. "Do not leave me alone in this bed because you feel guilty."

His eyes flick to yours.

"You hear me?"

He nods once.

"Use your words, Walker."

His breath shudders. "I hear you."

"Good."

You guide him closer.

He reaches down, wraps a hand around himself, and drags the head of his cock through your wetness. The contact sends a spark through you so sharp your nails dig into his shoulder.

He stops.

You glare. "I swear, if you ask me if I'm okay every three seconds, I'm putting my pants back on."

His mouth twitches. "You're terrifying."

"And alive."

His eyes soften. "And alive."

Then he presses forward slowly. So slowly you almost whine from it.

The stretch steals the breath from your lungs. Your body opens around him inch by inch, tender from injury, sensitive from weeks without touch, aching with need so fierce it borders on pain.

John's arms tremble with the effort of holding still.

"Breathe," he whispers.

You inhale shakily.

He pushes deeper.

Your mouth falls open.

His face twists with pleasure and restraint, forehead dropping to yours as he slides fully inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moves. There's only the heat of him buried deep, the tremor in your legs, the broken sound of his breathing against your mouth.

"You feel," he starts, then stops.

You clench around him deliberately.

His eyes squeeze shut. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

His hips jerk once.

You gasp.

His hand grips the sheet beside your head. "Don't tease me when I'm trying not to fuck you through the mattress."

Heat floods you. "Well," you whisper, "don't do that. Mattress loses. My ribs lose. Everybody loses."

A strangled laugh leaves him.

You brush your mouth over his.

"But you can move."

His eyes search yours one last time.

You nod.

John pulls back slowly, then pushes in again.

Your eyes flutter shut.

The rhythm he finds is careful at first. Deep. Controlled. His hips rolling into yours with enough pressure to make pleasure pool low in your belly, but not enough to jar your ribs. One hand slides beneath your thigh, lifting it just slightly, changing the angle until he hits a spot that makes you cry out.

"John."

"I know. I know, sweetheart."

He does it again.

Your fingers clutch at his back.

Every thrust sends heat through you. Every breath is him. His skin against yours. His mouth at your jaw. His voice murmuring filthy, tender things into your ear like he cannot decide whether to worship you or lose control completely.

"You're so wet for me," he whispers, voice wrecked. "So warm. God, I thought I lost this. Thought I lost you."

You turn your face into his neck and bite softly at his shoulder.

He groans.

"I'm here."

His hips stutter.

"Say it again."

"I'm here."

Another thrust, deeper.

Your nails score down his back.

"I'm here, John."

His control slips only a little. Enough that the next thrust punches a moan out of you.

He freezes.

You grab his ass and pull him back in. "Don't stop."

His eyes burn down into yours.

You pull him down and kiss him, messy and open and desperate.

The pace changes.

Still careful, still mindful of your body, but hungrier now. He fucks you like he's trying to convince himself with every stroke that you're real. That your pulse is beating under his mouth. That your body is warm beneath him. That the grave he built for you in his head was empty all along.

Pleasure builds again, faster this time.

Your body is already sensitive, clenching around him with every slow drag of his cock. John feels it. His mouth drops to your throat, kissing, panting, whispering your name like he might never run out of ways to say it.

His hand slips between your bodies. His fingers find your clit.

You gasp. "John."

"I've got you."

His fingers move in slow circles, matching the rhythm of his hips. Your body tightens around him, pleasure coiling hard and bright.

"I'm close," you whisper.

His forehead presses to yours. "Look at me."

You force your eyes open.

He's right there. Blue eyes dark. Face flushed. Mouth parted. Completely undone.

"I love you," he says.

Your orgasm hits before you can answer.

It rolls through you hot and deep, stealing the sound from your throat before giving it back as a broken cry. Your body clenches around him, pulsing, shaking, dragging him closer to the edge with every wave.

John curses, hips stuttering. "Fuck, sweetheart."

He buries his face in your neck, trying to hold on, trying to make it last, but you wrap your legs around him as much as your body allows and whisper against his ear. "Come for me."

He breaks.

His body goes rigid above yours, then he comes with a rough, helpless groan, thrusting deep once, twice, shuddering hard as he spills inside you. His hand clamps around yours on the sheets, fingers lacing tight, like even now some part of him is afraid you might disappear.

You hold him through it. He trembles against you, breath ragged, face hidden in the curve of your neck.

For a long moment, there's no sound but both of you breathing.

Then John starts to pull away. You tighten your arms around him.

"Don't."

"I'm too heavy."

"You're barely on me."

"Your ribs."

"You are not allowed to say that word again tonight."

He huffs a weak laugh against your skin.

Still, he shifts carefully onto his side, taking you with him so you're tucked against his chest without pressure on your injuries. He stays inside you for another slow, intimate moment, reluctant to leave even that closeness behind.

When he finally slips out, you feel the loss of him immediately.

John reaches for the blanket and pulls it over both of you.

Then he just looks at you, soft, destroyed. His fingers trace the edge of your jaw. "You're really here."

You close your eyes. "If you say that too many times, I'm going to start charging you."

"I'll pay."

"Of course you will. Military pension and poor impulse control."

His smile flickers. Then fades into something tender enough to hurt. "I love you."

You open your eyes again. "I love you too."

His thumb brushes beneath your eye.

You didn't realize you were crying until he touches the tear.

"Hey," he whispers.

"I'm fine."

"You're a terrible liar."

"So are you."

His mouth twitches.

You press your palm to his chest, feeling his heart beneath it.

"I'm still mad at you."

"I know."

"I'm yelling tomorrow."

"I know."

"And next time I tell you to hold position?"

His expression sobers. He covers your hand with his. "I hold position."

You study him.

No arrogance now, no defensive edge. Just John, stripped bare by grief and love and the impossible fact of you.

"Good."

He kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth, soft and lingering.

Outside the room, somewhere down the hall, alarms finally start going off.

Voices rise.

Someone shouts your name.

John tenses.

You groan. "Don't let them in yet."

His arm tightens around you, protective and warm. "No chance."

A fist pounds against the door. Bucky's voice cuts through the wood.

"Walker!"

You sigh against John's chest.

"He sounds upset."

John presses his mouth into your hair. "He can wait."

Another pound.

"Open the damn door!"

You lift your head just enough to call out, voice hoarse, "I'm alive, injured, naked, and deeply annoyed. Come back later."

Silence.

Then Yelena from somewhere behind Bucky.

"I told you she would be mad."

John starts laughing.

Not the broken or hollow kind. Real laughter, warm against your hair, shaking carefully through both of you.

You close your eyes and let the sound settle over you.

Tomorrow, there will be explanations. Tomorrow, there will be yelling, medical checks, tears, questions, and probably Bucky threatening John on principle.

But tonight, John's hand rests over your heartbeat. Tonight, you are sore and exhausted and alive in his bed. Tonight, he knows it.

You came back ready to haunt him. Instead, you came home.

John was still up, sitting on the edge of the couch in gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt that stretched across his broad chest. He looked up the second you walked in, blue eyes scanning you with that familiar mix of concern and something hotter.

“Hey, spitfire,” he said, voice low and rough from the late hour. “You have a good time?”

You kicked your heels off and padded straight toward him, not bothering to hide the sway in your hips. “Would’ve been better if you’d come with me.” 

You climbed right into his lap without asking, straddling him, your hands sliding up his chest and over his shoulders. “Missed you.”

His hands settled on your waist, steadying you. “You’re drunk”

“Mmm, maybe a little tipsy.” You leaned in and kissed the side of his neck, then dragged your lips up to his jaw. Your fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his stomach. “But I know what I want.”

John exhaled slowly, thumbs stroking your sides like he was trying to behave. “You’re drunk, sweetheart. Not tonight.”

You rocked your hips once, deliberately, feeling him twitch beneath you. “I’m not that drunk. Just... warm. And horny. And you’re sitting here looking like that.” 

Your hand drifted lower, palming the growing bulge in his sweatpants. “Come on, John. Don’t be boring.”

He caught your wrist gently but firmly, lifting you off his lap with that easy strength that always made your stomach flip. “Bed. Now. I’m putting you to sleep before you do something you’ll regret in the morning.”

You pouted but let him guide you down the short hallway to the bedroom, his arm solid around your waist. 

The room was dark except for the city glow through the half-open blinds.

John pulled the covers back on the bed, all gentlemanly control, and turned to face you.

“Arms up,” he said quietly, reaching for the hem of your dress like he was going to help you change and nothing more.

That’s when the alcohol and the ache between your legs made you bold.

You stepped in close instead of obeying, pressing your body to his and sliding both hands under his shirt again, nails dragging lightly over his abs. “You always do this. Treat me like I’m gonna break.” 

Your fingers dipped lower, tracing the waistband of his sweats, then cupping him again through the fabric, bolder this time. “I’m not made of glass, Walker. I’m wet, and I want you to fuck me. But you’re too much of a pussy to do it.”

The word landed like a spark on gasoline.

John went very still. His jaw flexed. Those blue eyes darkened to something dangerous and hungry.

“What did you just call me?” His voice had dropped an octave.

You grinned up at him, defiant and a little drunk-brave. “Pussy. You heard me. Always trying to be the good guy, the gentleman... scared to take what you want when I’m offering it.”

For one heartbeat he just stared at you.

Then the restraint snapped.

In one smooth, powerful motion John had you backed against the bedroom wall, your wrists pinned above your head in one of his big hands. His other hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up to his. 

The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. It was deep, rough, claiming, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he was punishing you for the word and rewarding you for it at the same time.

You moaned into it, hips arching forward instinctively.

He broke the kiss just enough to growl against your lips, “You want to see what happens when I stop being a gentleman?” 

His hand left your chin and slid down, yanking the neckline of your dress down hard enough that the fabric tore a little at the seam. Cool air hit your bare breasts before his mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing.

You gasped, back arching.

John released your wrists only to spin you around so your front was pressed to the wall. He shoved your dress up around your waist, hooked his fingers in your panties and ripped them down your legs in one impatient tug. 

Two thick fingers pushed into you without warning, and the wet sound they made was obscene.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pumping them deep and curling. “Soaked. All that attitude because you needed my cock this bad?”

You pushed back against his hand, whimpering. “John..."

He pulled his fingers free, and you heard the rustle of fabric as he shoved his sweatpants down. Then the thick, hot head of his cock was nudging at your entrance.

“You called me a pussy,” he said, voice dark with lust and something almost amused. “Let’s see if you’re still saying that in five minutes.”

He thrust in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke. You cried out at the sudden stretch, the perfect fullness. 

John didn’t give you time to adjust, he set a deep, punishing rhythm, hips snapping against your ass, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slid up your back and into your hair, pulling your head back just enough.

“Still think I’m a pussy?” he rasped in your ear, pounding into you so deep you could feel him in your stomach. “Feel that? That’s me proving you wrong, baby.”

Your moans turned into broken little sounds every time he bottomed out. The alcohol made everything sharper, hotter, less filtered. 

When his hand left your hair and slid around to rest at the base of your throat, not squeezing hard, just holding, controlling.

You didn’t flinch. You moaned louder, pushing back into every thrust.

John noticed.

His rhythm faltered for half a second. The hand at your throat eased immediately, thumb stroking gently over your pulse point. 

“You like that?” he asked, voice suddenly rougher with concern even as he kept fucking you. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You shook your head, pushing his hand back into place. “Don’t stop. Please... feels good.”

A low, filthy groan tore out of him. He tightened his grip just enough to make your head spin in the best way, and his other hand reached around to rub tight circles over your clit.

“Come on then,” he ordered. “Come on my cock like a good girl. Show me how much you wanted this.”

You shattered with a cry, walls clenching hard around him. 

John fucked you straight through it, relentless, until your legs were shaking and you were babbling his name. 

Only then did he let himself go, thrusting deep one last time and coming with a guttural sound, hot pulses filling you as he buried his face in your neck.

For a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant city noise outside.

John eased out of you carefully, turned you around, and caught you when your knees wobbled. 

He lifted you like you weighed nothing and carried you to the bed, laying you down with surprising gentleness after everything that just happened. 

He disappeared into the bathroom for a warm cloth, cleaned you up with soft strokes, then stripped off the rest of your torn dress and his own clothes before climbing in beside you.

You curled into his chest automatically, still buzzing. His arms wrapped around you, one big hand stroking slowly up and down your back.

“You okay?” he murmured against your hair. “I got... carried away.”

You smiled into his skin, sleepy and satisfied. “More than okay. That was... really hot. And I meant what I said. I'm not that drunk.”

John huffed a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Still shouldn’t have called me a pussy.”

“You proved me wrong.” You tilted your head up, eyes half-lidded. “Love you, Walker.”

His expression softened, the dominant edge melting back into the man who’d tried so hard to be a gentleman earlier.

“Love you too, troublemaker.” He pulled the covers over both of you and tucked you closer. “Get some sleep. We’re talking about that mouth of yours in the morning.”

You were already drifting, warm and full and thoroughly satisfied.

The last thing you felt before sleep took you was John’s lips brushing your forehead and his quiet, amused mutter

Morning comes in slowly.

Not gentle, exactly. Gentle would imply the world is considerate enough to knock before entering. Morning doesn't knock. It spills through the blinds in thin gold stripes, lays itself across the bed, catches on the curve of John's bare shoulder, and announces that time has continued without anyone asking your permission.

You wake with your cheek pressed to his chest.

For a moment, you don't move. You don't even open your eyes. You let yourself exist inside the warm, heavy quiet of him. His skin beneath your cheek. His heartbeat steady under your ear. His arm around your waist, hand spread at the small of your back like it found you in sleep and decided to keep you.

Your legs are tangled with his. The sheets are a disaster. One pillow is on the floor. Your body feels loose and tender in places that make your face heat before you're fully awake.

Last night comes back in pieces.

His mouth at your throat. His hands asking before they took. The wolf charm on the nightstand. His voice, wrecked and soft, saying, I love you. Your own voice saying it back.

You inhale carefully.

John smells like sleep and skin and the soap from his shower, faint now beneath something warmer, something that belongs only to the bed and the dark and the fact that you let him know you all the way down to the parts of yourself you still don't have names for.

His fingers move slowly against your back.

You still.

A low sound rumbles in his chest. Not quite a word, not quite awake.

You lift your head.

John's eyes are still closed, lashes casting pale shadows over his cheeks. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up on the other, which should not be as endearing as it is. His mouth is slightly parted. He looks younger in sleep. Softer. Like the world hasn't put its hands on him yet today.

You hate that it will.

The thought arrives like a draft under a door. The military with its sterile rooms and its hungry little files.

John is going in later today. Not early, at least. Not ripped from bed by a phone call before sunrise, not summoned while your skin still remembers him. He told you that last night with his hand in your hair and his mouth against your temple.

Not until later, love.

As if later is mercy.

You lower your forehead to his chest and close your eyes again.

His hand tightens lightly at your back.

"You're thinking too loud," he murmurs.

His voice is rough with sleep. It moves through you in a slow, warm ache.

You keep your eyes closed. "I'm not thinking."

"Mm."

"I'm a peaceful person."

His chest shifts beneath you with the beginning of a laugh. "Since when?"

"Since this morning."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you."

His hand drifts up your spine, slow and lazy. You try very hard not to make a sound, you fail quietly.

John's fingers pause. You feel his smile before you see it.

"Morning," he says.

You lift your head just enough to look at him. His eyes are open now, soft blue and still sleep-heavy, fixed on you like waking up to your face is something he plans to be insufferable about.

"Morning," you whisper.

His gaze moves over you. Not in the hungry way from last night. This is slower, tender. His eyes trace your face, your hair, your bare shoulder, the sheet caught beneath your arm. The kind of looking that feels more intimate than touching because it doesn't ask for anything.

You shift self-consciously.

John notices immediately.

His hand comes up and brushes hair away from your cheek. "Hey."

"What?"

"Don't disappear on me."

Your throat tightens. "I'm right here."

"I know." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "Stay."

The word is too soft. Too dangerous.

You look down at his chest, at the faint marks your nails left near his ribs. Heat curls low in your stomach, tangled with embarrassment, pride, and something embarrassingly close to wonder.

John follows your gaze. His ears go pink.

You lift one brow. "You bruise easy?"

"Apparently I get mauled easy."

You gasp. "Mauled?"

"Attacked."

"You loved it."

His mouth twitches. "I survived."

"Barely?"

His eyes warm. "Barely."

The room shifts.

It's ridiculous how quickly it happens. One second you're teasing him. The next, his hand is at your waist beneath the sheet, and your breath catches because his touch is still new there. Familiar from last night, yes, but new in the daylight. New with the sun finding you. New with no darkness to hide inside.

John stills. "Okay?" he asks.

You nod. "Yes."

His hand relaxes but does not move away. "Sore?"

Your face heats instantly. "John."

"I'm asking."

"I noticed."

"You don't have to answer like I'm personally attacking you."

"You asked if I was sore while looking very serious."

"I am very serious."

"That's the problem."

His mouth curves, but his eyes stay careful. "Are you?"

You sigh and let your forehead drop to his chest again. "A little."

His hand stops at your waist. "Bad?"

"No." You turn your face and press your lips to his skin. "Not bad."

The tension in him eases by degrees. His hand resumes its slow path over your back.

"You should've told me."

"I just did."

"Last night."

"You asked me fourteen times last night."

"Fifteen."

"You were counting?"

"I had a system."

You laugh against his chest, and his arm tightens around you like he can't help it.

The sound fades, leaving something softer behind.

You lift your head again. "I hate that you have to leave."

John's face changes. He knew it was coming, you both did. The base is already sitting in the corner of the bedroom, polishing its boots, waiting to ruin the air.

"I don't have to go in until later," he says.

"That does not help as much as you think it does."

"It's something."

"It's scraps."

His thumb moves once against your waist. "I know."

That disarms you. You were prepared for reassurance. For him to tell you it would be fine, to put on that soldier voice again and try to build a wall out of confidence. You were prepared to be angry at him for it.

Instead, he just looks at you and admits the morning is already borrowed.

Your chest aches. You reach up and touch his face. "I don't want them to have you today."

John's eyes soften. "Love."

"I know." You trace the line of his jaw. "Duty. Review. Base. Very official. Very boring. Very capable of ruining my morning."

His smile appears, small and tired. "Your morning?"

"Yes. I had plans."

"Did you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Should I be worried?"

You let your fingers drift from his jaw to his ear.

John goes very still.

Your thumb brushes the tiny freckle on his earlobe.

His eyes close, a low breath leaves him.

You smile. "Maybe."

"Mara."

Your name sounds different now. It sounded different last night too, but this morning, with his body warm under yours and sunlight slipping across his ribs, it feels like something you could climb inside.

You brush the freckle again.

John catches your wrist, but not with much conviction. His fingers wrap around you gently, thumb pressed to your pulse.

"You're dangerous before coffee," he says.

"I'm dangerous after coffee too."

"I know."

"You knew the risks."

"I did not receive a full briefing."

"You should've read the file."

His eyes open. "There is no file."

The joke lands close to the bruise. For half a second, something shadows his face. You see the thought cross through him. The review. The questions. The ghost in the reports.

You don't let it take the room.

You lean down and kiss him.

John exhales against your mouth like he was waiting for permission to stop thinking. His hand slides from your wrist to your neck, warm palm cradling you as he kisses you back.

Soft at first, morning-soft. The kind of kiss that tastes like sleep and relief.

Then your knee shifts over his hip, and his hand tightens at your waist.

The kiss changes.

Heat moves between you slowly, then all at once. John's mouth opens under yours, and the sound he makes when your fingers slide into his hair sends a bright rush through you. You press closer, skin to skin beneath the sheet, and both of you inhale sharply.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

"We have time," you whisper.

His eyes darken.

"Yeah," he says, voice rough. "We do."

You kiss him again before the base can steal another thought.

John rolls carefully, bringing you beneath him with one hand behind your back and the other braced beside your head. The sheet tangles around both of you. You laugh softly against his mouth when he has to kick it loose, and he grins into the kiss, breathless and warm and yours for these hours.

Then his mouth finds your throat, and laughter leaves you entirely.

Your head tips back into the pillow. His lips move slowly over your skin, learning what daylight changes and what it doesn't. Your hands slide over his shoulders, down his back, finding the places you learned last night.

John shudders when your nails scrape lightly over his ribs.

You smile. "Still there?"

His mouth pauses against your neck. "Don't get smug."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"A little."

His teeth graze your shoulder, gentle and deliberate.

Your breath breaks.

Now he smiles. You feel it against your skin.

"Problem," you whisper.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."

His hand moves down your side, careful over every place you are tender. He doesn't rush. He kisses you like the morning belongs to him only because you let it. He touches you like he remembers every promise he made in the dark.

When his fingers slip between your thighs, your hand flies to his wrist.

He stops instantly. "Too much?"

You shake your head, breath already uneven. "No."

His eyes search your face.

You loosen your grip and guide his hand back.

The first touch pulls a soft gasp from you. John watches you with that focused tenderness that makes your chest ache and your body burn at the same time.

"There?" he asks.

You nod. "There."

His mouth lowers to yours as his fingers move, slow and sure, drawing heat out of you with terrifying patience. Your hips lift into his hand. His breath changes when he feels it, when he realizes your body is asking even before your mouth does.

You reach for him too.

John groans into your kiss, deep and helpless, the sound vibrating through both of you. His control frays beautifully under your hands. You love that. You love learning that he can be undone. You love that he lets you see it.

The room fills with soft sounds. Breath. Sheets. His name on your lips. Yours against your throat.

When he reaches for the nightstand, he pauses.

You nod.

He still waits until you say it.

"Yes," you whisper.

Something in his face settles.

He prepares himself, then comes back to you, warm and solid between your thighs. His forehead rests against yours. For one suspended second, neither of you moves.

"Tell me if anything hurts," he says.

"I will."

He kisses you as he enters you, slow enough that the stretch blooms through you instead of startling. Your fingers grip his shoulders. His breath shakes against your mouth.

"You okay?" he whispers.

You open your eyes.

He's right there. Morning caught in his hair. Worry and want tangled all over his face.

You lift your hips slightly.

John's eyes close, and a rough sound breaks from his chest.

"I'm okay," you say. "Move."

His laugh is breathless and ruined. "Bossy."

He moves before you answer.

The first slow thrust steals the air from your lungs. The second makes your nails dig into his back. John sets a careful rhythm, watching you, listening, adjusting until the pleasure begins to gather low and bright.

You wrap your legs around him. "John."

"I'm here." His mouth brushes your jaw. "I've got you."

You believe him more easily this morning. Maybe that should scare you.

It does.

It also makes you pull him closer.

He moves deeper, the rhythm building, his hand sliding beneath your thigh to tilt you into a better angle. The change makes you gasp, sharp and helpless.

John stills for half a second.

You cling to him. "Again."

His control flickers.

He does it again.

Pleasure rolls through you, warm and insistent, turning your thoughts to sparks. His mouth finds your shoulder, the same place he worshipped last night, and you hold him there while his body moves into yours, while the morning burns down around the edges of the room.

This time, when your release takes you, it's softer. Slower. It pulls you under like warm water instead of lightning. Your breath breaks against his neck. Your body trembles around him, and John groans as if feeling you fall apart has become the final thread holding him together.

"Love," he whispers.

You kiss the side of his face. "Stay with me."

His rhythm falters. His hand finds yours on the pillow and laces your fingers together.

"I'm with you," he says.

Then he lets go.

You hold him through it, through the shudder of his body, the low sound of your name buried against your skin, the way he collapses carefully afterward as if even in pleasure he refuses to forget your weight beneath him.

For a while, there is only breathing.

Morning stays.

The base waits.

You hate it for that.

Eventually, John lifts his head, flushed and soft-eyed, hair worse than before.

"Okay?" he asks.

You smile despite yourself. "You're going to keep asking that forever, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Fine." You touch his mouth. "I'm okay."

He kisses your fingers. "Good."

A little later, after he cleans you with the same grave focus as last night and you accuse him of running a post-encore inspection, you end up in one of his shirts again, sitting on the kitchen counter while he makes coffee.

He's shirtless because apparently the universe has decided you are being tested.

You watch him move through the kitchen, bare feet, sleep-wrecked hair, a faint red mark near his ribs where your mouth had been.

He catches you staring. "What?"

"Nothing."

"That was not nothing."

You lift your mug. "I'm appreciating the domestic view."

His ears go pink. "Domestic view?"

"You. Coffee. No shirt. Mild emotional damage."

He smiles into his mug. "Sounds like your type."

"Unfortunately."

He steps between your knees and sets his coffee down beside you. His hands come to rest on your thighs, warm over the bare skin beneath the hem of his shirt.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then his phone buzzes on the counter. The sound cuts through the kitchen like a blade.

John's eyes flick to it.

Your stomach tightens.

He doesn't pick it up right away. Instead, he looks at you, and somehow that makes it worse. Because he knows. He knows the world's already reaching for him.

You look down at your mug. "You should answer."

"I still have time."

"Do you?"

His jaw tightens.

You hate that question. You hate asking it. You hate that he doesn't have an easy answer.

He picks up the phone.

You don't read the message. You don't need to. His face does enough.

Base.

Later has become sooner.

John sets the phone down and reaches for you.

You let him pull you against his chest. For a minute, you sit there on the kitchen counter with your face tucked into his neck, trying not to be angry at a machine too big to bleed.

"I'll come back," he says quietly.

You close your eyes. "You better."

His hand moves over your back. "I will."

You want to say it again.

I love you.

The words rise to the back of your throat, warm and terrifying. You feel them there. You know they belong to him now, at least some of them. But the morning is too bright, and the phone is too close, and the charm is still on the nightstand waiting to be put back on or left behind.

So you turn your face and kiss his shoulder instead.

John holds you a little tighter.

He doesn't ask.

That becomes the shape of the week.

John doesn't ask.

Not when he says it before hanging up the phone, voice low and tired from base.

"I'll call you after, love. I love you."

And you close your eyes on your side of the line and whisper, "Be safe."

Not when he kisses you outside the support group building, one hand at your waist, and murmurs it against your hair like a secret he no longer knows how to keep.

"Love you."

And you press your face into his chest until the words stop shaking inside you.

Not when you spend the night at the compound because grief has crawled under your ribs and made a home there again, and you text him at midnight that you're okay, you just need space for Bucky tonight.

John answers almost immediately.

John: Take all the space you need. I'm here.

Then, a few seconds later,

John: I love you.

You stare at the message for so long the screen dims.

Natasha finds you in the kitchen with your phone in one hand and untouched tea in the other.

She looks at your face. Then at the phone.

"John?" she asks.

You don't answer. She doesn't need you to.

Natasha opens the cabinet, takes down a mug, and pours herself tea like this is not an emotional crime scene.

"You know," she says, "you are allowed to be happy and sad in the same week."

You look at her. "That sounds illegal."

"A lot of useful things are."

You almost smile.

She leans back against the counter, watching you with that infuriating calm of hers. "Support group bad tonight?"

"No." You rub your thumb along the side of your mug. "It was fine."

"Fine is a suspicious word."

"It was... good, actually." You look down. "I talked."

Natasha's brows lift slightly.

"Not about everything," you add quickly.

"Didn't think you performed a full autopsy."

You huff. "I talked about grief changing. How sometimes it feels like a room I keep adding furniture to. Like I don't leave Bucky behind when I leave the room. I just..." Your voice thins. "I just don't have to sleep on the floor in there anymore."

Natasha's expression softens in a way she will deny under oath.

You look away first.

Your fingers drift to your chest. No charm. The absence still startles you.

You wore it to group earlier. You needed it there, needed the small weight of the wolf against your sternum while strangers said the names of their dead out loud and survived the sound. But when you came back to the compound, you took it off and laid it on the nightstand in your old room beside the lamp, the way you had laid it beside John's bed.

Not gone, just not always around your neck. It feels like betrayal some days. Other days, it feels like breathing.

Natasha notices your hand. "You don't have it on."

Your mouth tightens. "I know."

"That's not an accusation."

"It feels like one."

"From me?"

"From me."

Natasha sets her mug down. "You still love him."

Your eyes burn instantly. "Yes." You swallow hard.

"And you're making room for John."

The words move through the kitchen and settle over you with unbearable gentleness.

You close your eyes.

Natasha waits.

"That sounds simple when you say it."

"It isn't."

"No."

"But it's true."

You open your eyes. "I don't know how to love someone alive without feeling like I'm killing someone dead."

Natasha's face doesn't change, but something in her eyes does. A small wound recognizing another.

"You're not killing Bucky by living," she says.

Your throat closes.

She picks up her tea again. "Also, for what it's worth, Barnes would haunt the hell out of you for thinking that."

A laugh breaks out of you, wet and startled.

Natasha smiles into her mug. "Very judgmental ghost. Terrible hair in the forties."

"Don't insult his hair."

"It had opinions."

You laugh again, and this time it hurts less.

Steve notices too.

It happens at the compound two days later, when John comes by after base with exhaustion in his shoulders and still smiles the moment he sees you coming down the stairs.

Steve is in the kitchen slicing apples with the focus of a man defusing a bomb.

He looks up when John says your name.

His whole face changes.

You cross the room before you can think better of it, and John catches you with one arm around your waist. The kiss is quick because Steve is standing there being wholesome and inconvenient, but it's not cautious, not anymore.

When you pull back, John looks lighter.

So do you.

Steve's eyes move between you.

You narrow yours. "Don't."

Steve blinks. "I didn't say anything."

"You looked Midwestern."

"I'm from Brooklyn."

"You looked spiritually Midwestern."

John laughs under his breath.

Steve points a slice of apple at him. "Careful. If you encourage her, she gets worse."

John's smile widens. "I'm starting to realize that."

"Traitor," you mutter.

John looks down at you, still smiling. "I said starting to."

Steve hums. "No, he's right."

You turn on him. "Steven."

"Oh, full name." Steve sets down the knife, amused. "Must be serious."

John's hand rests warm at your waist. "Should I be worried?"

"Always," Steve says at the same time you say, "No."

John glances between you both. "Helpful."

Steve reaches for another apple. "You'll get used to it."

The ease in his voice makes something in your chest loosen. There's no interrogation in his face. No warning. No careful measuring of John's intentions across the kitchen island.

Just Steve, watching you with that quiet, knowing softness that always makes you feel seen in ways you never asked to be.

"You both seem happy," he says.

The room goes quiet.

It should not be a devastating thing to say. It's just an observation, a kind one. But happiness still feels like a skittish animal in your hands. Name it too loudly and it might bolt.

John's hand finds yours. Not performative. Not for Steve.

For you.

You squeeze back.

"We're okay," you say.

Steve looks at you for a long moment, then nods. "Good."

He slides the plate of apple slices toward the two of you. "That's good."

You stare at him. "That's it?"

He glances up. "Do you want me to give a speech?"

"No."

"Then yes. That's it."

John leans down near your ear. "He absolutely has a speech."

Steve points the knife in your general direction without looking up. "I can hear you."

John clears his throat. "Sorry, Steve."

Steve's mouth twitches. "No, you're right. I have at least three."

You groan. "Absolutely not."

"They're short."

"They're never short."

John reaches for an apple slice, trying and failing not to look entertained. "I kind of want to hear one."

You gasp. "Do not encourage Captain Apple Slices."

Steve looks pleased with himself. "Captain Apple Slices?"

"It's not catching on."

John takes a bite. "It might."

Steve finally smiles then, small but unmistakable.

You look between them, suspicious. "I hate that you two are getting along."

John squeezes your hand. "No, you don't."

Steve goes back to cutting apples, still smiling. "She really doesn't."

You roll your eyes, but there is no heat in it.

Lemar notices in the least subtle way possible. He shows up at the church near the end of your volunteer shift and catches you smiling at your phone.

Not a big smile. Not even a real one.

Just the small, private curve of your mouth that happens before you can stop it because John sent you a picture of the dinner he absolutely butchered at base with the message: This chicken is a cry for help.

Lemar sees the smile and stops dead in the aisle between canned beans and donated winter coats.

"Oh no," he says.

You lock your phone. "What?"

He points at your face. "That."

"My face?"

"That face."

"I have one face."

"You have several. That was a John face."

You grab a box of pasta. "You're making things up."

"I have known that man for years. I have seen women smile at him."

Your eyes snap to him.

Lemar freezes. Then he grins slowly. "Oh, that's new."

"Finish that sentence and I will put you in the donation bin."

"Jealousy looks good on you, Trouble."

"I am not jealous."

"Sure."

"I simply think you should stop talking forever."

"Impossible."

You turn away, but your face is hot.

Lemar's teasing softens after a minute. He takes a box from your hands and sets it on the shelf. "You're lighter."

You go still.

He doesn't look at you when he says it. He gives you the kindness of pretending the shelf is fascinating.

"You both are."

Your throat tightens.

"I didn't say fixed," he adds. "Don't make that face."

"What face?"

"The one where you prepare to argue with a compliment."

You huff. "I hate that everyone knows my faces."

"We formed a committee."

"Disband it."

"No."

You glance at him.

Lemar smiles, but his voice is gentle when he says, "It's good to see."

You look down at your hands.

Your wolf charm is not there today. It is in your bag, wrapped in a soft cloth, because you wanted it near but not on your skin. You don't know if that's progress or cowardice. Maybe grief is mostly learning that two things can be true and both can bruise.

"I still miss him," you say quietly.

Lemar doesn't ask who.

"I know," he says.

"And I still..."

"Love him?"

You nod once.

Lemar leans against the shelf. "No one who knows you thinks that stopped."

You swallow.

His eyes meet yours now. Warm. Certain. "Making room doesn't mean clearing him out."

The words hit too close.

You look away. "You and Nat are getting dangerously good at emotional competence."

"I've been practicing."

"It's upsetting."

"I contain multitudes."

"You need new material."

He grins. "Never."

So the week passes.

Not cleanly. Nothing in your life has ever had the decency to be clean.

There are mornings you wake in John's bed with his arm around you and feel so full of warmth it terrifies you. There are nights you sleep at the compound with the wolf charm in your fist and cry quietly into a pillow because you miss Bucky so much it feels like your bones are trying to remember another life.

John never makes you choose.

He picks you up from support group when you ask. He stays away when you say you need the compound. He texts you dumb pictures from base. Bad coffee. A broken vending machine. A blurry shot of Lemar looking directly into the camera with deep suspicion because John tried to take the picture secretly and failed.

He says I love you. Not constantly, but enough.

At your door. Into your hair. Against your shoulder before sleep. Over the phone before the line goes dead. He gives the words without turning them into a debt.

That almost makes it harder.

Because every time he says it and you don't, some part of you aches to reach for him. To give it back. To stop letting fear sit between your teeth.

But John doesn't ask. He just loves you and lets you arrive at your own door.

Then one night, you do.

It starts on the couch. Which is probably where most of your problems with John Walker start.

He's sitting with his back against the cushions, one arm stretched along the top of the couch, a half-finished report abandoned on the coffee table. You're supposed to be watching a movie. Supposed to is doing a lot of unpaid labor in this apartment.

The movie is still playing but neither of you has looked at it in twenty minutes.

You are in his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, your hands buried in his hair while his mouth moves against yours with increasing disregard for cinema.

John's hands land on your waist beneath your shirt.

Your shirt, this time. He complained about that earlier. You told him he was spoiled. He said yes too quickly.

Now his fingers are warm on your skin, thumbs stroking slow circles that keep dragging little sounds out of you before you can stop them.

He kisses you like he has nowhere else to be.

For once, he doesn't.

No base tonight. No early call, allegedly. No review room waiting under fluorescent lights. Just the apartment, the low flicker of the television, the couch protesting quietly beneath you, and John's mouth doing ruinous things to your ability to form thoughts.

You nip at his lower lip.

John's hands tighten. "Love."

The word comes out rough.

You smile against him. "What?"

"Don't start."

"I think I already did."

"Yeah," he murmurs, mouth brushing yours. "I noticed."

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate.

John's head tips back against the couch. His eyes close. His jaw clenches, and that low sound leaves him, the one you have started collecting like contraband.

You kiss down the side of his throat. His pulse jumps beneath your mouth.

"Problem," he breathes.

"You keep calling me that."

"You keep proving me right."

Your laugh turns into a gasp when his hands slide lower, guiding you against him again. Heat coils low in your stomach. The kiss turns messy when you find his mouth again, all breath and teeth and want sharpened by the fact that you know him now. Not all of him. Not enough, maybe never enough.

But you know how he sounds when he wants. You know how he tries to hold back. You know where to touch him when you want that restraint to crack.

Your fingers move to his left ear.

John catches your wrist instantly.

You grin. "Scared?"

"Reasonably cautious."

"Of me?"

"Especially of you."

You lean closer until your mouth brushes his ear. You feel his whole body go still beneath you.

"Good," you whisper.

His breath leaves him unevenly.

You could kiss the freckle. You could make him groan. You could turn the moment into teasing, into heat, into something easier than the thing rising in your chest.

Instead, with your lips close to his ear and your heart beating so hard it feels reckless, you whisper, "I love you."

Everything freezes.

The movie keeps playing, some distant burst of dramatic music from a plot neither of you remembers, but the room has gone utterly still.

Your mouth stays near his ear. Your hands are in his hair. His hands are at your waist. You feel the breath stop in his chest. Then his fingers tighten against you. Just enough to prove he heard you.

You close your eyes. "John."

He turns his face slowly toward yours, the look in his eyes nearly takes you apart.

Not surprise exactly. It's relief and hunger and tenderness and something almost wounded by wanting too much. Like he has been standing outside a locked room all week, pretending the cold didn't bother him, and you just opened the door.

"Say it again," he whispers.

Your throat tightens.

Not demanding. Please, underneath it. Always the please that ruins you.

You touch his face. "I love you."

John's breath breaks. He kisses you before the last word is fully gone from your mouth.

There's nothing careful about it at first. His hands pull you closer, and your body folds into his, heat meeting heat. You gasp against him when his hips lift under yours, and he swallows the sound like it belongs to him.

Maybe it does.

His mouth leaves yours only to move along your jaw, your throat, the sensitive place beneath your ear. You grip his shoulders, your body already aching, already lit through with the terrible sweetness of having said the thing you were afraid of and discovering it didn't kill you.

John's voice is low against your skin. "Love."

You answer by pulling at his shirt.

He laughs once, breathless. "Here?"

You look toward the hallway. The bedroom is several miles away, possibly in another nation.

You look back at him. "Here."

His eyes darken. "The couch?" he asks.

"Do you have a moral objection?"

"No."

"Then stop asking questions."

His mouth curves, but the smile disappears when you kiss him again and rock against him with a sound you make no attempt to hide.

John's hands slide beneath your shirt and push it higher. You lift your arms just long enough for him to pull it over your head, and then his mouth is on your chest, hot and eager, his arms wrapping around your back to hold you to him.

His tongue traces slow, wet circles around one nipple before he sucks it into his mouth with gentle pressure, then a little firmer. The pull goes straight between your legs. You arch into him with a broken moan, fingers tightening in his hair.

Your head tips back.

"John."

He groans against your skin. "I love when you say my name like that."

You drag your fingers through his hair. "I love you."

He stops breathing again, you feel it. This time, you smile.

John lifts his head, eyes dark and bright and almost helpless. "You're doing that on purpose now."

"Maybe."

"Mean."

"Do you want me to stop?"

His hands tighten at your back. "No."

You kiss him hard.

The rest becomes hands and heat and clothing pushed aside with far less patience than either of you had last time. His shirt lands somewhere near the coffee table. Your shorts follow badly, one leg catching at your ankle until you both laugh against each other's mouths, breathless and ridiculous and too desperate to care.

John's hand covers the back of your head when he kisses you again. The laughter dissolves.

He shifts beneath you, reaching for the side table drawer. You blink down at him.

"You keep protection in the living room?"

His ears go red. "Recent development."

You stare.

He looks mortified. "I was trying to be prepared."

You bite your lip.

"Don't laugh," he says.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I am deeply moved by your tactical couch planning."

He groans and drops his head back. "I'm never living this down."

"No." You kiss his jaw. "Absolutely not."

His embarrassment lasts until your hand slides down his stomach and wraps around him. He's already hard, thick and hot and heavy in your palm, the skin velvet-soft over steel. You stroke him slowly from base to tip, feeling him twitch and throb against your fingers. A bead of moisture gathers at the head; you smear it with your thumb and watch his stomach muscles jump.

Then his eyes close and every clever thought abandons him.

Good, you like him like this. Flushed. Breathing hard. Looking at you like you are both mercy and catastrophe.

He reaches for the condom with hands that are not as steady as he probably wants them to be. You take it from him, tear the packet open, and roll it down his length with deliberate care, watching his face as your fingers glide over every inch. His jaw clenches. A low, helpless sound escapes him.

His hands settle at your hips, guiding but not pulling. Letting you decide the pace.

You rise slightly over him, reaching down to guide the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds. You rub him against your clit once, twice, coating him in your wetness, teasing yourself as much as him. His breath hitches sharply, fingers flexing hard against your hips.

Then you sink down slowly.

The stretch is intense and perfect. The thick head pushes inside, and your body yields around him inch by inch, the burn sweet and deep as he fills you. Your walls flutter and clench involuntarily at the intrusion, drawing a ragged, broken groan from John's chest. When you finally take him all the way, seated fully in his lap with his cock buried to the hilt inside you, you both go still.

The fullness is overwhelming. You can feel every ridge, every throb of him pulsing deep within you. Your breath shakes out of you.

John's forehead drops to your shoulder. "God... Mara."

You wrap your arms around his neck, holding him there while your body adjusts to the thick stretch of him. His breathing is rough and hot against your skin. Yours is no better.

The couch beneath you creaks.

You both go still.

Then you start laughing.

John lifts his head, eyes wide with horror. "Did my couch just threaten us?"

"I think it filed a complaint."

"I'm buying a new couch."

"You are not."

"I absolutely am."

You roll your hips experimentally.

His mouth falls open on a silent curse.

The couch is forgotten.

John's eyes snap to yours, dark and heated. "You are a menace."

"You need new words."

"I know," he says, and pulls you down to kiss him. "I have others."

"Like what?"

His hands guide your hips, helping you move again. The slow drag of him sliding almost all the way out and then sinking back in makes your words scatter.

"Love," he murmurs against your mouth.

You shiver.

"Mine," he says, softer, testing the shape of it.

Your whole body tightens around him.

John's breath punches out of him. His eyes lift to yours, careful even now. "Okay?"

You nod, breathless. "Again."

His hands tighten.

"Mine," he whispers.

You kiss him with a sound that answers before language can.

The rhythm builds from there. You rise and fall on him, the wet, slick sound of your bodies meeting filling the space between you. Every time you sink down he meets you with a small thrust upward, the head of his cock nudging that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision spark.

His hands roam, gripping your hips, sliding up your back, cupping your breasts, thumb brushing over your nipples until they're tight and aching.

One of his hands slips between your bodies. His thumb finds your clit, swollen and sensitive from the way you're stretched around him, and begins to circle it in slow, firm strokes that match the rhythm of your hips.

The dual sensation is devastating. You lean forward, hands braced on his chest, and ride him harder. The couch creaks steadily beneath you now, but neither of you cares.

Pleasure coils tighter and tighter low in your belly, your thighs burning, your inner walls fluttering and clenching around his thick length with every roll of your hips.

John watches you with open hunger and something even deeper. His thumb keeps working your clit, steady and relentless. His other hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you down into a messy, desperate kiss.

"Come for me," he breathes against your mouth. "I want to feel you. Let go, love."

The words, the touch, the deep, perfect drag of him inside you, it all breaks at once.

Your orgasm crashes over you in hot, pulsing waves. Your body locks up around him, inner walls clenching and fluttering in rhythmic spasms that milk his cock as pleasure rips through you.

You cry out against his mouth, trembling violently in his lap, hips jerking erratically as you ride it out. John groans like he's in pain and pleasure at the same time, his arms locking around you, holding you through every shake and pulse.

He doesn't last much longer.

The tight, rhythmic squeeze of your body around him drags him over the edge. His hips jerk up into yours, once, twice, and then he's coming with a deep, wrecked moan of your name, his cock pulsing hard inside the condom as he spills into it. His face is buried against your neck, breath hot and ragged, body shuddering beneath you in long, powerful waves.

For a while, neither of you moves.

The movie is still playing. The couch has survived, but only barely.

Your forehead rests on John's shoulder. His hands move slowly over your back, soothing little circles into damp skin. His breathing steadies under your cheek.

After a long moment, he says, voice hoarse and fond, "I really am buying a new couch."

You laugh, weak and breathless, the sound muffled against his skin. "John."

"It made a sound."

"So did you."

His hand pauses.

You lift your head and look at him.

His face is flushed. His mouth is swollen. His hair is an absolute scandal. He looks happy in a way that still frightens you, because happiness has always felt like something the universe notices and comes to collect.

But he's looking at you.

Just you.

You touch his cheek.

His eyes soften immediately. "What?"

You could make a joke. Instead, you lean in and kiss him, slow and sure. When you pull back, you whisper, "I love you."

John closes his eyes. His hand comes up to cover yours against his face. This time, he doesn't ask you to say it again. He just holds onto you like the words are already living inside him.

For one fragile second, neither of you moves.

You stay in John's lap, he's still inside you, softening slowly in the aftermath, the intimate connection unbroken, your bodies still joined exactly where the heat of everything you'd just done lingers. The apartment is dim around you. The movie has finally gone quiet, rolling into credits neither of you earned the right to understand. The couch has survived its ordeal with only mild structural trauma.

And then John's phone rings.

The sound cuts through the room cleanly.

His eyes open.

You feel the change before you see it. The subtle shift under your hands. His body remembering the shape of duty before his face has time to catch up. His jaw tightens. His fingers still at your back. But he doesn't pull out. Not yet. The phone keeps ringing.

You glance toward the coffee table. His phone vibrates against the wood, bright screen flashing in the dark.

Unknown number.

Your stomach drops anyway.

John looks at it, then back at you. His eyes are still soft at the edges, still a little wrecked from what you'd just shared, but duty is already pulling at him.

"Don't," you murmur. Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to, because you're still full of him and the word feels too fragile to survive the air.

His mouth tightens.

You already know.

He reaches for the phone with one hand, the other staying on your hip like an anchor, yours or his, it doesn't matter. He answers without moving you off him.

"Walker."

His voice is still rough. Not fully back in soldier shape yet. A little too warm at the edges. A little too yours. Still inside you, you feel the subtle twitch of him as the tone on the other end registers.

Then the person on the other end says something, and the rest of him locks into place.

You watch it happen.

The spine straightening. The shoulders squaring. The softness leaving his mouth. John Walker still buried inside you in his living room, somehow becoming Captain Walker in the space between one breath and the next.

Your chest tightens. You feel him tense within you, a reflexive response to the voice on the line, and your body answers with a small, involuntary clench. John's eyes flick to yours for half a second, something dark and unreadable flashing through them, before he looks away.

"Yes, sir," he says.

You don't move off him. You pull the blanket from the back of the couch around yourself instead, the fabric dragging across your bare skin.

He listens.

At first, his expression is merely guarded. Then his brow furrows.

"Olivia?" he asks.

The name lands in the apartment like something dropped from a height.

You go still. Inside, your body reacts before your mind catches up, a slow, tight clench around him that makes his breath hitch almost imperceptibly. John's hand flexes on your hip.

Your stomach does something very unpleasant.

"No, sir," he says slowly. "I haven't been in contact with her."

A pause.

His eyes flick to you for half a second, then away.

Your stomach twists harder.

"No. She was an old friend." Another pause. His jaw tightens. "High school. She was close with me and Hoskins."

You sit up a little straighter on him, the movement shifting him inside you. The blanket slips off one shoulder. You don't fix it.

John's eyes harden as he listens. "With all due respect, sir, I don't understand what she has to do with the review."

Silence.

Whatever answer he gets does not help. His hand curls tighter around the phone. "Yes, sir," he says, colder now. "Understood."

Another pause.

"I said I haven't spoken to her in years."

The room goes quiet around his voice. Not peaceful quiet. The kind of quiet that crouches. You can feel every inch of him still inside you, the contrast between the warmth of your bodies and the ice in his tone almost unbearable.

John's gaze drops to the floor. His mouth presses into a line.

"Yes, sir. I'll be there."

He hangs up.

For a moment, he just holds the phone in his hand. The screen goes dark.

Neither of you speaks.

You're still in his lap. Still joined. The silence is heavy with everything that was just said and everything still sitting between your bodies.

Your pulse is beating too hard under your skin. The name sits between you now. Olivia. Soft-sounding. Pretty. Dangerous because it has no shape yet.

John exhales through his nose.

You look at him, still seated on him, still full of him, and ask quietly, "Who's Olivia?"

He doesn't answer immediately. That's the wrong choice.

Your whole body goes alert. You feel it in the way he hardens just slightly inside you again, tension coiling through him.

John seems to realize it at the same time, because he turns to you quickly, the soldier slipping just enough for the man to come through. His free hand comes up to your waist.

"She's not..." He stops.

Your brows lift.

His mouth tightens as if he hates the fact that the first words out of his mouth were already defensive.

He sets the phone down on the coffee table. "Olivia was an old friend," he says carefully.

You stare at him.

He rubs a hand over his face. "From high school. She was close with me and Lemar. The three of us were always together back then."

You shift slightly on him, and he sucks in a quiet breath at the drag of your body around his. "Close," you repeat.

John hears the edge in it. His eyes flick to yours.

For one second, you see the calculation. Not dishonest. Never that. But careful. The kind of careful men use when they realize they have wandered barefoot into a room full of emotional thumbtacks.

You almost enjoy it.

"Yes," he says. "Close."

You tilt your head. "Old girlfriend?"

John's throat works.

There it is. The tiny, damning pause.

Your stomach twists.

He sits forward a little, the motion pressing him deeper inside you for one last moment. "Yeah."

The word is quiet. Honest. You hate it anyway.

At that, you lift off him. Slowly. Deliberately.

John's hands tighten on your hips instinctively, a low, rough sound escaping him, half protest, half surrender.

"Mara..." His voice is wrecked. His fingers linger like they want to pull you back down, but he doesn't stop you. He lets you rise, lets the connection break with a wet, intimate sound that feels too loud in the quiet room.

You feel the loss immediately, the slow slide of him slipping out, the sudden emptiness, the cool air against skin that had been pressed to his.

The condom is still on him, full and messy with both of you. You settle beside him on the couch, pulling the blanket around your body as you go. The air is colder away from his skin. Annoyingly so. Rudely so. Personally offensive.

John exhales shakily, his head tipping back against the couch for a moment like he needs to gather himself. Then he stands, movements reluctant, like every inch of distance costs him something. He tugs his sweatpants on awkwardly with one hand while holding the base of the condom with the other, heading toward the bathroom.

"I'll be right back," he mutters, voice low and apologetic.

You watch him go, the blanket clutched to your chest, the space where he'd been inside you now throbbing with absence and the sharp, ugly edge of jealousy.

When he returns a moment later he looks at you like he's not sure if you'll let him close again. He sits beside you, not quite touching yet, the distance between you feeling larger than it should.

You look at him. "How old were you?"

He studies your profile. "Seventeen when it started. Eighteen when it ended."

You nod once. Very mature. Very reasonable. Absolutely not bothered. Inside, something small and ugly is putting on tap shoes.

John sighs softly. "Love."

You look at him. "Don't love me right now."

His mouth closes.

That makes you feel worse. You pull the blanket around you more tightly. "Sorry."

"No." His voice softens. "Don't be sorry."

"I'm not jealous."

John says nothing.

You glare at him.

His brows lift just a little.

"I'm not," you insist.

"Okay."

"That was a very married okay."

His face changes, startled enough to knock the tension sideways. "A what?"

"You heard me."

"I have no idea what that means."

"It means you said okay like you value your life."

Despite himself, his mouth twitches.

You point at him from inside the blanket. "Do not smile."

"I'm not."

"You were about to."

His almost-smile fades. He reaches toward you, then stops himself before touching you. That matters. You notice. Your chest hurts because of course you notice.

"She broke it off," he says.

You blink.

John looks down at his hands. "When Lemar and I enlisted."

The words settle differently than you expect.

Not cleaner. Just heavier.

You look at him.

"She didn't want that life," he continues. "The waiting. The deployments. The not knowing if we were coming back. She said she couldn't do it." His jaw shifts. "She was probably right to know herself well enough to say it."

You stare at his profile.

There's no bitterness in his voice. Not exactly. Something old, maybe. A bruise pressed so many times it no longer flinches the way it used to.

"You loved her?" you ask. The question escapes before you can decide whether you want the answer.

John is quiet.

Your stomach clenches.

Then he looks at you. "I thought I did."

That should help. It doesn't. It also does. Very annoying.

You glance away again. "That's a terrible answer."

"It's the true one."

"I hate true answers."

"I know."

You huff once, humorless.

John shifts closer but still doesn't touch you. "It was a long time ago."

"That is what people say when it was not nothing."

His expression tightens slightly, not with anger. With recognition.

"No," he says. "It wasn't nothing."

Your chest goes hot and cold at once.

"But it was before," he adds.

"Before what?"

"Everything." His eyes stay on yours. "The army. The war. The person I became. The person I stopped being. You."

The last word changes the air.

You hate that he can do that, take your jealousy and your fear and your little snarling animal of insecurity, then set something honest beside it until it doesn't know where to bite.

Your grip on the blanket loosens.

John watches your hands. "I haven't spoken to her in years."

"Why are they asking about her?"

His face hardens.

There it is again. The real wound under the jealousy. You both turn toward it.

John reaches for his phone, then stops, fingers hovering over it.

"I don't know."

You stare at him. "That is becoming my least favorite sentence."

"Mine too."

"They asked about me first."

"Yeah."

"Now they're asking about an old girlfriend."

"Old friend," he says, then winces when your eyes narrow. "Former girlfriend. Old friend. Both things can be true."

"Brave correction."

He lets out a quiet breath. Then he finally reaches for you slowly. Giving you time to pull away.

You don't.

His hand settles over your knee beneath the blanket, warm and careful.

"I didn't hide her from you," he says. "I just didn't think she mattered anymore."

You look down at his hand. Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to. "Does she?"

"No."

The answer is immediate. Certain.

You look at him.

John's eyes hold yours. "Not to me. Not like that."

Your throat tightens. The jealousy is still there. Small and green and embarrassing, chewing on the furniture inside your chest. But beneath it, something colder is opening its eyes.

"Then why does she matter to them?"

John's hand tightens gently over your knee.

"I don't know," he says again.

You close your eyes.

He moves closer, and this time when his arm comes around you, you let yourself lean into him.

The blanket shifts between you. His skin is still warm. His chest is still bare. Your body remembers him so vividly it feels almost cruel that fear can sit in the same room as desire. But of course it can. Fear has always been rude like that.

John presses his mouth to your temple. "I'll figure out what they're doing," he murmurs.

You open your eyes and look at the dark phone on the table.

The military has reached into his past now. Not just his reports. Not just you... Olivia. A name you didn't know yesterday and already dislike on principle.

You swallow. "You should tell Lemar."

"I will."

"He knew her too."

"Yeah."

You rest your cheek against his shoulder.

His hand moves slowly up and down your arm.

You want to make another joke. Something about Olivia having a stupidly pretty name. Something about high school John probably being insufferable. Something about Lemar absolutely having embarrassing stories and you deserving every single one.

But the phone sits there. Silent now. That makes it worse.

John's voice drops. "Are you okay?"

You almost laugh. Instead, you lift your head and look at him. "No," you say honestly. "But I'm not going to run."

His eyes soften. "Good," he whispers.

You touch his face. "You don't get to run either."

"I won't."

"Even if they bring up old ghosts."

His expression shifts.

You both hear it.

Ghosts.

The word belongs to you as much as it belongs to him now.

John covers your hand with his.

"Even then," he says.

You nod.

The room settles into a fragile quiet.

Then, because you are apparently incapable of letting tenderness live unbothered for more than seven seconds, you narrow your eyes. "Was she pretty?"

John freezes.

Perfectly.

Beautifully.

Catastrophically.

You sit up straighter. "That was hesitation."

"No, it wasn't."

"It was."

"I was processing the question."

"You were preparing a legal defense."

"Mara."

"Was she?"

John looks at the ceiling like he's seeking divine assistance from a God who has wisely left him on read.

You gasp. "She was."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

"Love."

"Do not love me through this."

His mouth twitches.

You hit his shoulder with the edge of the blanket.

He catches it, pulls you closer, and kisses your forehead.

"You're prettier," he says.

You pull back slowly. "That was the worst possible answer."

His eyes widen. "What?"

"That is exactly what guilty men say."

"I'm not guilty."

"You answered like a man hiding in a bunker."

"I'm doing my best."

"Do better."

He exhales, dragging a hand over his face, and you can see the precise moment he decides honesty is safer than flattery. "Yes," he says. "She was pretty."

You make a sound of deep betrayal.

John points at you. "You asked."

"I asked so you could lie beautifully."

"I thought we were practicing honesty."

"Not recreationally."

His laugh breaks out of him before he can stop it.

You try to glare. You really do.

Unfortunately, John laughing in the dim light with his hair ruined and your marks still faint on his skin is a very unfair visual argument.

Your mouth twitches.

He sees it.

"Come here," he says.

"No."

"Mara."

"I'm wounded."

"You're jealous."

"I'm gathering information."

"On my high school girlfriend?"

"Former girlfriend," you correct.

His smile softens. "Former girlfriend."

You hold his gaze, and the teasing thins into something more delicate. "She left when you enlisted," you say.

"Yeah."

"And you never talked again?"

"A few times after. Less and less. Then not at all."

"Did it hurt?"

John looks at you for a long moment. The answer is in his face before he says it. "Yeah," he admits. "At the time."

Your jealousy quiets. Not gone. Just chastened. You reach for his hand and lace your fingers with his. "I'm sorry."

He looks down at your joined hands. "It was a long time ago."

"I know." You squeeze once. "Still."

His thumb brushes over your knuckles.

The room feels different now, changed. The warmth is still there, tangled in the blanket around your shoulders, in John's hand holding yours, in the faint ache in your body from loving him too hard on a couch that deserves retirement.

But something has entered the apartment with Olivia's name. A thread. A warning. A door opening somewhere you cannot see yet.

John seems to feel it too. His gaze returns to the phone. "They're pulling at anything connected to me," he says quietly.

You look at him. "People."

His jaw tightens.

"Not anything," you say. "People."

His eyes meet yours.

"Me," you continue. "Lemar. Olivia."

John's face grows still.

You hate the list as soon as you say it. Because it makes sense. Because it sounds like leverage. Because the military has teeth, and now you can hear them clicking behind every official question.

John pulls you into his arms. This time, there's no heat in it. No teasing. Just a hard, protective hold, his cheek pressed to your hair.

"I won't let them use you," he says.

You close your eyes. "You said that already."

"I'll keep saying it."

"What about Olivia?"

He goes quiet.

That answers more than either of you wants it to.

You pull back enough to look at him. "If they're asking about her, they may already be using her."

John's expression hardens into something cold. Soldier. Protector. A man already standing between someone and a blade.

"Then I need to find out why."

You nod slowly.

The night doesn't feel over anymore. The couch, the movie, your whispered confession, his hands on your skin. All of it is still here, glowing faintly beneath the dread.

But the world has found the door again and this time, it brought a name.

"That makes no sense," Yelena said.

"It makes emotional sense."

John walked in carrying three grocery bags full of paper plates, chips, and what looked like enough hot dog buns to feed a minor league baseball team. "Why is there glitter on the floor?"

Bob, who was crouched beside the coffee table carefully sorting red, white, and blue napkins into three perfect piles, froze. "I thought it was festive confetti."

"That is not an answer," John said.

"It is a little bit an answer."

You stood near the kitchen island, trying very hard not to laugh into the pitcher of lemonade you were stirring. The whole place had been overtaken by pre-Fourth of July fever. Someone had hung star-shaped garlands crookedly across the windows. A plastic Uncle Sam hat sat on the counter. Red, white, and blue streamers sagged from the ceiling fan in a way that suggested no one had considered what would happen if someone turned it on.

A suspiciously large cardboard box marked fireworks sat near the door.

You were pretty sure none of you were legally qualified to handle that box. You were also pretty sure that wouldn't stop anyone.

John noticed you looking at it and pointed one warning finger. "Those are not getting opened until tomorrow."

Alexei gasped. "You wound me."

"You tried to light a sparkler with a kitchen torch ten minutes ago."

"For morale."

"For arson," Ava corrected.

Bob looked up, concerned. "Was it almost arson?"

Yelena patted his shoulder. "With Alexei, everything is almost arson."

Everyone was excited.

Even you.

You loved this version of the team, loud and ridiculous and weirdly domestic in the way only a group of heavily traumatized adults with access to government funding could be. Ava pretended she was above the holiday but had still claimed the best glow sticks. John acted like he was only there to supervise, but he had bought two differetn kinds of mustard. Bob had made a sign-up sheet for snacks. Alexei had declared himself "Minister of Patriotic Vibes." Yelena had threatened to defect from the party three times and still kept eating the red candy from the bowl.

It was messy.

It was warm.

It was almost normal.

But then John set the grocery bags down and glanced around. "Where's Barnes?"

The room shifted by half an inch. Not enough for anyone else to call it concern. Enough for you to notice.

"In the hallway," Yelena said. "Doing his brooding statue thing."

"He's not brooding," you said automatically.

Everyone looked at you.

You narrowed your eyes. "He's... thinking with atmosphere."

Ava snorted.

Yelena's mouth twitched. "That is what brooding people want you to call it."

You abandoned the lemonade before anyone could tease you properly and slipped out of the common room. The hallway was quieter, the distant rumble of the team fading behind you. At the far end, near the wide window overlooking the city, Bucky stood with his arms crossed, staring out at the early evening sky.

The sun had started to sink, turning the buildings gold at the edges. Somewhere below, people were already shouting and laughing, the city buzzing with impatient celebration even though the holiday was still a day away.

Bucky looked very still, not exactly sad, just somewhere else.

You walked up beside him, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his arm.

"Hey," you said softly.

His eyes flicked toward you, and some of the distance in them faded. "Hey."

"You missed Alexei trying to explain the emotional logic of explosions."

"I'm devastated."

"No, you're not."

"No," he admitted. "I'm really not."

You smiled, but it faded when he looked back out the window. His jaw was tight. His shoulders had that careful set to them, the one that meant he was holding himself together from the inside.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." He answered too quickly. "Just tired."

"Bucky."

His mouth twitched faintly. "That your interrogation voice?"

"That was my gentle concern voice. My interrogation voice comes with snacks and very pointed eye contact."

"Terrifying."

"I've been practicing."

He let out a quiet breath, but he still did not look at you. "It's nothing important."

The words landed wrong.

You turned toward him fully.

"You're important to me," you said. "So if it's in your head, then it matters."

Bucky went quiet.

Behind you, someone in the common room yelled, "No, Alexei, we are not testing fireworks indoors," and then John said something sharp enough to make Yelena laugh.

But Bucky stayed still.

After a moment, he looked down at his hands.

"It's Steve's birthday tomorrow," he said.

Your heart softened immediately. "I know."

"Every year, back then, we'd go to Coney Island." His voice had gone quieter, rougher around the edges. "Didn't matter how broke we were. Steve would act like he didn't care, like it was just another day, but he did. He loved it."

You didn't say anything, you just let him talk.

Bucky's gaze drifted back toward the window, but you could tell he wasn't seeing the city anymore.

"We'd ride the Cyclone if I could talk him into it. Which I always did, because I was stubborn as hell and Steve was dumb enough to follow me anywhere." His mouth curved, small and aching. "He'd get a hot dog, then complain it was too expensive, then eat half of mine anyway."

You smiled. "Sounds like him."

"Yeah." Bucky swallowed. "We'd watch the fireworks from the boardwalk. He'd look up at them like they were something sacred. Like all that noise and color belonged to him for one night."

His voice thinned.

"And I'd give him grief, because that was my job. But I liked it too." His eyes lowered. "I liked seeing him happy."

You reached for him slowly, giving him time to move away if he wanted.

He didn't.

Your fingers slipped around his.

He looked down at your joined hands.

"I didn't mean to ruin the mood," he said.

"You didn't."

"I know everyone's excited."

"They're excited because half this team has the emotional regulation of raccoons in a party store."

That got you a real laugh, soft but there.

You squeezed his hand. "You're allowed to miss him."

Bucky nodded once, but it looked like it cost him something.

You stepped a little closer. "Do you want to skip tomorrow?"

He looked at you then. "No. You were excited."

"I'm excited about spending time with you. The fireworks are optional."

The way he looked at you made your chest ache. Quietly stunned, like you had handed him something fragile and he didn't know whether he was allowed to keep it.

"You mean that?"

"Every word."

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then, from the common room, Alexei shouted, "WHO TOOK MY FREEDOM TONGS?"

Bucky closed his eyes.

You bit back a laugh. "We should probably go before he finds regular tongs and renames them."

"Yeah," Bucky said. "Probably."

But he didn't let go of your hand.

And neither did you.

By the time you made it back to the common room, the plan for tomorrow had somehow become louder, messier, and more dangerous.

John had moved the suspicious fireworks box onto the highest shelf he could reach. Ava had confiscated the kitchen torch. Bob was labeling coolers. Alexei was arguing that no one understood his artistic vision. Yelena was eating chips from the bag with the dead-eyed calm of someone watching civilization collapse in real time.

You barely heard any of it.

Coney Island.

The idea bloomed in your chest before you had fully thought it through. Bright, ridiculous, impossible to ignore.

They were not Steve. They could never be Steve. But maybe they could help Bucky make a new memory beside the old one.

Maybe grief did not always have to sit alone. Maybe sometimes, if you were careful enough, you could set a light beside it.

You waited until Bucky had wandered into the kitchen with John, distracted by whatever argument had started over condiments. Then you grabbed Yelena by the wrist and pulled her toward the hall.

"I need your help," you said.

Yelena looked immediately interested. "With murder?"

"No."

"Boring. Continue."

"I want to surprise Bucky tomorrow."

Her eyes sharpened. "With murder?"

"Still no."

"You are limiting the possibilities."

"Coney Island," you said. "He used to go there with Steve every Fourth of July for Steve's birthday. I want to take him."

Yelena's expression changed.

The sharpness softened, just a little.

"Oh," she said.

"Yeah."

She stared past you for a second, like the entire conversation had become inconveniently emotional against her will.

"That is annoyingly sweet," she said.

"I know."

"I hate it."

"You don't."

"I hate that I don't hate it."

Within ten minutes, the entire team knew. Within twenty, the plan had grown legs, stolen shoes, and started sprinting without supervision.

John immediately took over transportation. "We are not all taking the subway with Alexei in that hat."

"It is a patriotic hat," Alexei said.

"It is a traffic hazard."

Bob volunteered to make a schedule. His first draft included snack breaks, hydration reminders, and a section labeled Potential Emotional Support Moments.

Ava looked at the schedule and said, "This is insane."

Bob's face fell.

Then Ava took the pen and added, "Backup plan in case of rain."

Bob beamed.

Yelena declared herself in charge of "not making it weird," which mostly involved threatening Alexei every time he referred to the trip as "Operation Sad Birthday Boy."

"It is not sad," Alexei protested. "It is healing."

"You are banned from naming operations."

"You cannot ban my gift."

"I can and I did."

You told Bucky nothing. Which was difficult, because Bucky Barnes noticed everything.

He noticed when you smiled at your phone too much. He noticed when John stopped talking the second he entered the room. He noticed when Bob looked at him with the moist-eyed sincerity of someone who had been entrusted with a secret and was physically suffering from it.

By late evening, Bucky caught you in the hallway and raised one eyebrow.

"You planning a coup?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Ava looks guilty. John looks organized. Bob looks like he's about to confess to a priest, and Yelena told Alexei she'd bury him under the boardwalk if he ruined something."

Your stomach swooped. "She says things like that every day."

"Under the boardwalk was specific."

You stepped closer and placed both hands on his chest, which was a terrible strategy if your goal was to stay focused. Bucky glanced down at your hands, then back at your face, his expression softening despite his suspicion.

"Do you trust me?" you asked.

His answer came without hesitation. "Yeah."

Your heart did something embarrassing. "Then stop investigating."

His mouth curved. "That an order?"

"Absolutely."

"Bossy."

"You like it."

He looked at you for a beat too long, and the hallway seemed to shrink around you. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I do."

Your breath caught.

Then Alexei's voice boomed from somewhere nearby. "I HAVE FOUND SUNSCREEN!"

You stepped back quickly.

Bucky looked toward the sound, then back at you. "Sunscreen?"

You smiled too brightly. "Skin safety is important."

His eyes narrowed.

You kissed his cheek before he could ask anything else.

It worked.

For about three seconds.

The next morning arrived warm and clear, the Fourth of July sky a perfect summer blue.

Bucky came into the common room wearing dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and suspicion.

Everyone else was already there.

Ava had sunglasses pushed onto her head. Bob held a backpack full of snacks. John had his keys in hand and the expression of a man prepared to execute a mission. Alexei wore the bucket hat again. Yelena wore a yellow sundress with boots and looked ready to fight both fashion and God.

Bucky stopped in the doorway.

"No," he said.

You walked over, smiling. "You don't even know what this is."

"I know this is a group activity."

"Correct."

"And I know I wasn't told about it."

"Also correct."

"That means I should be concerned."

"Only emotionally."

His eyes flicked over your face. "What did you do?"

You held out your hand.

He looked at it, then at you. Something in him softened before he even took it.

"Come with me?" you asked.

For a moment, he didn't move. Then he placed his hand in yours. "Always."

Alexei sniffed loudly.

Yelena pointed at him. "No."

"I said nothing."

"You were about to."

"I was breathing."

"You were breathing emotionally."

John sighed. "Everybody out."

The ride was ridiculous.

Alexei insisted on telling Bucky that the destination was "a place of great historical significance," which made Bucky look increasingly alarmed. Bob passed around granola bars. Ava controlled the music from the front seat and refused every request. Yelena sang half the words to every song anyway.

You sat beside Bucky in the back, your hand tucked into his.

He leaned close enough that his breath brushed your ear. "You know I could get this out of you."

You looked up at him. "You could try."

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.

Your pulse tripped over itself.

"I could," he murmured.

"Barnes," John said from the driver's seat, not looking back, "no interrogating the surprise planner."

Bucky leaned back, amused. "You're all terrible at secrets."

"We are excellent at secrets," Bob said.

Ava looked at him through the rearview mirror. "You almost printed an itinerary."

"It had useful margins."

Bucky's smile was small, but it stayed.

When the car finally slowed near the boardwalk, his expression changed.

You felt it before you saw it.

The way his hand tightened around yours. The way his breath caught, barely there.

The Wonder Wheel rose in the distance, bright against the sky. The Cyclone stood like a wooden memory, all sharp turns and old bones. The smell of salt, sugar, fried food, and summer drifted through the open window.

Bucky stared.

No one spoke.

Even Alexei managed silence.

John parked, and for a few seconds, Bucky did not move.

You squeezed his hand gently. "We don't have to do anything," you said. "We can just look. Or we can leave. Whatever you want."

Bucky turned to you slowly, his eyes bright. "You did this?"

"Not alone." You glanced toward the others. "Everyone helped."

Alexei immediately puffed up.

Yelena elbowed him.

Bucky looked at each of them.

Ava shrugged like this was nothing, though her expression was softer than usual. Bob smiled carefully. John gave a small nod. Alexei pressed a hand to his heart. Yelena rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too.

Bucky looked back at you. "You remembered," he said.

"You told me something that mattered."

His face shifted.

There were a hundred emotions there, too fast to name. Grief. Gratitude. Surprise. Love, maybe, though neither of you had been brave enough to say that word yet.

It settled between you anyway, warm as sunlight on the boardwalk.

He leaned down and kissed your forehead. It was brief. It still made the whole world go quiet.

"Thank you," he whispered.

You smiled up at him. "Happy Steve's birthday."

He laughed, and it cracked something open.

The day unfolded like a postcard that had survived a war and still kept its color.

You walked the boardwalk first. Bucky stayed close to you, quieter than usual but not distant. Every so often, he would point something out. A place that used to sell ice cream. A corner where Steve had once gotten into an argument with a man twice his size over someone cutting in line. A game booth where Bucky had won a prize and Steve had spent the rest of the day pretending not to want it.

"What was the prize?" you asked.

"A stuffed bear."

"Steve wanted a stuffed bear?"

"He said he didn't."

"Which means he absolutely did."

"Yeah." Bucky smiled to himself. "I gave it to him before we got home."

Your heart squeezed.

Nearby, Alexei was trying to win a giant plush eagle from a ring toss game and failing loudly.

"This game is rigged against super soldiers!"

Ava somehow won on her first try and handed the plush eagle to Bob, who hugged it like it had chosen him in a prophecy.

John bought everyone lemonade. He pretended this was practical hydration and not affection wearing sunglasses.

Then came the Cyclone.

Bucky stood at the entrance and stared up at the old wooden tracks.

You looked at him. "Too much?"

He shook his head slowly. "No." His mouth curved. "Steve would haunt me if I came here and didn't ride it."

Yelena perked up. "We are riding the death machine?"

"It's not a death machine," John said.

"It is made of wood and screaming."

"That's most of Alexei's stories," Ava said.

In the end, all of you rode it.

Bob prayed quietly on the climb. Alexei whooped before the first drop and then made a noise no one could properly identify. John laughed so hard he looked briefly twenty years younger. Ava kept her hands in the air the entire time, terrifyingly calm. Yelena shouted insults at the track like it had personally challenged her.

Bucky sat beside you.

At the top, just before the drop, he looked over.

The wind had pushed his hair back. The sun caught in his eyes. For one dizzy second, he looked younger too. Not unscarred. Not untouched by everything he had survived. But lighter, alive in the middle of the noise.

You smiled at him.

He smiled back.

Then the coaster plunged, and you both screamed.

When it was over, you stumbled off laughing, legs unsteady. Bucky caught you by the waist before you could trip.

"You good?" he asked, grinning.

"No. I died. This is my ghost."

"Your ghost is cute."

Your face warmed. "Your flirting needs work."

"Got you blushing."

"That was the near-death experience."

"Sure."

His hands stayed at your waist.

The others walked ahead, loudly arguing over whether Alexei had screamed. He claimed it was a "battle roar." No one believed him.

Bucky's thumb brushed your side.

"You're really okay?" you asked softly.

His smile faded into something gentler. "I am," he said. "It's strange."

"Good strange or bad strange?"

"Both." He glanced toward the boardwalk, the people, the ocean glittering beyond it all. "I thought coming back would feel like losing him all over again."

"And does it?"

"A little." He looked at you. "But not only that."

You waited.

He took a breath.

"It feels like bringing him with me."

Your throat tightened.

Bucky looked down at you like he wasn't sure what to do with all the tenderness in his chest, like it had no place to go except through his hands, still warm at your waist.

"You gave me that," he said.

You shook your head. "You already had it. I just rented the transportation."

He laughed softly.

Then he kissed you. His mouth met yours in the golden noise of Coney Island, slow and warm and careful at first, then a little less careful when your hands curled into his shirt. The whole boardwalk moved around you, bright and loud and alive, but Bucky kissed you like he had found a quiet place in the middle of it.

Someone cheered.

You both pulled apart.

Alexei stood twenty feet away with both fists in the air. "YES! ROMANCE!"

Yelena grabbed his arm and dragged him away. "You are ruining the scene."

"I am enhancing it!"

"You are a public nuisance."

Bucky dropped his forehead against yours, laughing under his breath.

"I'm sorry," you said.

"For what?"

"My friends."

"Our friends," he corrected.

The word settled in your chest.

Our.

By sunset, you were all full of hot dogs, fries, cotton candy, and questionable amounts of lemonade. Bob had named the plush eagle "Liberty Kevin." Ava pretended not to know any of you. John carried a bag of souvenirs he claimed were "team supplies." Yelena had stolen Bucky's fries twice. Alexei had bought another flag hat, because apparently one was not enough for a man of his "visual importance."

When the fireworks began, you were all sitting on the sand.

The first burst lit the sky.

Bucky flinched almost imperceptibly.

You noticed. You always noticed him.

Without saying anything, you slipped your hand into his. He looked over at you.

"You can look at me instead," you said.

His eyes softened.

The fireworks cracked overhead, bright enough to turn the beach silver for a second.

Bucky looked at you, not the sky.

You leaned your shoulder against his. "Tell me about him," you said.

Bucky's fingers tightened around yours.

So he did.

He told you about Steve before the serum, stubborn and small and angry at every unfair thing in the world. He told you about Coney Island birthdays and cheap food and scraped knees and fireworks reflected in Steve's eyes. He told you about laughter that lived in another century and somehow still echoed here, tonight, beside the water.

And when he got quiet, you stayed.

No fixing.

No rushing.

No filling the silence just because it hurt.

The finale painted the sky in gold.

Bucky finally looked up.

For a moment, you watched the fireworks together.

The ocean caught the light and broke it apart. Gold scattered over the water. Red bloomed above the Wonder Wheel. Blue burned bright enough to turn Bucky's face silver at the edges.

He looked softer in that light. Not less haunted, just less alone.

Then he whispered, "He would've liked you."

Your heart stumbled. "You think so?"

"I know so." Bucky looked at you, and there was no hesitation in him. "He would've said I was an idiot if I didn't tell you how much you mean to me."

Your breath caught.

Behind you, the team had gone suspiciously quiet.

Bucky noticed too and glanced over his shoulder. "Are they listening?"

"Yes," Ava said.

"No," John said at the same time.

Bob whispered, "A little."

Yelena said, "Continue. We are emotionally invested."

Alexei sniffled. "I am not crying. The freedom smoke is in my eyes."

Bucky stared at them. Then he laughed. Not the small laugh, not the careful one.

A real laugh, warm and startled, pulled out of him by the sheer absurdity of being loved by a group of impossible people on a beach in Brooklyn while fireworks burst overhead.

You felt lucky to hear it.

He turned back to you, still smiling, but it changed when his eyes found yours.

The humor softened.

The world around you seemed to blur at the edges. The team behind you. The shouting from the boardwalk. The crackle of fireworks. The hiss of the tide dragging itself up the sand and falling back again.

All of it became background.

Bucky's hand rose to your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly along your skin. He touched you like you were something precious, something he was still surprised he was allowed to reach for.

"I thought today was going to hurt," he said quietly.

You covered his hand with yours. "Did it?"

"A little." His eyes searched your face. "But then you were there."

Your chest tightened.

"You don't have to choose," you whispered. "Between missing him and being happy."

His throat worked.

"I know." His forehead tipped closer to yours. "I think I'm starting to know that."

The next firework burst above you, gold pouring through the sky like spilled sunlight.

Bucky didn't look up. He kept looking at you.

"I love you," he said.

The words were quiet, almost too quiet for the noise around you, but you heard them like they had been spoken directly into your ribs.

For a second, you couldn't breathe.

Bucky's eyes flickered, just enough for you to see the fear beneath the courage. He had survived wars, monsters, gods, ghosts. Still, somehow, this was the thing that made him look uncertain.

Your heart broke open in the gentlest way.

You leaned in, brushing your nose against his. "I love you too," you whispered.

His breath left him all at once.

Then he kissed you. Soft at first. Like he was pressing the words somewhere deeper than sound could reach.

You kissed him back with both hands in his shirt, holding him there while the sky cracked open above you. His metal hand settled carefully at your waist. His flesh hand cupped your cheek. He tasted like lemonade and salt air and summer. He kissed you like the world had taken too much from him and, somehow, impossibly, given him this.

Given him you.

Behind you, Alexei made a wounded little sound.

Yelena hissed, "Do not ruin this."

"I am moved," Alexei whispered.

"You are loud."

"I am quietly moved."

"You are never quietly anything."

Bucky smiled against your mouth.

You laughed into the kiss, and he pulled back just enough to look at you.

There were fireworks reflected in his eyes.

For a second, you imagined Steve there beside the two of you, all stubborn heart and bright grin, watching his best friend finally let himself have something good.

Bucky seemed to feel it too.

His gaze lifted briefly to the sky, then lowered back to you.

"Happy birthday, punk," he murmured.

Your eyes stung.

Then Bucky looked at you again, the sadness was still there, but so was the light.

So was the love.

He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you close until you were tucked against his side, your head beneath his chin, his heartbeat steady against your ear.

The fireworks kept blooming over Coney Island. Bright, loud, a little messy, very much alive.

And this time, Bucky watched them with you.

Not because it didn't hurt.

Because it did.

Because love always made room for ghosts. Because grief could sit beside joy without swallowing it whole.

Because Steve was still there in the salt air, in the old wooden bones of the Cyclone, in the echo of Bucky's laugh, in every burst of gold that scattered over the water.

And because you were there too. Warm and real, holding his hand.

When the last firework faded and the sky went dark again, Bucky lowered his mouth to your temple.

"Thank you," he whispered.

You turned your face into his chest. "For what?"

"For bringing me back here." His hand slipped into yours. "For staying."

You squeezed his fingers. "Always."

And when he kissed you one last time beneath the smoke-soft sky, it did not feel like an ending.

It felt like a promise.

One made of salt air, old memories, new love, and the kind of light that knew exactly how to find its way home.

You pulled on a sweatshirt, padded out of your room, and made your way down the hall toward the kitchen. Warm tea seemed like the only reasonable answer to the weather trying to fistfight the building.

Most of the compound was dark. Everyone else had either learned to sleep through storms or had better curtains and stronger nerves than you did.

Then you saw the light from the common room.

It was dim, just one lamp glowing in the corner, soft gold spilled across the couch and coffee table. At first, you thought someone had forgotten to turn it off.

Then you saw John.

He was sitting on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped too tightly in front of him. He was barefoot, still in a gray t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair mussed from sleep. But he was not sleepy.

Not even close.

His shoulders were rigid. His jaw was locked. His eyes were fixed on the windows like he was waiting for something to come through them.

The thunder cracked again.

John flinched.

It was small. So small anyone else might have missed it.

But you didn’t.

“Walker?”

His head snapped toward you so fast your chest tightened.

For one second, he didn’t look like John Walker.

Not the sarcastic one who complained about Bob leaving mugs in strange places. Not the stubborn one who insisted on doing extra training even when Bucky called him a walking muscle cramp. Not the one who rolled his eyes when Alexei referred to him as “American blond soldier boy.”

He looked like someone else entirely.

Then recognition came back into his face, slow and embarrassed.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

You stepped farther into the room. “The thunder did.”

His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “Yeah. It’s loud.”

You glanced at the empty cushion beside him, then back at his face. “Can I sit?”

He looked like he wanted to say no. Not because he didn’t want you there, but because wanting you there scared him more than the storm.

After a moment, he gave a stiff nod.

You sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving space between you. Enough that he wouldn’t feel cornered. Enough that he could breathe.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Rain scratched against the windows. The lamp hummed softly. Then the sky split open again.

John’s hands tightened.

You kept your voice quiet. “Does it always get bad during storms?”

He swallowed.

You thought he might brush it off. That was what John did best, sometimes. Built walls out of jokes and pride and all the things he thought he had no right to say.

But tonight, maybe the storm had already shaken something loose.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Not every time.”

You nodded.

His eyes dropped to his hands. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t have to know every detail to know it’s not stupid.”

That got him to look at you.

His eyes were tired. Not just from tonight. From years. From memories that had teeth.

The thunder rumbled again, quieter this time, farther off but still there.

John breathed in through his nose, slow and uneven.

“Afghanistan,” he said finally.

The word landed between you, heavy and careful.

You didn’t move.

He stared at the floor. “Thunder. Fireworks. Anything that sounds too close to a mortar, a shell, a blast.” His throat worked. “Sometimes I know where I am. Sometimes I don’t. Or I do, but my body doesn’t care. It just...” He shook his head, frustrated with himself. “It drags me back.”

Your chest ached.

John Walker, who always looked ready to take a hit standing up, sat beside you looking like the past had found a way to put its hands around his throat.

“You don’t have to explain more than you want to,” you said.

He let out a humorless breath. “That’s all there is. Loud noise. Bad memories. Me sitting out here like an idiot because I can’t sleep through weather.”

“John.”

He looked over.

“You are not an idiot.”

His expression flickered.

You shifted slightly, still careful. “Can I try something?”

Suspicion entered his eyes, not harshly, just habit. “What?”

“Grounding. Nothing weird. Just... helps remind your brain where your body is.”

“I know where I am.”

“I know you do.” You gave him a small smile. “But maybe the rest of you could use the memo.”

For a second, he almost smiled back.

“Okay,” he said.

You turned a little toward him. “Tell me five things you can see.”

His brow creased. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

He looked around the common room like it had personally offended him.

“The lamp,” he muttered. “The coffee table. That ugly blanket Alexei keeps pretending isn’t his.”

You bit back a smile. “Three.”

“The rain on the window.” His voice steadied a fraction. “Your sweatshirt.”

“Good. Four things you can feel.”

He looked down at his hands. “The couch.” A pause. “My feet on the floor.” Another pause, longer this time. “My hands.”

“And?”

His eyes moved to you.

You held out your hand slowly, palm up, resting in the space between you.

He stared at it.

You didn’t push.

The storm grumbled beyond the glass.

John reached out.

His fingers closed around yours carefully, like he expected you to pull away. His hand was warm. Strong. Trembling just enough to tell the truth he wouldn't say out loud.

“Your hand,” he said quietly.

Something in your chest softened.

“Three things you can hear,” you said.

“The rain.” His thumb shifted against your knuckles. “The air conditioning.” His eyes stayed on your joined hands. “You breathing.”

“Two things you can smell.”

He inhaled slowly. “Tea.”

You blinked. “I haven’t made tea yet.”

“Kitchen always smells like it.” His mouth pulled faintly at one corner. “You make it enough.”

You smiled. “Fair.”

“And...” He breathed in again. “Your shampoo.”

Heat crept up your neck, sudden and traitorous.

“Good,” you said, softer than before. “One thing you can taste.”

John was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said, “Rain.”

Your fingers tightened around his.

The thunder rolled again, but this time he didn’t flinch as hard.

You stayed like that with him for the rest of the storm.

Sometimes you asked him questions. Sometimes you didn’t. Sometimes his grip on your hand tightened when the sky got too loud, and every time, you squeezed back.

You talked about small things. Safe things.

Bob’s habit of apologizing to furniture when he bumped into it. Yelena’s ongoing war against the compound’s “tragic” coffee selection. Alexei’s claim that he could outsing any man in America. Bucky’s ability to appear silently in rooms like a haunted house with good hair.

John laughed once.

It was quiet. Rusty. But real.

By the time the storm finally moved on, the windows were only streaked with rain, and the thunder had become a tired murmur in the distance.

John’s hand was still wrapped around yours.

Neither of you mentioned it.

Eventually, his shoulders lowered. His breathing evened. His eyes looked less like they were watching a battlefield and more like they were seeing the room around him.

The lamp. The couch. The ugly blanket.

You.

“I should let you sleep,” he said.

“You should sleep too.”

He nodded, but he didn't move right away.

When he finally stood, his hand slipped from yours reluctantly. Or maybe that was your imagination being dangerous.

“Thank you,” he said.

You looked up at him. “You don’t have to thank me.”

His face tightened with that familiar self-consciousness. “For dealing with me.”

You stood too.

“John, I wasn’t dealing with you.”

He looked away.

You stepped closer, not enough to crowd him, but enough that he had to hear you.

“If anything,” you said, “I should be thanking you.”

That made him look back.

“For what?”

“For trusting me with it.”

His expression changed.

Not all at once. Just a small break in the armor. A crack of light through something he usually kept bolted shut.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like I did something brave.”

You held his gaze. “Maybe you did.”

For once, John had no comeback.

The following days, something between you was different.

Not dramatic. No grand confession. No cinematic music swelling through the compound speakers, though Alexei probably would have volunteered for that if asked.

It was smaller than that.

John saved you the last cup of coffee before Yelena could get to it.

You handed him a towel during training without him asking.

He started sitting beside you during movie nights.

You started noticing how often his eyes found you across a room.

And the flirting, somehow, began like a match struck in a dark hallway.

Small and bright. Impossible to ignore.

“You always this bossy?” John asked one afternoon when you corrected his bandage after a mission.

You smoothed the tape down and glanced up at him. “Only when someone needs managing.”

His mouth curved. “You think you can manage me?”

“I think someone should try.”

His eyes warmed.

Across the room, Yelena looked up from cleaning one of her knives.

“No,” she said flatly.

You blinked. “No what?”

“No to whatever that was.”

John frowned. “Nobody asked you, Belova.”

“I felt it happening in the air. I object.”

Ava, who had been leaning against the counter, took one look at your face and smirked. “She's not wrong. The air did get weird.”

“It did,” Bob said earnestly. “But not bad weird. Kind of warm weird.”

Bucky muttered. “Romantic weird.”

You covered your face. “Please stop.”

Alexei gasped from the couch. “Romance? In this house of weapons and sadness? Finally!”

John looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.

You looked like you wanted it to take you too.

Yelena pointed at both of you with the knife. “Do not make this a team problem.”

Ava smiled. “It's already team problem.”

After that, there was no surviving it.

If John stood too close to you, Ava noticed.

If you laughed too hard at something he said, Yelena noticed.

If John brought you tea, Bob smiled like someone had handed him a puppy.

If you and John disappeared onto the balcony for ten minutes, Bucky stared at the door like he was considering filing an official complaint.

Alexei, unfortunately, was the worst of them all.

“I knew it,” he announced one evening when John reached above you to grab a mug from the cabinet. “The tension. It is thick. Like stew.”

John slowly turned his head. “Do you ever hear yourself?”

“Constantly,” Alexei said proudly. “I am my favorite sound.”

You nearly dropped your spoon laughing.

John looked at you, and his annoyance softened into something quieter.

There it was again. That look. The one he gave you when he thought nobody else could see. Like you were the only calm place in a room full of noise.

Weeks passed.

Spring folded itself into summer. The air grew warmer. The days stretched longer. The compound buzzed with the strange, restless energy that always came before a holiday.

The Fourth of July arrived dressed in heat and sunlight.

Alexei was thrilled.

Yelena pretended not to be thrilled but bought sparklers anyway.

Bob made a red, white, and blue dessert that leaned slightly to one side but tasted amazing.

Ava complained about the decorations and then quietly fixed them when one of the banners fell.

Bucky avoided the word “fireworks” with the intensity of a man refusing to summon a demon.

You noticed that John was quieter than usual.

Of course you noticed.

He still smiled when Bob offered him dessert. Still rolled his eyes when Alexei started singing loudly and incorrectly. Still stood close enough to you that your shoulders brushed when everyone gathered near the windows to watch the city lights glitter in the distance.

But there was something tight in his face. Something waiting.

You didn’t call him out in front of everyone.

You just let your hand brush his once. A question.

His fingers twitched toward yours. An answer.

The fireworks started around nine.

At first, they were distant bursts of color beyond the compound grounds. Soft pops. Little blooms of red and gold cracking open against the dark.

Alexei cheered.

Bob smiled.

Yelena said, “That one looks like explosion flower.”

Bucky muttered, “That is literally what it is.”

John stood beside you, jaw tight.

Then a louder boom went off somewhere nearby.

His whole body went still.

You looked up at him.

He wasn't watching the sky anymore. He was staring through it.

“John,” you said softly.

He blinked hard. “I’m okay.”

You didn’t argue.

Not there. Not with everyone around.

But you saw the way his hand flexed at his side. Saw the way his breathing changed. Saw how the celebration started turning into something else around him.

Another firework cracked, bright and violent.

John stepped back. “I’m going to get some air,” he said.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to him.

So did yours.

John didn’t wait for anyone to answer. He turned and left the room, shoulders stiff, moving quickly but not quite running.

You gave him a minute, then another. Then you slipped away too.

The hallway was darker, quieter, but the fireworks still reached inside. Their sound crawled through the walls, dull at first, then sharp when one burst too close.

You checked the common room.

Empty.

Kitchen.

Empty.

Balcony.

Empty.

Your chest tightened.

Then, as you reached your bedroom door, you found him standing outside it.

John looked up the second he heard you. He looked embarrassed. Miserable. Caught in the act of needing someone.

Your heart twisted. "Hey,” you said gently.

His hands were curled into fists at his sides trying to hold himself together.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

The words were quiet. Almost lost beneath the next distant boom.

Something in you broke softly.

You opened your door. “You came to the right place.”

He didn’t move.

“I can leave,” he said quickly. “I know it’s late. I just thought maybe you could... I don’t know.” His throat worked. “Help me stay here. Like last time.”

Your answer came without hesitation. "Of course.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

You stepped inside your room and turned on the small lamp beside your bed. It painted everything soft, warm, safe. Your blanket was rumpled from where you’d left it earlier. A book sat open on your nightstand. Rain was not tapping at the windows tonight, but the fireworks kept flashing faintly through the curtains.

You sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. Then you patted the space beside you.

John froze. The vulnerability on his face turned into panic for half a second.

“You don’t have to,” you said. “The chair is fine too.”

He glanced at the chair. Then at the bed. Then another boom cracked through the night, loud enough to make the window tremble.

John flinched hard.

That decided it.

He crossed the room and sat beside you, his movements stiff and careful, like he was afraid of taking up too much space. Then, after another flash lit the curtains, he lay down beside you on top of the covers.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. Far enough that he could pretend this was only practical.

You lay down too, facing him.

His eyes were open, fixed on nothing.

“John,” you whispered.

His gaze shifted to you.

“Five things you can see.”

He exhaled shakily.

“You,” he said.

Your breath caught.

His eyes flicked away, as if he hadn’t meant to say that first.

“The lamp,” he added. “The book on your nightstand. The curtains. Your pillow.”

“Good,” you said softly. “Four things you can feel.”

“The bed.” His hand moved against the blanket. “The blanket. My shirt.”

He stopped.

You offered your hand, palm up between you. Just like before. This time, he didn’t hesitate as long.

His hand found yours.

“Your hand,” he said.

The fireworks popped in the distance. His grip tightened, but he stayed with you.

“Three things you can hear,” you said.

His eyes closed.

“The fireworks.” His jaw clenched.

You squeezed his hand.

He breathed in. “Your voice.”

“Good.”

He swallowed. “My breathing.”

“Two things you can smell.”

“Your shampoo,” he said, and this time his mouth twitched faintly.

You smiled. “You always notice that?”

His eyes opened.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

The room went quiet except for the distant celebration outside.

“And one thing you can taste?” you asked.

He looked at you for a long moment.

“Mint,” he said. “From the gum Yelena gave me.”

You laughed softly. “The one she said tasted like toothpaste and regret?”

“That’s the one.”

His smile was small, but real.

The fireworks continued, but they started to feel farther away. Or maybe John was coming closer to himself. His shoulders eased. His breathing evened out. The white-knuckle grip on your hand loosened into something warmer.

Neither of you moved away.

Time stretched.

The room became its own little country, bordered by lamplight and soft sheets and the sound of his breathing.

Eventually, John turned his head toward you.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You gave him a look. “We talked about this.”

“I know.”

“Then stop thanking me for caring about you.”

His expression went still.

Outside, another firework burst, but it was distant now. Fading. A soft thud against the edge of the world.

John’s thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“You do?” he asked.

Your chest tightened. “Do what?”

“Care about me?”

The question was so quiet. So careful. Like he already had the answer tucked somewhere in his chest but was afraid to touch it.

You shifted closer.

“John.”

His eyes searched yours.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I care about you.”

He stared at you like those words had hit harder than any thunder.

Then his gaze dropped to your mouth, just for a second. A small, aching second.

You could have pretended not to notice.

His thumb moved over your hand again. “Tell me not to.”

Your heart stumbled. “Not to what?”

“Want this.”

The fireworks outside were barely there now. The sky was still loud somewhere far away, but inside your room, everything had gone quiet.

You moved closer, close enough that your knees brushed.

“I can’t tell you that,” you said.

John’s breath caught.

“Because I want it too.”

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved.

Then John leaned in.

The kiss was gentle at first. Careful. Almost disbelieving.

His mouth touched yours like a question he had been afraid to ask for weeks, and you answered by kissing him back.

His hand tightened around yours. Your free hand lifted to his jaw, feeling the rough warmth of him beneath your palm. He made a quiet sound, so soft you almost missed it, and the last of his hesitation seemed to unravel.

The next kiss was deeper.

Still tender.

Still John.

Like he was trying to prove he could hold something precious without breaking it.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes stayed closed.

Outside, the fireworks faded into the distance, one last crackle of color somewhere beyond the curtains.

But John was here. Warm and breathing. With you.

“Still here?” you whispered.

His eyes opened.

This time, when he looked at you, the past wasn’t the loudest thing in the room.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough and soft all at once. “I’m here.”

Your thumb brushed his cheek.

John kissed you again, slower this time, with the sky quieting outside and his hand still holding yours like an anchor.

The church smells like floor cleaner, coffee, and old wood. It should be grounding, usually, it is.

The scrape of folding chairs across linoleum. The low murmur of volunteers sorting donation bins. The distant laugh of someone in the kitchen who has no idea the world has ever ended, or maybe knows and has simply learned how to laugh anyway.

You should be thinking about the stack of canned goods in front of you. You should be checking expiration dates, organizing labels forward, keeping count the way you promised Sister Agnes you would.

Instead, you are thinking about John Walker's hands. Because apparently your brain has no sense of community service.

You stare down at a can of green beans and see his apartment instead. The couch. The forgotten report. His mouth against your throat. His voice saying girlfriend into a military phone call like he had carved the word into stone before anyone could take it from him.

You had almost crossed a line.

No.

You had walked right up to the line, pressed your hands against its chest, and asked if it wanted to come closer.

If that phone had not rung, you know exactly what would have happened.

Your face warms in the church supply room. 'Perfect. Wonderful. Very holy.' you think. You set the can down too hard.

Across the table, Sister Agnes looks up over the rim of her glasses. She is tying little paper tags onto donation bags with the calm precision of someone who could probably shame a demon back into the ground with one look. "Everything all right, dear?"

You blink. "Yes."

She eyes the can.

You glance down at it. The green beans are dented now.

You smile weakly. "Aggressive sorting."

Sister Agnes hums, slow and deeply unconvinced. "Careful. Even vegetables deserve mercy."

"I'll apologize to them."

"See that you do."

There is no judgment in her voice. Somehow that makes it worse. She simply gives you one more look, gentle and knowing enough to peel paint, before going back to her donation bags.

You exhale through your nose and press both hands flat to the table. 'Get a grip, Mara.'

The problem is, you don't want a grip. You want John. The thought doesn't arrive gently. It lands heavy and honest in the center of you, no disguise, no exit strategy.

You want him.

His hands. His mouth. His rough little sounds when you touch that freckle on his ear. The careful way he asks if you're okay even when his whole body is shaking with the effort of holding back. The warmth of him in bed beside you, steady and alive, one arm always finding you sometime in the night like he's checking that you're still there.

You want him, and you're almost certain John wants you too.

You saw it in his eyes before the call interrupted. You felt it in his hands beneath your shirt. You heard it in his voice when he said your name like it cost him something.

Your fingers drift to your chest without permission. The wolf charm rests beneath your shirt, warm from your skin. You slip it free and hold it between your fingers.

For a moment, the church noise dulls around you.

The charm catches the light, small and familiar, and grief rises in you the way it always does. Not sharp enough to cut you open today. Not gentle enough to ignore either.

"I still love you," you whisper.

The words are so quiet they barely exist. You bring the charm to your lips and kiss it.

It's not a confession you need forgiven, not an apology, just the truth.

You love Bucky. Some part of you always will. That love sits in the marrow of who you became after the world broke apart. It's stitched into the old version of you, the one who survived on ghosts and knives and promises no one else could hear.

And still...

You love the way John looks at you like he's relieved you walked into the room. You love the way his apartment has started to hold your shape. You love the way he lets you be haunted without trying to exorcise you.

You love him too. The realization sits in you quietly. Just waiting for you to stop looking away.

Your phone pings in your back pocket. Your heart makes one stupid, hopeful little leap before you can stop it.

You pull it out.

John: I'm sorry, love. Got held up at base. I'm not going to make it to the church today.

Another message appears before you can type.

John: I'll call you when I can.

You stare at the screen.

You knew this would happen. You felt it coming all morning, that ugly little pressure behind your ribs every time you checked the door and saw someone who was not him. Base has been swallowing him whole lately. Free days. Nights. Mornings that were supposed to be his. Hours that were supposed to belong to neither mission nor report nor special review.

The military keeps taking pieces of him and calling it duty. You hate it.

You hate that he sounds sorry when he has no control over it. You hate that you can picture him standing somewhere fluorescent and sterile, jaw tight, shoulders squared, saying yes sir while someone else decides what part of his life gets to belong to him.

You type back before anger can turn into something sharper.

You: It's okay. Be careful.

Then, because you're trying to be a person who says what she means before the world punishes her for waiting,

You: I miss you.

The little delivered note appears. You lock the phone and slide it away.

For a second, you let your fingers close around the charm again. Then you tuck it beneath your shirt, pick up another can, and try not to dent this one too.

By the time evening starts smearing gold across the parking lot, most of the volunteers have gone home. The church doors are propped open behind you. The last of the supply tables are folded and stacked.

You and Lemar are clearing the parking lot. Which mostly means you are picking up empty water bottles while Lemar carries three folding chairs at once because he likes being useful and irritating about it.

"You know," he says, balancing the chairs against his hip, "for a place of worship, this parking lot has a real talent for collecting trash."

You stab a paper cup with the grabber in your hand. "Maybe the trash is seeking redemption."

"That cup looks beyond saving."

"You would know."

Lemar pauses. "Was that an insult?"

"You'll figure it out."

He grins. "There she is."

You roll your eyes and drop the cup into the trash bag.

Lemar shifts the chairs higher in his arms. "You've been quiet today."

"I'm volunteering. Quiet is allowed."

"With you? Suspicious."

"I can be quiet."

"Yeah, when you're plotting."

You look at him. "Do you want me to start plotting?"

"No, ma'am." He lifts one chair like a shield. "I choose life."

You huff despite yourself and tie the trash bag closed.

For a minute, the two of you move in silence. Comfortable silence, the kind that has earned its place. Lemar has always been too good at standing beside your damage without poking it just to see what color it bleeds.

That makes him dangerous in a different way.

You glance toward the street. Then at him. "Can you give me a ride?"

Lemar doesn't even try to hide his smile.

You regret speaking instantly.

"To where?" he asks, voice already too innocent.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do."

"I'm simply asking for the destination. Very normal. Very logistical."

"John's place."

Lemar's smile becomes a full event. The man has never met a moment he could not turn into a weapon.

"Hmm," he says.

You point at him. "No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You said hmm."

"Hmm is not a crime."

"It is when you do it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're about to put on a bonnet and gossip from a porch."

Lemar laughs, bright and loud, and the sound bounces off the church brick. "Trouble," he says, "you have a key to the man's apartment and still ask me to drive you over there like this is a neutral errand."

You grab another empty bottle off the pavement. "It is a neutral errand."

"Right."

"I am going to check on him."

"Very neutral."

"He has been stuck at base all day."

"Mm-hmm."

"He might be tired."

"Naturally."

"And someone should make sure he hasn't worked himself into the floor."

"Someone."

You glare at him. "You are enjoying this way too much."

"I'm enjoying it a normal amount."

"There is nothing normal happening on your face right now."

Lemar presses a hand to his chest. "That hurts. This is my concerned face."

"That is your I know something and I'm about to make it everyone's problem face."

He laughs again and finally starts walking toward his truck. "Come on. I'll take you to your neutral errand."

You follow him. "You are never meeting anyone I date ever again."

"Too late. I knew John before you did."

"That is exactly the problem."

He tosses the chairs into the back of the truck and looks over at you. The teasing softens, not gone, just lowered. "He text you?"

You look down at the trash bag twisted in your hand. "Yeah."

"Base?"

"Yeah."

Lemar's jaw tightens for half a second.

You see it. He knows you see it. Neither of you says anything until you're both in the truck and the church starts shrinking in the rearview mirror.

The ride begins with the radio low. Some old R & B song hums through the speakers. Lemar taps two fingers against the steering wheel, less to the beat and more because stillness doesn't suit him when he's worried.

You watch streetlights flick on one by one. For a while, you let the quiet sit. Then you ask the question that has been clawing at the inside of your chest since John's phone call days ago.

"Do you think they know?"

Lemar's fingers stop tapping. He doesn't look at you right away. "Know what?"

You turn your face toward the window. Your reflection looks back at you from the glass, faint and ghostlike. "My past."

The truck rolls through a green light. Lemar's voice changes when he answers. Less playful now. All brother, all soldier. "Mara."

"The killings," you say, because if you don't say it cleanly, it will grow teeth. "The people I killed after the Blip. What I was doing when John and I met. When you found me."

Lemar is quiet.

You remember that night too well.

The warehouse stink of blood and dust. The sound of your own breathing, too calm for what you had done. You had been a ghost wearing skin, a girl sharpened into a weapon by loss, grief packed so deep inside you that mercy had felt like a language from another country.

John had looked at you like he could see the wound beneath the blade. Lemar had looked at John like, what the hell are we walking into? Neither of them had turned you in.

"They don't know," Lemar says.

You look at him.

His eyes stay on the road, but his voice is certain enough to put steel in the air. "John and I never made a report."

Your throat tightens.

He continues, steady. "Not about you. Not about what happened. Not about who you were before or what you did. In our files, that whole thing is smoke. Bad intel, dead end, nothing actionable."

"Lemar."

"I mean it." He glances at you then. "You're a ghost in our reports."

The words should comfort you, they do, a little. They also chill something old inside you. A ghost. You have been that for so long.

"I don't know if that matters anymore," you say.

"It matters."

"They asked John about me."

His mouth tightens.

You watch his hands on the steering wheel. "He didn't tell you?"

"He said they asked questions." Lemar exhales through his nose. "He didn't say details."

"They asked how long he knew me. What I was to him."

"Yeah," Lemar says quietly. "That tracks."

Your stomach twists. "With what?"

"I don't know yet."

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"That soldier voice." You turn toward him fully. "The one where you pretend uncertainty is strategy."

Lemar's mouth pulls into a humorless smile. "Learned from the best."

"John?"

"No," he says. "You."

That shuts you up.

The truck moves through the evening, tires whispering over pavement.

You stare at your hands.

"They can ask whatever they want," you say. "It doesn't change what happened."

"No. It doesn't."

"And if they find out, if they dig deep enough, if some buried thing crawls its way out..." You swallow. "I'm prepared for the consequences."

Lemar's head turns sharply toward you before he forces his eyes back to the road. "No."

You blink. "No?"

"No," he repeats. "I hate when you talk like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you already signed the sentencing papers in your head."

Your jaw tightens. "I'm being realistic."

"You're being cruel to yourself and calling it realism because it sounds more respectable."

The words land harder than you expect. You look out the window again.

Lemar softens, but only slightly. "Prepared doesn't mean deserving, Mara."

You close your eyes. "Don't."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are. That's why I said don't."

He sighs. "You did terrible things."

Your eyes open.

He doesn't flinch from it. That's the thing about Lemar, he can be kind without lying. It makes the kindness harder to survive.

"You did," he says. "And you also survived something that tore the world apart, both can be true. But don't sit there and act like consequences are the same as justice. They're not always."

You stare at him.

He keeps driving.

After a long moment, you say, "I hate when you're emotionally competent."

He smiles a little. "I know."

"It's unsettling."

"I contain multitudes."

You huff, but the laugh barely makes it out.

Lemar reaches over and taps his knuckles lightly against your knee. Quick. Brotherly. There and gone.

"He won't let them use you," he says.

You look down at where his hand was.

"And neither will I."

The threat in his voice is soft. It makes your chest ache.

"Thanks," you whisper.

He gives you a sideways glance, trying to pull the moment back from the edge before it becomes too tender to survive.

"Also, for the record, if you and John ever break up, I'm keeping you in the divorce."

You blink. Then you laugh, sudden and real.

"There's no divorce, idiot."

"I'm just saying, I was your brother first."

"You were never my brother."

He looks offended. "That is hurtful."

"You assigned yourself the role."

"And I have performed it beautifully."

"True, you are driving me to my boyfriend's apartment while bullying me."

"That's premium brother service."

You shake your head, but you are still smiling when his truck pulls up outside John's building.

Lemar puts it in park and looks up at the windows.

For a second, the teasing vanishes again.

"You sure you're okay?"

You follow his gaze. One of the windows is lit. John is home. The sight loosens something in your chest before you can stop it.

"Yeah," you say. "I'm okay."

Lemar looks at you.

You sigh. "I will be."

He accepts that because he knows it's the best truth you have.

He gets out with you anyway.

"I can walk myself upstairs," you say.

"I know."

"Then why are you getting out?"

"Because I want to see his face when you use the key."

You stop on the sidewalk and glare.

Lemar grins. "What? I've earned joy."

"You've earned silence."

"Never cared for it."

You mutter something unkind under your breath and head inside. Lemar follows, delighted.

The elevator ride is unbearable because he keeps looking at you. You stare straight ahead.

"Stop."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're looking at me emotionally."

"That's your thing."

"I learned it from John."

"You two are terrible influences on each other."

You glance at him. "And you're loving every second."

"Deeply."

When you reach John's door, you pull the key from your pocket. It still feels strange in your hand. Not bad strange, terrifying strange, soft strange. The kind of strange that makes your ribs feel too small for your heart.

You unlock the door.

Lemar makes a sound behind you.

You turn before opening it. "No."

He presses his lips together.

"Do not say anything."

He holds up both hands.

"You're vibrating."

"I am full of support."

"You are full of something."

You push the door open before he can answer.

John is already there.

He stands near the hallway, towel in one hand, running it through damp hair. He has on a dark T-shirt and sweatpants, feet bare, shoulders loose in a way they only get when he's home and trying to pretend the rest of the world is not chewing through his patience.

He looks up at the sound of the door.

For half a second, his face is all soldier.

Then he sees you.

The tension around his eyes eases. His mouth softens. His hand stills with the towel half lifted, and the warmth that moves through his expression is so open that you almost forget Lemar is behind you.

"Hey," John says.

You step inside like you have every right to. Because apparently, you do now.

"Hi."

John's eyes flick past you to Lemar, then back to you. Amusement ghosts across his face. "You bring backup?"

Lemar steps in behind you. "Chauffeur. Emotional witness. General public nuisance."

Without looking back, you say, "At least you're self-aware."

"Barely," Lemar says.

John's mouth twitches.

You walk straight to him, rise onto your toes, and kiss him. Quick and soft. Possessive enough to make your own stomach flip.

When you pull back, John is looking at you like you just turned the lights on inside his chest.

Unfortunately, Lemar exists.

You glance over your shoulder at him. "Not a word."

Lemar holds both hands up, eyes wide with theatrical innocence. "I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to say I'm leaving."

"You were not."

"I was eventually going to get there."

John laughs under his breath.

You point at him. "Do not encourage him."

"I breathed."

"You both use that excuse. I hate it."

Lemar grins at John. "For the record, this was apparently a neutral errand."

Your face warms. "Lemar."

"What? I'm supporting the narrative."

"You are seconds away from losing speaking privileges."

He looks between you and John, grin softening into something far too knowing. "She's mean when she's in love."

The apartment goes still.

Your entire body heats.

John's eyes flick to you.

Lemar's grin falters just enough to prove he knows he poked something soft. Then he clears his throat and takes one step back. "I'm leaving now."

"Great idea," you say too quickly.

John's eyes flick to you.

You look anywhere but at his face. "I'm going to take a quick shower," you tell him. "Lemar, thanks for the ride."

Lemar salutes you badly.

You glare at him because that is safer than any other expression. Then you escape down the hall before the apartment can grow more feelings.

The bathroom door shuts behind you. For a second, you stand there with both hands on the sink. Your reflection looks flushed. Nervous. Alive in a way that still catches you off guard sometimes.

You turn on the shower.

In the living room, John watches the hallway long after the bathroom door closes.

Lemar sees it. The man has made a hobby out of noticing what John tries to hide.

"You good?" Lemar asks.

John looks back at him. "Yeah."

"That was convincing."

John tosses the towel over his shoulder. "What?"

Lemar's teasing fades. There is no clean way into it, so he just steps through.

"She's worried about you."

John's jaw tightens. "Lemar."

"No. I'm saying it because she won't." Lemar keeps his voice low. "She's worried about all this military bullshit you're wrapped up in. The special review. The questions. You getting called in on days you're supposed to be off. She's acting like she can take whatever comes, but that doesn't mean she's not scared."

John looks toward the hall again. A muscle works in his jaw. "I know."

"Do you?"

John's eyes come back to him, sharp now.

Lemar doesn't back up, he never has.

John exhales and drags a hand over his damp hair. "I know she's worried."

"She asked me if they knew about her."

John goes very still.

Lemar's expression hardens. "About what happened after the Blip. About what you and I walked into."

John's voice drops. "What did you say?"

"I told her the truth. We never made a report. She's a ghost in our files."

John looks down. The words don't soothe him the way they should. Because now the military is asking questions about a ghost. And John doesn't like ghosts becoming targets.

Lemar steps closer. "You need to talk to her."

"I will."

"Don't just tell her everything's fine."

John's mouth tightens.

Lemar raises his brows. "That face means you were absolutely going to tell her everything's fine."

"I can handle it."

"I know you can handle a lot." Lemar's voice softens, but only a fraction. "That's not the same as letting her in."

John looks toward the hallway again.

The shower is running now.

He can picture you in there too easily. Wet hair. His soap on your skin. That look you get when you're pretending not to worry because you think worry is another burden someone else has to carry.

His chest tightens.

"I'll talk to her," he says.

Lemar studies him. Then, because he is Lemar and apparently allergic to ending anything with clean sincerity, he tilts his head toward the hallway.

"So," he says, "she has a key now."

John blinks at him. "What?"

"I'm just saying. Key to the apartment. Showing up after church. Kissing you like she pays rent here."

John narrows his eyes. "Lemar."

Lemar lifts both hands. "I'm observing."

"Get out."

"Gladly. Some of us respect boundaries."

John gives him a look.

Lemar's grin flashes. "Recent development. I'm proud of it."

"Goodnight, Lemar."

"Goodnight, boyfriend."

John's ears go faintly pink.

Lemar sees it, brightens, and wisely leaves before John can throw something at him.

The apartment quiets after the door closes.

John stands there for a moment, listening to the shower, feeling the shape of everything pressing in from all sides.

Base. The review. The questions. You.

You, who walked into his apartment with a key and kissed him like coming home. You, who loved a ghost and somehow still looked at him like he was something worth reaching for.

His hand curls once at his side. He's going to handle this, he has to.

When you come out of the shower, you are wearing one of John's oversized shirts and your shorts.

Of course, the shirt is his. Of course, it hangs off one shoulder. Of course, John Walker, decorated soldier, trained officer, certified man with working lungs, forgets how to breathe.

You walk into the room rubbing a towel through your hair, bare feet quiet against the floor. The shirt slips a little lower with each step, exposing the curve of your shoulder and the strap of your top underneath.

John is standing near the couch. He looks at you, then your shoulder. Then very deliberately back at your face like he's trying to be noble and losing a private war.

You notice. Your mouth curves. "What?"

"Nothing."

"That was not nothing."

"You're wearing my shirt."

"I wear your shirts all the time."

"I know."

"You keep looking surprised."

"I keep surviving it."

The words slip out before he can stop them.

Your smile softens in that dangerous way, the one that makes him feel seen and undone at the same time. You step closer. "Surviving?"

"Barely."

Your face warms, but you don't look away.

John reaches for you slowly, his fingers brush your exposed shoulder. A soft, careful touch.

Your breath catches.

John's thumb moves once over your skin. "You're cold," he murmurs.

"I just got out of the shower."

"Mm."

"That was an explanation, not an invitation to look concerned."

His mouth curves faintly. "I'm always going to look concerned."

"Sounds exhausting."

"Sometimes."

Your eyes lift to his. The air shifts slowly, the way a tide changes while pretending to be still.

John's hand stays on your shoulder, warm against the cool damp of your skin. His thumb traces a small path there, over and over, and your body betrays you by leaning into it.

He sees that too. But instead of kissing you, instead of letting the heat catch, he draws in a breath. "Lemar told me what you asked him."

Your eyes close for half a second. When they open, the softness is still there, but now it has armor around it. "I'm never telling Lemar anything again."

John's mouth twitches. "He cares about you."

"He has a terrible way of showing it."

"He drove you here."

"He mocked me the entire way."

"That's how he shows affection."

"I noticed. It's a hostile love language."

John smiles, but it fades quickly. His hand slides from your shoulder to the side of your neck.

"Everything's under control," he says.

You stare at him.

John already knows that look. It's the one that means you have found a weak point in his sentence and are preparing to stab it.

"Is it?" you ask.

"Yes."

"John."

"I mean it."

"You got called into base on your free day again. The military's asking questions about me. Lemar looks like someone shoved classified dread into his pockets." You step closer, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. "And you want me to believe everything is under control?"

His jaw tightens.

You soften your voice. "I care about you."

That hits him harder than the accusation would have. You see it land. The way his eyes change. The way his throat works once. The way his hand stills against your neck.

You lift both hands and cradle his face. "I care about you," you repeat, quieter. "That's what makes me worry about all this special review crap."

John closes his eyes for half a breath. When he opens them, the soldier has not disappeared. He's still there, still braced, still ready to shoulder the weight alone because that is what he was trained to do and praised for doing and punished for failing at.

But the man beneath him is tired.

Your chest aches. "Talk to me," you say.

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he covers one of your hands with his. "I don't know what they're looking for yet."

The honesty is small, but it matters.

You nod.

"They're reviewing my conduct. My reports. My recent operations. They're asking questions that don't line up with what they said this was supposed to be." His thumb brushes over your knuckles. "And now they're asking about you."

"Because of me?"

"No."

"You don't know that."

His expression hardens. "I know you're not the problem."

"That's sweet."

"It's true."

"Those aren't always the same thing."

"Mara."

The name comes out rough.

You stroke your thumbs along his cheeks. "I'm not saying I'm the problem. I'm saying I have been one before."

His face changes. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Talk about yourself like evidence."

The words knock something loose in you. For a moment, you cannot answer.

John leans his forehead against yours. "I can't tell you not to worry," he says. "That would be stupid."

"Mm. Growth."

His mouth twitches against restraint. "But I need you to know I'm not going to let them turn you into leverage."

Your breath catches.

"They don't get to use you to get to me," he continues, voice low. "And they don't get to use me to scare you."

You close your eyes for a moment. "I'm prepared," you whisper.

John pulls back enough to look at you. "I know you are."

You blink at him.

He doesn't say it like Lemar did. He doesn't argue. He doesn't soften the truth until it becomes something easier. He simply sees you.

"But you don't have to prepare alone," he says.

Your throat tightens. You hate him a little for that.

"You're getting dangerously good at saying the right thing," you murmur.

His eyes soften. "Only with you."

You drop your hands from his face before you do something humiliating like cry over emotional competence.

John catches one of your hands before it falls completely. His gaze moves over your face, searching. Then, because he must sense you're one tender sentence away from dissolving, he changes the subject.

"So," he says quietly.

You look at him. "So?"

His thumb moves over the back of your hand. "You used your key."

The shift is so soft, so carefully placed, that for a second all you can do is stare at him.

Then your face warms.

"I did."

John looks toward the front door, then back at you. "Felt kind of natural."

"Don't get emotional about a key."

"I'm not."

"You are."

His mouth twitches. "Maybe a little."

You narrow your eyes. "You and Lemar are unbearable in different fonts."

"He said this was a neutral errand."

"Lemar says a lot of things."

"He also called me boyfriend."

Your eyes close slowly. "I'm going to kill him."

John's smile finally breaks through. It's small, tired, and unfairly beautiful. "He seemed proud of himself."

"He should mind his business."

"He never has."

"He should start."

John's fingers lace with yours. You look down at them, then back up.

The room has gone softer at the edges. The worry is still there. It hasn't left. It sits in the corner like a patient animal with too many teeth.

But John is here. Warm. Barefoot. Damp-haired. Looking at you like you're the only thing in the room he understands.

You tug lightly on his hand.

"Come to bed."

His eyes darken. Not all at once. Not crudely. Just enough.

"Mara."

"What?" You lift your brows. "We share a bed now."

His mouth curves. "Yeah, we do."

"Very domestic of us."

"Terrifying."

"Deeply." You step backward, pulling him with you. "Come on."

The warmth returns first. Then the heat beneath it. Then the careful pause he always gives you, even now, even after weeks of shared beds and stolen shirts and kisses that have been getting less innocent by the day.

"You sure?" he asks.

You step closer until your body nearly brushes his. "Yes."

John's hands tighten at your waist.

"Okay," he says softly.

Then he kisses you soft enough that it almost hurts.

His mouth moves over yours with the kind of patience that makes your knees unreliable, one hand sliding from your waist to your lower back while the other comes up to cradle the side of your neck. He walks you backward carefully, not rushing, not pushing, just guiding you toward the hallway as if the apartment has narrowed to the path between his mouth and the bedroom.

You go willingly.

Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers sliding into the damp hair at his nape. He makes a quiet sound when your nails graze lightly there, and you smile against his mouth because you are becoming terrible with power.

John notices. "You're proud of yourself again," he murmurs.

"A little."

His mouth brushes yours. "Problem."

You huff a small laugh and slide your fingers higher. You find his left ear.

John's breath catches before you even touch the freckle.

Your smile deepens. "Already?"

"Hart."

There it is, that warning with no ammunition.

Your thumb brushes over the tiny freckle on his earlobe. John stops walking for half a second. The sound he makes is low, quiet, almost helpless. It moves through you in a warm, wicked little bloom.

"You are so easy there," you whisper.

His eyes open, dark and narrowed. "Keep talking."

"Is that a threat?"

"No." His hand slides lower on your back, pulling you a fraction closer. "It's a warning."

You brush the freckle again.

John's jaw flexes. Then his mouth is on yours again, hotter now, less patient.

You stumble backward into the bedroom, laughing softly against his lips when your heel catches the edge of the rug. John catches you immediately, one arm firm around your waist, the other braced at your side.

"Careful," he murmurs.

You look up at him.

The word hangs strangely between you. You have both been so careful. Careful with grief, with want, with the ghost under your shirt and the soldier beneath his skin. Careful has kept you safe. Careful has also become a door neither of you knows how to open without breaking something.

You lift your hand to his face. "I'm here."

His eyes search yours.

Then his mouth softens, and he kisses you again, deeper.

He walks you back until your legs hit the edge of the bed. You sit, tugging him with you by the front of his shirt. John follows with a low breath, one knee sinking into the mattress beside your thigh as he leans over you.

His hand cups your jaw. His thumb traces your cheek.

"You tell me if you want me to stop," he says.

You nod.

His eyes sharpen slightly.

You swallow. "I will."

"Promise me."

The demand should annoy you. It doesn't. Not when his voice is rough with want and still threaded with restraint. Not when his body is asking for you and his first instinct is still to make sure you know the door is open.

You touch his cheek. "I promise."

John exhales, then his mouth lowers to your shoulder.

The shirt has slipped again, leaving skin bare to the cool air and his warm breath. His lips brush the curve first, a barely-there touch that sends a shiver through you. Then he kisses you properly, open-mouthed and slow, right where your shoulder slopes toward your neck.

Your head tips back before you can stop it. A soft sigh leaves you.

Pleased.

John stills for the smallest second, then he does it again.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt. "John."

His name sounds different like this. Less like a warning. More like permission.

His mouth moves along your exposed shoulder, patient and devastating, each kiss placed with maddening care. His hand settles on your bare leg, warm against your thigh, thumb brushing once over your skin.

You breathe in sharply.

He looks up immediately. "Okay?"

You nod, already reaching for him. "Yes."

His gaze stays on yours for another beat, making sure.

Then his hand moves again, slow over your thigh, his palm callused and warm, sliding carefully until his fingers curl at your hip. He kisses you as he does it, mouth returning to yours, and you fall back onto the bed, pulling him down with you.

John follows. Always careful with his weight. Always aware of where his hands are, where your body is beneath his, how much room you have to move.

You hate how much that undoes you.

His body settles over yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other still on your hip. Your legs shift around him naturally now, no panic in the movement, no apology.

Just want, just the heat of him and the familiar weight of his breathing against yours.

Your hands slide under the hem of his shirt, fingers pressing to the hard warmth of his back.

John groans into your mouth.

The sound sparks through you. "There it is," you breathe.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark. "You like that too much."

"I like a lot of things too much."

His mouth curves, but the smile shakes at the edges when your hands move over his skin.

"Yeah?" he asks.

You nod, then lift your hips slightly beneath him.

John's eyes close. His breath leaves him in a rough exhale.

Your own sound follows, small and helpless, when his hand slides beneath the edge of the shirt you stole from him.

His fingers find your waist first. Warm skin to warm skin.

You both go still.

It's not the first time he has touched you there.

These past few weeks have shifted things between you, kiss by kiss, touch by touch, the line between comfort and hunger thinning until you can barely see where one ends and the other begins.

His hands have learned your waist, your ribs, the dip of your back.

Your hands have learned the weight of his shoulders, the warmth of his stomach, the soft, secret sound he makes when your mouth finds his left ear.

Nothing has crossed that final line. But innocence has packed a bag and fled the apartment.

John's hand slides higher beneath your shirt, over the skin of your side, thumb tracing the curve of your ribs. Your back arches slightly, a pleased moan slipping from your mouth before you can trap it.

His eyes snap to yours.

There's heat in them, but also something else. Wonder. Tenderness. That quiet, dangerous awe he gets sometimes, as if he still cannot believe you're here beneath him, touching him back.

"Don't look at me like that," you whisper.

His hand pauses. "Like what?"

"Like that."

His mouth lowers to your jaw. "Can't help it."

You turn your face, catching his mouth again before he can make you feel anything too large for your chest.

The kiss burns hotter.

His hand moves under the shirt again, slow and deliberate, pushing the fabric higher just enough for his palm to spread over your bare stomach. You stiffen for half a second.

John feels it immediately. He stops. His mouth leaves yours.

"Love?"

You open your eyes. The concern in his face nearly breaks you.

"I'm okay," you say.

His gaze searches yours.

You place your hand over his, holding it there against your skin. Against the place where grief has lived in a language no one else could read.

His expression shifts.

He understands. Not all of it, no one can, but enough.

His thumb moves once. Soft and reverent. The touch is not apology this time. Not pity or fear.

Just love before the word has arrived.

You pull him back down.

John kisses you with a sound low in his throat, and the heat returns, threaded now with something so tender it makes your eyes burn. His hand stays beneath your shirt. His fingers trace your side, your waist, your ribs.

Every touch asks, every breath listens.

And you answer.

With the arch of your body. With your hands in his hair. With the soft sounds you no longer try to swallow because you have learned what they do to him.

A small moan escapes when his mouth returns to your shoulder, when his teeth graze lightly over the skin there, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your fingers dig into his back.

John groans against you. "God."

You smile, dazed and warm. "What?"

His mouth brushes your skin. "Those sounds."

Your face heats. "Don't."

"I can't." He lifts his head, eyes heavy-lidded and bright with something unguarded. "I like the sounds you make for me."

The words move through you, molten and sudden.

You tug at his shirt before either of you can get lost in the size of that feeling.

"Off."

His mouth stills against your skin.

When he lifts his head, the corner of his mouth curves. "Bossy."

"You like it."

His gaze drops to your mouth. "Yeah."

He pulls back long enough to strip the shirt over his head.

You have seen him shirtless before. In the mornings, after showers. Half-asleep in blue-gray light while you pretended not to stare because you had dignity, allegedly.

This is not the same.

Not with him over you like this. Not with his chest rising hard, skin warm under the lamp glow, every line of him familiar and new at once.

Your hands go to him immediately.

John's breath catches when your palms slide over his chest, then lower, over the tense plane of his stomach. His control slips by degrees, betrayed by the sharp inhale when your nails drag lightly over his ribs.

You look up. "Oh."

His eyes narrow. "Don't."

You smile, slow and delighted. "There?"

"Hart."

You do it again.

John groans, low and helpless, his head dipping toward your shoulder. The sound moves through you like heat through metal.

"You make sounds too," you murmur.

His laugh breaks against your skin, rough and breathless. "Apparently."

"I like them."

He lifts his head, eyes darker now. "Yeah?"

You nod.

Something hungry flashes over his face. Then his mouth is on yours again, and he kisses you until every clever word scatters out of your head.

His hands find the hem of the shirt you are wearing, his shirt.

You lift your arms.

John pulls it up slowly, his knuckles brushing your stomach, your ribs, the lower curve of your breasts. He keeps his eyes on yours until the last possible second. Then the shirt is gone, and the air touches you everywhere.

For one heartbeat, you want to cover yourself.

Because your body has been a battlefield. A shelter. A weapon. A graveyard. Because being seen has never been simple.

John sees the flicker.

He catches both your wrists before you can move them inward and brings your hands to his mouth. He kisses your knuckles one by one.

"You're beautiful," he says.

Your chest pulls tight. "Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you mean it."

He lowers your hands back to the bed on either side of your head and leans over you, his mouth near yours.

"I do."

The words burn.

You close your eyes, but John kisses them open again, one soft touch beneath your brow, then your cheek, then your mouth.

His lips move lower.

Your breath catches as he kisses the line of your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear, the place where your pulse is betraying you. His mouth drifts to your throat, reverent and slow, and then he stops.

Not because of you.

Because of the charm.

The little wolf rests against your chest, caught in the lamplight between your bare skin and his gaze.

For a second, the room changes shape.

John doesn't touch it. He only looks at it, then at you.

The silence is gentle, but it still cuts.

Your hand rises to the charm before you can think better of it. The metal is warm from your skin.

Bucky's ghost. Bucky's memory. Bucky's love.

Still there.

Still yours.

Still resting over your heart while John looks at you like he wants to be careful with every broken, breathing part of you.

Your throat tightens.

John's voice is quiet. "Love." He swallows. "You don't have to do anything."

The kindness of that almost hurts worse.

Your fingers curl around the charm. "I know."

"I mean it." His hand comes up, not to take it, just to rest beside yours on your chest, warm and steady. "I don't want you to feel like you have to choose."

Your eyes sting.

You look down at the little wolf, thumb brushing over the familiar shape. For a moment, you are somewhere else. Somewhere colder. Somewhere full of grief and blood and all the prayers you never said out loud.

Then John's thumb strokes once over your skin.

You breathe in. "I'm not choosing between ghosts and the living."

John's expression tightens, like the words have found somewhere soft in him and pressed.

You reach behind your neck with unsteady fingers. The clasp is small, suddenly stubborn, and your hand trembles once before John carefully covers it with his.

"Let me?"

You nod.

He shifts closer, his fingers brushing your hair aside with aching care. He unfastens the chain slowly, like the necklace is something sacred, not an obstacle. Like grief deserves gentleness even when you are setting it down.

The clasp gives.

The wolf charm slips into his palm.

John looks at it for a second, then back at you.

"You sure?"

You take the charm from him and press the cool metal to your lips. Your eyes close for half a breath. Then you set it carefully on the nightstand. Just resting there, safe in the low light.

When you look back at John, your chest feels unbearably bare.

No chain.

No metal.

No memory between your skin and his hands.

Only you.

Only him.

Your voice is soft when it comes. "Tonight, I want to be here with only you."

John's breath leaves him like something in him has come undone.

For a moment, he only looks at you.

His eyes are dark and bright, his face open in a way that makes your ribs ache.

Then he lowers himself over you again.

Skin to skin.

The contact steals every thought.

His chest presses to yours, warm and solid against the place the charm used to rest. His mouth finds yours, and when you kiss him back, something in you opens wider than fear.

John's hand curls at your hip. "You're here," he whispers against your mouth.

You slide your fingers into his hair. "I'm here."

His forehead drops to yours. "And I've got you."

You believe him.

The air between you changes.

Not all at once. Not sharply. It softens first, then warms, then deepens into something that makes your heart beat too hard.

John looks at the bare place on your chest where the charm used to rest.

Then he looks at you.

"I love you."

For a second, you forget there is a body beneath your skin. You forget the bed under your back, the warmth of his hand at your side, the careful tremble in his breath.

All you know is the shape of those three words.

They do not sound clean when he says them. Not perfect or polished. They sound dragged out of him, rough around the edges, too honest to be pretty. Like they had been living in his chest for weeks and finally broke the lock.

John is still above you. He looks like he has already accepted that the words are yours now, whether you keep them or hand them back. His thumb brushes beneath your eye once, careful and afraid and so warm it hurts.

"John," you whisper.

His name is all you have.

His throat works. "I didn't mean to scare you."

You shake your head. "You didn't."

His eyes search yours, still uncertain, still open in a way that makes something deep inside you ache. You have seen John Walker angry. You have seen him proud. You have seen him brave, stubborn, exhausted, protective enough to make your own fear bare its teeth.

But this is different.

This is John with his armor on the floor and his heart in his hands.

You lift your fingers from his hair and trace the side of his face. The movement is slow, because everything feels breakable now. His cheekbone. His breath. The space between his mouth and yours.

"I don't know what to do with that," you admit.

The truth lands softly.

John's eyes flicker, but he does not pull away.

"Okay," he says.

Just that.

Not wounded. Not demanding. Not trying to stuff the words back where they came from.

You almost hate him for that. For being patient when it would be easier if he pushed. Easier if he gave you something to fight, something to resent, something sharp enough to hide behind.

But John only lowers his forehead to yours and breathes you in like even your confusion is something he can hold.

"You don't have to say anything back," he murmurs.

Your throat tightens. "That's not fair."

His mouth brushes yours, barely a kiss. "I know."

"No." You close your eyes. "I mean you being good about it. That's not fair."

You feel his smile against your mouth.

"I'll try to be worse next time."

A laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it. It comes out shaky, almost wet, and John kisses the corner of your mouth like he loves that sound too.

Then the heat returns slowly through the cracks tenderness left open.

His body is still over yours, warm and solid. His hand rests against your side like he is afraid to move without permission now that the words have changed the room. Your legs are still tangled around him. Your fingers are still at his face.

And you want him.

God, you want him.

It is different now. Deeper. It does not crawl across your skin. It sinks beneath it, fills the hollow places, turns your heartbeat into something heavy and bright.

You tilt your face and kiss him.

John freezes for half a breath.

Then he kisses you back, slow at first, like he's letting you set the terms of this new world. His mouth moves carefully over yours, but his breath shakes when your tongue brushes his, and that tiny loss of control sends heat pouring through you.

You slide your hand down his chest, feeling the hard beat of his heart beneath your palm.

His hand flexes at your waist.

You kiss him harder.

John makes a low sound into your mouth, restraint fraying. You feel it in his shoulders, in the way his body lowers over yours, in the careful pressure of his hips settling between your thighs.

Your back arches.

Both of you inhale at once.

"Love," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. "We don't have to."

Your fingers curl against his skin. "I know."

"I don't want you to feel like this has to happen because of what I said."

Something inside you softens so violently it nearly undoes you. You cup his jaw. "John."

He goes still.

"I want you."

The words leave you quietly, but they hit him hard. His eyes darken. His mouth parts slightly. His fingers press into your skin.

You see the exact second he tries to make himself behave.

You decide, with great seriousness, to ruin that.

You lift your hips again, slow and deliberate.

John's eyes close. A rough breath tears out of him. "Mara."

"I want this," you whisper. "I want you."

When he opens his eyes, the look in them is almost too much.

Desire, yes. Enough to set the room on fire. But beneath it, something reverent. Something astonished. As if he has been handed something fragile and holy and is terrified his hands are too rough for it.

You pull him down by the back of his neck.

His mouth meets yours again, and this time there is no pretending the kiss is only a kiss.

John's hand cups your breast, his thumb brushing over you with a slowness that makes your breath fracture. He pauses, watching your face, learning the sound, learning the shape of your reaction beneath his palm.

His mouth follows.

Your back arches off the bed.

The sound that leaves you is not careful. It is not quiet enough. It is raw and soft and yours, and John reacts like it has gone straight through him. His hand grips your waist. His mouth becomes hotter, slower, patient in a way that makes your thighs tighten around his hips.

He stops. Looks up. Checks.

You nod before he can ask.

"Yes."

His mouth lowers again.

You learn him too.

The way his breathing changes when your nails scrape lightly over his back. The way his stomach tightens when your hand drifts lower. The way that tiny freckle on his ear still has the power to ruin him completely.

You reach for it.

John catches your wrist, eyes dark.

"Careful," he warns.

You are breathing hard, lips parted, body warm under his.

"You keep saying that."

His thumb moves over your pulse. "Because you don't listen."

"You like that too."

His mouth curves, but the smile disappears when you lift your head and kiss the freckle instead.

John shudders. A deep, broken sound pulls out of him, and his hips press down into yours before he can stop himself.

The contact makes you both gasp.

John looks at you.

There is no hiding what he wants now. No disguising it behind teasing, no wrapping it in restraint until it looks safer than it is.

He wants you.

All of you.

And you want the same.

Your hand slides down his chest to the waistband of his sweatpants.

He catches your wrist again, but this time his grip is weaker. Less warning. More plea.

"Mara."

You look at him. "Yes."

His jaw works. "Say it again."

Your heart stumbles.

You understand what he is asking. Not because he does not believe you. Because he needs to hear it with the world narrowed to this bed, this choice, this final step.

You lift your other hand to his face. "Yes, John."

His eyes close briefly.

When they open, something in them has changed.

Not control lost.

Control offered.

He kisses you then, deep and slow, and his hands move to your shorts. He does not remove them at first. He hooks his fingers in the waistband and waits. You lift your hips. That is all the answer he needs.

He draws them down your legs with care, mouth following the path of fabric and skin. He kisses your thigh, your knee, the inside of your calf, so tenderly that your throat tightens even as heat curls low in your belly.

When he comes back up the bed, you reach for him.

He lets you.

Your fingers push at his waistband, and this time he helps, shedding the last of his clothes with a breathless kind of impatience that makes you smile despite the pounding of your heart.

Then he is above you again. Skin to skin. The contact steals every thought.

John's chest presses to yours. His thigh slides between your legs. His hand curls at your hip, and the heat of him settles against you in a way that makes you gasp into his mouth.

He goes still immediately. "You okay?"

You nod, but your voice comes out shaky. "Yes."

His forehead drops to yours. "We can stop."

"I don't want to stop."

His eyes search yours.

You hold his gaze. "I don't want to stop."

The air leaves him in a slow, trembling breath. "Okay."

His mouth finds yours again as his hand moves between your bodies. The first touch makes you jolt from the sudden bright rush of sensation. John stills, learning you, waiting until your body eases beneath him.

"Tell me," he murmurs.

You swallow hard. "Softer."

His touch shifts instantly.

Your eyes close. "There."

He does it again.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders.

John watches your face like it is the only map he needs. He learns pressure. Rhythm. The places that make your breathing hitch and your hips lift toward his hand. He learns the little broken sound that leaves you when he touches you just right, and when he hears it, his own control fractures.

"Love," he says, voice rough.

You open your eyes.

He looks wrecked. Beautifully, painfully wrecked.

You reach for him too, fingers wrapping carefully around him. John groans, burying his face against your neck, his whole body shuddering at the touch.

You go still, startled by the power of it.

He laughs once against your skin, breathless and undone. "Don't stop."

So you don't.

You learn him by the sounds he cannot hide. By the way his hips move into your hand. By the tension in his arms, the heat of his mouth at your throat, the way his voice goes low and uneven when he says your name.

"Mara."

You love the sound. You love that it belongs to this moment, to his skin beneath your hands and his breath breaking against your jaw.

John pulls back enough to open the nightstand drawer with an unsteady hand. He finds protection, then pauses, looking down at you.

You nod before he can ask.

He prepares himself with shaking fingers, and the sight of him like that, careful even in his hunger, nearly undoes you.

Then he settles between your thighs again.

The whole room seems to hold its breath.

John leans down and kisses you once. A promise before the crossing.

"You tell me if anything feels wrong," he says against your mouth.

You brush his damp hair back from his forehead. "I will."

"I mean it."

"I know." You wrap your arms around his neck. "John."

His eyes meet yours.

"I trust you."

Something in his face breaks open.

He kisses you again, and as he does, he begins to push inside so slow your breath catches and holds.

Your fingers tighten at the back of his neck. John stills at once, body trembling over yours.

"Love?"

You breathe through it, eyes closed.

Not pain exactly. Pressure. Stretch. The overwhelming intimacy of being opened to someone who is looking at you like you are not something taken, but something received.

"I'm okay," you whisper.

His mouth brushes your cheek. "Look at me."

You open your eyes.

He's right there. Close enough that you can see the gold caught in his lashes from the lamplight. Close enough that his breath is yours. Close enough that the fear doesn't have room to grow teeth.

He moves another inch.

Your body yields slowly.

His jaw clenches. A rough sound slips from him, restrained and desperate.

"God," he breathes. "Mara."

You cup his face, keeping him with you.

He stops when he is fully inside.

Both of you go still.

There's no noise for a moment except your breathing.

You feel full of him. Surrounded by him. Held open not only by his body, but by the enormity of this choice, this trust, this warmth you have allowed into a room grief used to own alone.

John is shaking.

You realize it with a strange little ache. His arms are braced on either side of you, muscles tight, every inch of him holding back.

You stroke your thumb over his cheek. "You're shaking."

His laugh is barely sound. "Trying not to move."

The admission sends heat through you.

You shift beneath him experimentally.

His eyes close. His head drops forward with a low groan. You feel him everywhere. The sound makes your body clench around him.

John's breath breaks.

"Fuck," he whispers, and then immediately kisses your cheek like he has to apologize with his mouth.

You almost laugh, but the laugh turns into a gasp when he moves, just a little. A slow pull, a careful return.

Your whole body responds. Your nails press into his shoulders.

John watches you. "Okay?"

You nod quickly. "Again."

His eyes darken.

He moves again, still slow, still careful, but deeper this time. The sensation rolls through you, warm and startling and intimate enough to make your eyes burn.

He learns you one movement at a time.

Slow at first.

Listening to every breath.

Stopping when your body tenses. Continuing when your hips rise to meet him. Adjusting until the angle makes your mouth fall open and a moan spill out, helpless and sweet.

"There," you gasp.

John's control slips visibly.

His hand slides beneath your thigh, lifting it higher against his hip. The next thrust reaches something deeper, brighter, and your back arches off the bed.

John groans with you.

"There?" he asks, voice ruined.

You nod, breathless. "Yes. John, there."

He does it again and again.

The rhythm builds slowly. His body moves into yours with increasing certainty, and yours answers, hips lifting, thighs tightening around him, hands roaming over the damp heat of his back.

You learn the weight of him. The drag of him. The way his mouth searches for yours whenever the feeling threatens to become too much. The way he murmurs your name against your skin like he is trying to keep himself anchored. The way his hand finds yours on the mattress and laces your fingers together when your breath starts to shake.

You learn that he loves your shoulder. He returns to it again and again, kissing the bare curve like he has found a place of worship there.

You learn that the light scrape of your nails down his spine makes his rhythm falter. You learn that when you whisper his name right against his ear, John Walker loses the thread of every disciplined thought he has ever had.

And he learns you.

The place at your hip that makes you shiver. The pressure you like. The rhythm that pulls sounds from you faster than pride can catch them. The way your breath hitches right before pleasure crests too high.

His hand slips between your bodies again.

Your eyes fly open. "John."

"I've got you," he whispers.

He changes the angle of his hips, keeps moving inside you, and touches you at the same time.

The world narrows to sensation.

Heat.

Pressure.

His body over yours.

His voice in your ear.

"That's it, love," he murmurs, rough and tender. "Let me hear you."

Your body trembles.

You don't swallow the sound this time. You let it leave you.

John groans like it ruins him.

The pleasure builds, slow and relentless, coiling tighter with every stroke of his fingers and every deep movement of his body inside yours. You cling to him, breath breaking, face turned against his neck, your mouth finding any skin it can reach.

His pulse beats beneath your lips.

Alive.

Here.

Yours for this moment.

And there is nothing between you now. Nothing but his body, his breath, his hand wrapped around yours.

The pleasure gathers under your skin, rolls through your hips, your stomach, your chest.

John feels the change in you and follows it, his mouth at your throat.

"That's it," he whispers. "Let go. I've got you."

You believe him.

That's what breaks you open.

Not only the pleasure, though God, there is so much of it. Not only the way he moves inside you, deep and sure now, learning the rhythm that makes you fall apart beneath him.

It's the tenderness, the steadiness, he way he keeps one hand in yours while he takes you apart.

Your body tightens. Your breath catches.

John feels it. His voice goes rough. "Love?"

You cannot answer.

You can only cling to him as the pleasure crests, sudden and overwhelming, pulling a broken moan from your throat. Your whole body trembles beneath his. Your thighs lock around him. Your nails dig into his back as wave after wave rolls through you, bright and blinding and too much to hold in silence.

John watches you come apart.

The look on his face almost undoes you a second time.

Awe.

Hunger.

Love.

His rhythm falters, but he keeps moving, slower now, carrying you through it while you shake against him.

"That's my girl," he breathes, voice wrecked.

The words hit something deep. Possessive, but gentle. Reverent, not claiming what you have not given.

And tonight, you have given so much.

You pull his mouth to yours. John groans into the kiss. His body tenses above you, his control finally fraying to its last thread.

"Where are you?" you whisper against his mouth.

His eyes open, confused and dark.

You cup his face. "Stay with me."

The words do to him what his did to you.

His breath breaks.

"I'm with you," he says.