A veryprairieberry girl

Sunlight attempted to break through your curtains; the sheer white blocking anything but the warmth. You felt it creep along the bed, encasing you in a bundle of blankets that trapped the sun’s glow. Shifting to your side, you expected to feel him there. Feel the broad expanse of his chest as you reached out with still closed eyes.

You found nothing but the cold sheets instead.

The first thing that ran through your mind as your eyes fluttered open, was that he must have woken up early enough to head out to work. It would explain why you never heard him leave. While he may share your bed at night, this wasn’t his home. Not entirely.

The drawer you emptied for him only held a flannel or two—mainly for you to use—but nothing essential remained. At night his touch, his body, was yours but once morning came, they were nothing but a lingering memory that stuck to the edges of your mind. If it weren’t for his scent that still remained on the blankets—you would have thought you imagined him.

With a sigh, you sat up. The sheets pooled at your waist, exposing your bare chest. It’s not like you needed him here in the morning, but waking up alone always felt hollow without him. Tommy turned your house into a space you actually found solace in, but the serenity never truly lasted. So, you were left with no other choice but to swallow the pain like it was medicine.

When in fact it was poisoning you slowly; Tommy simply remained your antidote.

Searching through the drawer, you pulled out one of his flannels. More than happy to be wrapped up in his scent.

Eventually, the time would come when you would have to go about your day, and the memory of last night would shift into becoming just that. A memory. But for now you basked in the afterglow that still stuck to your skin.

The urge to tell Tommy what you were feeling would have normally come out sooner or later. But this feeling, this aching loneliness that ate away at the inside of your body, was something you kept to yourself. If he knew how him leaving each morning affected you, he would let the guilt fester in his heart. Because that was his weakness at the end of the day. It wasn’t you, but the feeling that his actions caused you to hurt.

You found that it was better to keep him in the dark, than to burden him with something that would ultimately change the trajectory of your relationship. It was easier this way. Or at least that was a belief you continued to tell yourself. You loved him, this he knew, and he loved you all the same. But the future was a topic that terrified you enough to keep it hidden until things could one day be different.

The scent of coffee filled the bedroom. You figured the timer on the machine must have gone off, starting the brew. That became your alarm most days, the aroma of a good cup of coffee usually pulled you out of bed faster than an alarm.

Tightening the flannel around your bare body, you made your way downstairs, instantly regretting forgetting your slippers as your feet connected with the cold hardwood floors. You wouldn’t be down here long, ready to grab a cup of coffee and crawl back into the safety of your blankets. Yet the sound of a crooning southern voice playing softly in the background and someone humming along, stopped you in the doorway of the kitchen.

Tommy stood at the stove, attempting to flip what you assume was an omelet at one point. Even though you couldn’t see his face, you knew his expression. The furrow of his eyebrows as he concentrated, his lips pursed in frustration when things didn’t exactly go his way.

“Good morning,” you said, drawing his attention away from the catastrophe on the stove.

He turned, his chest and stomach on display. You felt heat creep up your face at the sight of the dark hickeys that trailed down into his jeans. Last night was still a slight blur, but you could vividly recall leaving those—marking him as yours. A wild need to possess him took you over as he was sprawled out beneath your body. Other times you would feel the slight tinge of embarrassment creep into your mind, but you knew he loved it.

“You’re up,” he responded, his eyes dragging down the expanse of your bare legs. His flannel only covered so much—leaving you open and free for him to admire. “I was making you breakfast.” His tongue swept along his bottom lip. You wondered if you left a slight bruise from where you had sucked it into your mouth.

“Smells good.”

He smiled, turning back to flip off the burner. “Smells like burnt shit, but thanks for lying.”

Moving around the table, you slid your hands up his back, lips pressing to his shoulder and suddenly…the ache disappeared. Retreating to the far reaches of your mind, giving you the peace you needed. Sighing against his skin, you felt him shiver beneath your touch. You know his reaction by heart now. Could practically see the way his eyes fluttered closed for a moment, the pleasure of your touch grounding him.

Tommy would forever be a man with a mission. Never once able to sit still long enough to not fly away, but you were the gravity holding him down. You were the reason he hadn’t left this town yet. Though he left every morning, there still remained the guarantee that no matter what, he’d return once the sun went down. Falling into your bed with whispered promises he would eventually break, and a love that was sweeter than honey.

“I thought you had work this morning,” you said, wrapping your arms around his waist, his hands shifting to rest over yours.

“Called Joel while you were asleep. Told him I’d be coming late.”

You hummed, hand dragging slowly down his stomach. “I bet he wasn’t happy about that.”

The soft huff of laughter he let out made your heart beat just a bit quicker. But it was the soft groan that rumbled in his chest as your hand dipped into his jeans, that had a fresh wave of slick pooling out of you. He was already hard, his cock heavy in your hand as you slowly palmed him. The realization made you throb, the heady dizziness of lust rushing over you. Wrapping your hand around his length, you felt him twitch, dragging another grunt from him.

If you had the time, you’d drop to your knees for him there in the kitchen. Make him see stars the way he did to you last night. But Joel was an impatient man when it came to Tommy. You knew he only had barely an hour tops and you wanted him inside you before the time ran out.

He turned quickly, forcing you to let go of him. The small sound of protest you let out, cut off by his lips, his hand wrapping gently around your throat to keep you there, tongue delving into your mouth with ease. Tommy knew what made you melt into his body, knew how to drag out all manner of sounds from you, and you gave in willingly. You were his to mold. His to have.

“Baby,” he breathed, his fingers digging into your ass, dragging you closer. “I can feel you soakin’ my jeans.”

A wet moan was pressed to his jaw. Your hips rolled over his denim clad thigh that was slotted between your legs. You knew you were leaving a wet spot on the fabric—that he’d have to wear these jeans to work probably—but you couldn’t care. Not when you felt the fabric catch on your clit, sending a shock through your body.

“Want you,” you gasped, nails digging into his chest. “I need you inside me.”

He moaned, hips grinding against yours. You felt him pull down his flannel, cupping your breast in his palm, thumb running over your peaked nipple, before he dipped down and took it into his mouth. Gasping, your head fell back, hips rolling over his leg even faster as the pleasure continued to mount in your body. Heat spilling into every part of you, burning you from the inside out.

“Tommy.”

He groaned as you pulled at his curls, dragging his lips back to yours. If there was a place you’d want to spend forever with, it was here with him. Wrapped up in your small safe haven of just each other. No one else existed when you were with Tommy. He consumed you, yet you gave into it without question. There was no one else for you and he knew it.

Dragging the piece of fabric off your body, his calloused palms ran along your skin, sending a shiver through your body at his light touch. You whimpered, barely able to open your eyes due to the dizziness clouding your mind. He smiled at your reaction, eyes dark with lust and yet somehow within the brown, you saw the light he had within. The light you ached for.

There he was, pouring it into you with each kiss pressed to your skin. He promised you forever without saying it and you wanted so badly for him to keep it this time.

“Take me upstairs baby,” you breathed into his mouth, hand feeling his stomach clench as you pressed your palm to his hot skin.

He shook his head. “Can’t do that ma’am.”

“What?” Pulling back, you felt him smile against your throat, his teeth sinking into your skin a moment later. “W-why?” you rasped, fingers curling around his hair in an effort to grasp onto something stable.

“Want to eat you,” he mumbled against you, teeth closing around your earlobe and tugging. “And I eat my meals in the kitchen.”

If it were any other time and his fingers weren’t inching towards your aching clit, you would have laughed. Told him he was an idiot in the most loving voice you could muster—your emotions bubbling over with a single look from him. But before you could get the word out, his fingers circled your clit, causing you to sag into his hold. You buried your head into his neck, your cry muffled against his skin as he built the rapidly growing pressure in your stomach.

“You gonna come for me honey?” You nodded, hips rolling over his thigh faster in an attempt to get there, to feel the hot bliss wash over your skin. “I know you want to.”

“Tommy,” you panted, nails digging into his shoulder. “Please.”

He groaned, fingers digging down to spread you, your slick practically dripping down his hand. “You sound so fuckin’ pretty when you beg. Alright honey, I got you.”

You keened when he pressed you down harder on his thigh, guiding you through the small stunted thrusts. Vaguely you were aware of how much time was passing, but the worry that he’d leave soon was washed from your mind the second he pinched your clit between his fingers. You sobbed into his neck, eyes rolling back as the dam finally broke, your body going taut—pleasure flooding you. It practically spilled out of you, overwhelming every part of your being, and Tommy kept going.

He pushed and pulled your hips, dragging you along his thigh and smearing your cum along the fabric until they were good and ruined. The pleasure continued to build, burning so hot inside you that you could barely see straight. If you weren’t careful you wouldn’t be able to find a way back to yourself, but maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe he wanted to ruin you so perfectly, you’d never be the same after him.

Although who were you kidding. There’d never be anything after Tommy.

“Oh god oh god,” you chanted, your withering moan being swallowed by his lips colliding with yours.

Spit trailed down your chin as he pulled away. The two of you combined; you expected him to wipe it away. Only he smeared it across your cheek, his dark eyes following his thumb as it dragged along your skin.

“On the floor,” he said, his voice gruff and thick with lust.

Even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t have been able to deny him. Your mind had settled into that sweet spot of numbness that allowed him to maneuver your body in any way he pleased. Without realizing it, you found yourself spread on the kitchen floor, his flannel now parted to reveal the expanse of your naked body. A sight that Tommy was indulging himself in.

“So damn beautiful,” he murmured, his hand trailing up your waist, fingers stroking the side of your breast. “And all fuckin’ mine.”

Your body jolted, a shaky breath leaving you as he dropped down your body. Lips kissing and teeth biting along your hips—the dichotomy of pleasure and pain turning the molten burn into a raging fire. If there’s one thing you could expect with Tommy it was this. The softness that came with his touch.

He made you fall in love with his laughs, his jokes, but he owned you with his lips—his hands that spread you open, revealing you to his eyes.

“Baby,” you sighed as he pulled your legs up and over his shoulders, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“Yeah honey?”

The small word brought a smile to your lips. “Love you.”

You watched his eyes light up, his lips parting into a smile so big you felt it in your chest. There it was. The reason Tommy could call your heart his. You met him unexpectedly and before you knew it…he had you with that smile alone. He was the one you could call home, the one you saw yourself spending forever with. If only you knew that Tommy felt the exact same way—that the small little box tucked away in his jacket pocket was burning a hole right through his heart at this very moment.

“I love you so damn much,” he said, placing a kiss on your inner thigh.

The clock that hung on the kitchen wall taunted you, telling you that eventually your time with him would be up. That he’d get up, go to work, and leave nothing but the pleasurable ache between your thighs and sore bites up and down your skin. You wanted to capture this moment in your hands, to hold it close when he left. But all you could do was remain in it—savor his touch, his lingering love that burned you slowly, sensually.

The first lick of his tongue through your pussy sent a jolt up your body. You gasped, hips canting up slightly to meet his mouth as he moaned into you. Tommy was insatiable when it came to you, this became clear early on in your relationship. What you didn’t know was how enamored he was with your taste. How he craved you constantly. You learned quickly that if you didn’t cut him off, Tommy would spend hours between your thighs.

His lips attached to your clit, sucking it into his mouth and causing your head to fall back against the floor with a soft thud. Sparks littered up your spine, a broken sob of his name echoing off the kitchen walls. You were thankful the floor was so cold, because you were currently overheated, your body desperate for some balance to the madness.

“F-fuck,” you gasped, eyes falling shut, hand digging into his unruly curls. “You’re so good. I’m–fuck Tommy.” Your words broke off into a whine, his tongue pressing against your entrance.

He lost himself, the taste of you becoming an addiction he couldn’t get rid of, but at the end of the day…he wouldn’t want to. His nails scraped along your thighs as he moaned into your pussy, his hips grinding into the floor to appease the need he felt growing. Licking into you, he watched your mouth drop open in a silent sob, your legs shaking with each flick of his tongue along your clit. You wouldn’t last long, he knew this. 

Except he was adamant to remain here with you, unwilling to leave until he felt you gush into his mouth.

Lifting his head, he heard your broken whines of protest echo in the air. The small beg to have him keep going caused his cock to throb painfully in his jeans. You were beautiful like this. Incoherent with pleasure and body covered with a sheen of sweat that made you glow in the early morning sunlight. He grinned, licking at his bottom lip, resembling a starved man desperate for another taste of his meal.

“I know, I know,” he murmured, shifting up swiftly to press his lips against yours. Sharing your taste as he licked deeply into your mouth. “My pretty baby.”

“I want you inside me,” you begged, hips bucking up to grind against his. “Please Tommy, need you to fill me—” He cut you off with a sharp gasp, his fingers sliding through your spit slicked pussy.

“‘M not done honey.”

The beg was on the tip of your tongue, another plea to hopefully convince him of what you both wanted. Him spitting into your pussy lewdly cut you off. Your eyes rolled back, his tongue spreading his spit up to your clit, fingers prodding at your entrance. The plea died in your throat—an incoherent cry of his name overtaking as his fingers curled into you, finding the spot along your walls without trying.

Tommy knew your body well enough to notice the signs. The way your legs trembled, how your walls clamped down around his fingers. You were right on the edge and he wanted to see you fly off. Moaning against your pussy one more time, he scraped his teeth gently along your clit, fingers rubbing against your g-spot in quick movements. The pleasure once again built, mind growing hazy with it as he continued to push you until you were right there.

Glancing down, you caught sight of him thrusting his hips against the floor, desperate to get himself there and that did it. You snapped, brokenly sobbing his name as your hips grinded against his mouth. He let you use him, doing his best to continue stimulating you, the wet sound of his fingers thrusting into your pussy now echoing through the room.

Pleasure filled you, burning its way through your body until you could do nothing but silently scream. You tried to catch your breath, but it was stuck—lodged in your chest—forcing you to take in gasps of air. All the way through, Tommy continued to lick and suck at your clit, grunting with each thrust of his hips. He was aching for you, nearly on the edge but unable to fully finish.

“Taste so fuckin’ good honey,” he mumbled drunkenly into your pussy, his eyes shut and mind in a state of delirium. “Shit—” The button of jeans knocked against the floor, his forehead falling to rest on your hip.

“Tommy,” you breathed, fingers curling around his arm and trying to tug him up your body. But not before he kissed above your clit, licking one last time into you.

His hand slapped against the floor above your head, tongue pushing your cum into your mouth and sending a shiver through your body. Even as your shaky hands dipped into his jeans, pulling him out, he still asked to keep tasting you. That’s how things worked in his mind. Seeing you cum was worth more to him than getting off himself.

“Want you to cum,” you mumbled into his mouth, tilting your hips up and notching his cock at your entrance.

“Fuck honey.” He gasped, as you started to fuck yourself on the very tip of his cock, his hand moving down to keep himself steady. “You want me to fill you up?”

You nodded, whining his name against his cheek. “Need it baby.”

Pumping himself in quick strokes, he felt his balls draw up—the tightening in his abdomen nearly causing him to double over. It wouldn’t take him long at all; his release already having built as he ate you out. The feeling of your hand moving to cup his balls did him in. With a hoarse shout he felt something break inside of himself, your walls clamping down around his cock as he finally pushed himself into your pussy.

You sighed at the warm feeling of his cum spurting along your walls, filling you until it dripped down and smeared along your thighs. But nothing compared to the sight of Tommy lost in his own bliss. His mouth dropped open, eyebrows pulling tight as a flush of red took over his face and chest. It would take him a while to come back to you, his mind buzzing from having cum so hard.

With a contented sigh, he pressed the rest of his weight on you. “I’m definitely not making it now,” he mumbled, smiling against your chest.

“I don’t need Joel banging on my front door,” you replied, shoving lightly at his shoulder.

He laughed, teeth sinking into the top of your breast, his cock twitching inside of you. “I’ll call him and tell him…”

“Hey sorry I can’t come in today. Got too busy fucking my girlfriend on the kitchen floor.”

“Perfect.”

“Tommy!”

His head raised, smile pulling so wide you could see the slight crinkle in the corner of his eyes. “I’ll say it in a nicer way.”

“You’ll tell him nothing at all.” You cupped his cheek, lips sliding against his softly. “You will get up, wash your jeans, get another cup of coffee, and get out of here before we incur the wrath of the other Miller.”

He sighed into your mouth. “I don’t want to go.”

Your heart twisted in your chest, the reminder of time once again filling you with a dread you could never escape. Neither of you wanted to part, too wrapped up in what could be. But eventually you would have to open your eyes and see what this was. Just two people who loved each other too much to give this their all. A pattern that would never stop.

“I don’t want you to go,” you admitted, finally letting that painful ache be seen by him.

“Then I won’t—”

“You have to.”

Tommy’s eyes searched yours, trying to find something in him he could fight for. Something that would assure him of that single question still residing on the tip of his tongue. He wanted forever with you. Wanted a house together, a dog or cat, the life that he watched his parents once have. He wanted you.

Before he could stop himself, his mouth was moving.

“I want to marry you.”

Your eyes went wide, heart beating rapidly in your chest. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Silence passed between you for a brief moment, the shock now being replaced with a sinking feeling. He wouldn’t be saying this if it were a different scenario. In fact you were certain that he wouldn’t even go near this topic on any other day.

“This is just the heat of the moment talking, Tommy,” you said, in an attempt to save yourself from the pain.

His eyes narrowed. “No it’s not.”

“You’re still inside me! You shouldn’t be saying this unless you’re sure that—” His hips grinding into yours cut you off as you gasped.

“You want me down on one knee I’ll do that honey. Want me to give you romance and dinner and everything in between? I’ll do it. But you’ve got to know I’m more serious now than I have ever been.”

“Tomm—”

“Before you can continue your argument—which I’ll let ya—let me go get the ring.”

Your jaw snapped shut, breath catching in your chest at the sight of his grin. “You…you have a ring?”

“Yes honey. I do.”

“Y–You’re serious?”

He nodded, his thumb brushing the top of your cheek. “I want forever with you. If you’ll have me.”

If you listened hard enough, you would have been able to hear your heart burst. The ache now vanished the longer you looked him in the eyes to see the truth. It was there you found it. Small hints of a future that you yearned for was now being offered to you and this time the promise he made would stick. Laughing, you pulled him down for a kiss, your legs hiking over his hips to keep him there with you.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” he asked, parting from you long enough to simply give you another chaste kiss.

You shuffle closer, drawn in by the smell knowing it was something sweet and buttery, something that makes your stomach wake up before the rest of you does. You lean your hip against the counter beside him and look over.

On the cutting board there's a pancake. Not just any pancake though. It's shaped like a heart, but it’s also very lopsided. One side is rounder than the other, and the point at the bottom is a little too wide, like the heart is wearing boots.

You stare at it for a beat, then back at him wondering if he wanted it to look like that. "Is that supposed to be a heart?"

Joel finally turns lifting his eyebrows at your question. His eyes flick to the pancake and then back to you, like he's bracing for impact. He figured it would have been a little more obvious what he was making.

"It is a heart." He says firmly and with confidence.

You bite your lip trying not to crack a smile or laugh. "Joel, that is not a heart."

"Well it's a rustic heart then." He corrects like he just settles his argument. "Handmade if you will, one of a kind."

Your laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It's quiet at first and then it grows, the sound spilling up into the roof of the kitchen until your cheeks ache. You cover your mouth with your hand, but it doesn't help.

Joel watches you with that look a half exasperation, half fondness he pretends he doesn't have. His mouth tugs at the corner anyway, betraying him loving the sound of your laughter.

"Go on then." He mutters trying his best to sound upset. "Laugh it up."

"I'm not laughing." You say in between fits of giggles.

He sighs like you've put him through something, then slides a plate toward you with exaggerated patience. "Sit."

You obey cause there's something about Joel saying a simple word like that with a low and certain tone that makes your body relax before you've even decided to. You climb onto the stool, tuck your feet up on the rung, and watch as he flips another pancake in the pan. This one looks normal as it's round and golden brown.

You eye him. "So you can make regular pancakes."

Joel doesn't look at you knowing exactly what you’re trying to say to him without actually saying it. "Yeah."

"Then why the—"

He taps the spatula against the pan once, like a warning. "Don't start."

You grin into your hands. He plates the normal pancake and then pauses glancing at the heart pancake like it's a problem he intends to solve through sheer stubbornness. He moves it onto your plate like it's a precious artifact. Then he reaches for a little jar by the stove.

You blink at it. "Is that...?"

"Strawberry jam." He finishes your sentence as if it's a totally normal thing for Joel Miller to have on hand at dawn. He cracks the lid open and sets it beside your plate. "Figured you'd want it."

Your heart does something small and stupid in your chest. You poke the heart pancake with your fork. It's feels quite soft and fluffy. It gives easily, like it's already surrendering to being loved despite its flaws.

You look up at him your heart fluttering at the effort. "You made me breakfast."

Joel leans back against the counter, arms folding across his chest. "Mm."

"For no reason then huh." He shrugs one shoulder, like it's nothing. Like he didn't wake up and decide to be tender on purpose. Like he didn't stand here shaping batter into a heart with a man's concentration who's survived worse things than embarrassment.

"For a reason." He quickly corrects you.

"Oh?"You ask trying not to sound too hopeful, too soft around the edges.

Joel's gaze drifts away for a second, like he's deciding whether to say it. Then he looks back at you, and there's something steady and gentle in his eyes that makes you feel like you're being held even from across the kitchen.

"You've been doin' a lot," he says simply like he's almost shy to admit his reason, "and you don't always let yourself get taken care of."

Your throat tightens. You glance down at the plate, the jam, the ridiculous brave little pancake-heart with boots. "Well I'm fine Joel."

"I know." Joel's voice lowers a bit softer. "That ain’t the point though."

The kitchen feels warmer now, like the day is turning its face toward you. He's never gone out of his way to do something like this for you. Especially a gesture one would consider cute and sweet.

Joel watches you for a moment longer, then adds, almost gruffly not being the type for sweetness. "Eat before it gets cold."

You nod cause if you try to speak you're not sure what will come out, and you don't really want to ruin this moment. You spread jam across the heart pancake. The jam bleeds into the fluffy surface, bright and sweet, almost like it's seducing you with the first bite.

It's good, like genuinely really good. The kind of good that makes your shoulders drop, makes your eyes flutter closed for a second, and makes you realize you were hungry in ways you hadn't admitted to.

When you open your eyes, Joel is closely still watching you, like your reaction matters. Like your comfort is the thing he's trying to build with his hands.

"Okay I'll have to admit," you say quietly voice full of feeling and syrup. "This is phenomenal."

Joel's mouth curves, small and pleased. You could feel his head getting a little bigger at the compliment. "Told you."

"You did not tell me." You counter pointing your fork at him. "You've never told me you could bake perfect pancakes."

"Didn't have to." He pushes off the counter and reaches for his own mug, and takes a sip like he's trying to act casual. Like he didn't just feed you a love note disguised as breakfast.

You take another bite, then glance at him over the rim of your plate. "So. Are you gonna explain the heart situation?"

Joel pauses mid-sip, and slowly sets the mug down. "It's just a heart."

"It's a boot heart." You playfully remind him again, not letting him feel total victory.

His eyes narrow, but there's a spark of amusement hiding in there. "You want me to make you another one don’t you?"

"Yes." Responding immediately with no hesitation. He stares at you like you've made a ridiculous request.

Then he sighs dramatically even though it's technically his fault for feeding you delicious food. "You're impossible."

You smile sweet and bright. "And yet you love me."

For a moment, the kitchen goes very still. Joel's expression shifts, just slightly almost like the words land somewhere deep and soft. Like he tries to pretend they don't.

Then he reaches out, and with the back of his knuckle he brushes a dot of jam from the corner of your mouth, slow and careful. His touch lingers like he's memorizing you. Like this is something he wants to remember for a long time.

When he finally speaks his voice is low but certain and firm.

"Yeah." He says with pride and no uncertainty. "I do."

Your chest aches in the nicest way. You catch his wrist gently before he can pull away, just to keep him there for a second longer. Your thumb slides over the rough skin of his hand, and you look up at him like you're letting yourself be seen.

"Thank you." You whisper.

Joel's gaze flicks to your mouth, then back to your eyes. "Ain't nothin'."

"It is to me Joel." You insist soft but stubborn.

He looks like he wants to argue. Instead, he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead slow, warm and unhurried. It feels like a promise. It feels like a home you can step into.

When he straightens, he clears his throat and reaches for the spatula again like he needs something to do with his hands.

"Alright." He grumbles in defeat turning back to the stove. "I'll make you another."

Grinning so hard it almost hurts, and clapping like a small child. "Make it cuter this time."

Joel's shoulders shake with a quiet laugh as he pours batter into the pan. "Don't push it darlin'."

I'd been seeing Bobby for a couple months now. We had met at a coffee shop, both of us reaching for the same mobile order. We'd had a chuckle and he asked me to dinner. We've been out several times since, but both of our work schedules don't always line up, so we're left chatting over text inbetween shifts. Lately the texts had gotten spicier, complete with photos from both of us. At least this way I could make sure I was at the right angle with the right lighting. My phone lights up, vibrating on my sidetable as I pull a shirt back over my head. Odd. I thought he was working and couldn't use his phone. Maybe he had a break. I grab my phone, the screen lighting up as I sit on my bed.

Benny: I'm pretty sure this wasn't for me, unless you have something pretty important to tell me.

I can feel the color drain from my face. Benny. That says Benny. Not Bobby. Benny. As in my best friend Benny. The best friend whom I've never had feelings for. The Benny that's like my older brother. No. No no no no.

Frantically, I open the text, sure I'm not looking at this right. I definitely tapped Bobby's name to send. Definitely. I think. I find Bobby's chat and open it, finding no picture sent.

"Oh shit…no no no!" Nervously, I move to Benny's chat and open it. And there, spread eagle in all her naked glory, was me from 2 minutes ago, flirting with the camera.

My face heats up and I want to throw myself out the window. Benny has been with me through some tough times, and I him, but not like this. I didn't ever want him to see this side of me. Suddenly, my phone rings, Benny's photo lighting up the screen. I let it go to voicemail. He calls back. We repeat this 2 more times.

Benny: You know I won't stop calling. Just pick up. It's ok.

The phone rings again and I take a breath, hitting answer. "Benny, I…I hit your name by accident. I thought I was sending them to Bobby, not you, and I-"

He chuckles. "Hey, no it's ok. Really. Now I can say I see you inside AND out."

I smile, despite the embarrassment still coursing through my veins. "Benny, I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

"No, I won't ever stop apologizing. I -" My phone beeps in my ear. "Hold on." I look down at the screen, a photo text from Benny. "Do I want to open this?"

He chuckles. "Just open it."

Slowly, I tap the message. He's sent me a giant eggplant emoji.

"There. Now I've sent you a dick pic."

We both crack up and I can feel myself relaxing a little.

"At least it was me and not someone from work."

I groan. "Yeah I would quit. They'd never see me again."

"They'd have seen enough of you."

"Fuck off."

Benny chuckles, but then his voice turns serious. "I deleted it from my phone and our chat."

"Thanks, Benny."

"No problem. Send it to Bobby. He's the one spelled B-O-B-B-Y."

"Fuck you," I chuckle and hang up to his laughter. I end up retaking the photo and sending that to Bobby, reading the name on the screen several times before hitting send.

Benny truly is the best friend.

-------

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At first, he thought it was a fluke. A mistake. But it kept happening. And after the third cup, he knew it was intentional.

She never said anything. Didn’t ask for thanks. Just left it there like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

He noticed her long before the coffee. The way she moved through chaos with quiet focus. The way she stayed calm when things got messy. The way her laugh—rare, but genuine—cut through the sterility of the ER like sunlight through blinds.

Jack had spent years perfecting the art of distance. He kept things professional. Efficient. Impersonal. It was easier that way. Safer. But something about her made that wall feel… thin.

So one Monday morning, after a hellish double, he got there early. Bought a second coffee. Sweet, with a splash of cream, the way she always ordered it.

He left it on the break room table and leaned against the counter, waiting.

She walked in, paused mid-step, staring at the cup like it might explode.

“You… got me coffee?” she asked, voice edged with disbelief.

He shrugged. “Figured it was my turn.”

She took a sip. Her eyes softened. “Thanks.”

He nodded, kept his expression flat, and walked out. But as he turned the corner, he felt something strange tug at his mouth. A smile, small and involuntary. He hadn’t smiled like that in a long time.

[...]

It became a thing. No one talked about it, not even them.

Some days it was coffee. Other times, food left in the fridge with his name scribbled in her neat handwriting. Once, she handed him a smoothie with a deadpan, “Don’t fight me on this, you need something green.”

He didn’t fight her. He never did.

It was easier not to think too hard about what it all meant. About how he found himself noticing when she wasn’t around. Or how he started showing up five minutes early on her shifts, pretending it was for paperwork.

He liked routine. Control. But this? This was different. It didn’t feel like losing control. It felt like giving it up, willingly.

[...]

Then one day, Dana cornered him in the hallway, grinning like a kid with a secret.

“So,” she said, “you and her, huh?”

He frowned. “What about us?”

She just laughed and walked away.

It shouldn’t have rattled him. But it did.

Later that night, he waited by the exit, two coffees in hand. He told himself it was nothing. Just routine. Just habit.

But when she saw him, her smile did something to his chest. Made it tighten, then ease.

“Late shift?” she asked.

“Nope.” He held out her coffee. “Just wanted to make sure you got this.”

Their fingers touched when she took the cup. This time, neither moved away.

“You know,” she said softly, “people are starting to talk.”

He looked at her. Really looked. Saw the question she didn’t say out loud.

“About what?”

“About us.”

And for the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot let himself smile. Fully, openly. No walls. No mask.

“Let them.”

Because he knew now: it was never just about the coffee.

[...]

No two days in the emergency department were ever the same.

Some nights were quiet, with only a couple of patients coming in with fevers or coughs. Other nights were utterly chaotic, ambulances rolling in back-to-back, alarms blaring, doctors and nurses moving like a storm through the hallways.

But one thing never seemed to change: the patients who thought the emergency department was the perfect place to find a date.

You learned that lesson after just a week of working in the ED.

It didn’t matter if someone had a broken arm or had suffered a heart attack; some men still found the energy to wink, grin, or make comments that made your skin crawl while you were trying to work. Sometimes it was harmless. Most of the time, it wasn’t. And there was no running away when you were their doctor.

So you developed a plan.

When you transferred to PTMC and started working the night shift, the solution became routine. You weren’t married. But a simple ring on your finger changed everything.

It wasn’t flashy, just a simple silver brand that lived on your left hand whenever you had to work a shift. Most people assumed it was a wedding ring from a happy marriage, and you let them think that. In reality, it had cost ten dollars from an online store.

But it worked.

Some patients would never see you as their doctor, someone who had spent years in med school at the top of their class. Instead, they only saw a pretty woman standing close enough to flirt with.

However, when was there a ring on your finger? Suddenly, you were someone’s wife.

So the comments stopped. The winks. The “you got a boyfriend?” question. Everything disappeared. Apparently, being someone’s wife made you off-limits in a way that simply saying no never did. Like you were someone else’s property, it made them hesitate. Stupid, but the logic worked, so the ring stayed.

If any of your new co-workers noticed it, they never mentioned it or just assumed the obvious. Except Jack.

Jack Abbot noticed everything around him.

It was a habit from years as an army medic and now attending in one of the busiest emergency departments in the city. Jack didn’t just see charts and symptoms. He saw the small things, the way someone held their shoulder, the slight limp in their step, the tremor in their hand.

And he noticed your ring. Not only because he was staring, but also because it was always there. You had a habit of twisting it when charting. It tapped against the counter when you were thinking. It left a bump under your gloves. It was a small detail, but Jack’s brain catalogued it anyway.

You were still new, and the few details that Jack knew about you had him intrigued: married, new to the hospital and worked well under pressure. And then there was something else he couldn't quite place, the pull he felt towards you.

This night shift had started like any other, chaos in bursts but slowed at times. You were tucked into your usual rhythm, moving between patients, checking vitals and charting. 

It wasn’t until the trauma phone went off that it paused your movements.

“Level two trauma, motor vehicle collision," Lena shouted as she answered the call. “Five minutes out.”

Your adrenaline spiked, and Jack was already moving, tablet in one hand, gloves snapping as he prepped for the incoming patient. You were paired on this trauma together, moving almost instinctively as a team.

The patient arrived bloodied, unconscious, and chest rattling with each forced breath. You slid the IV line into the patient’s arm while Jack called out instructions for the rest of the team. 

Jack’s eyes were everywhere at once, vitals, monitors, and the team's movement, but his gaze happened to flick across your hand. And that's when he noticed. Your ring. It wasn’t there.

A small detail that others would have overlooked, but made him pause for a fraction of a  second. A movement he couldn't afford in a place like this. He didn’t realize until now how much he had noticed it, how automatic it was to look at you during shifts and see that silver band wrapped around your finger. Tonight, it was nowhere to be found.

Jack quickly turned his focus back on the patient, but the details lingered in his mind.

Minutes passed in a blur of intubation, transfusion, chest compressions, and desperate interventions. Despite the skill and precision of the team, the injuries were too severe.

The patient coded. The monitor went flat. Time of death was announced.

You stepped back, heart sinking, and Jack’s hand went to your shoulder, not to blame, but to ground you as the weight of loss pressed down on the team. Sometimes, despite doing everything right, it wasn’t enough.

By the end of the shift, the ED was quieter than usual. The hum of machines, the footsteps of staff cleaning up, and the weight of loss hung heavy in the air. Jack glanced at you while filling the final chart, noticing that your finger remained bare.

“Are you going out too?” He asked. Shen had suggested that everyone go out for a drink to cope, and no one seemed to argue.

“Yeah… I could really use a drink.” Your hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

Jack’s gaze lingered on you, a mixture of concern and something softer, harder to define. “Yeah… me too,” he muttered. The unspoken weight between you decided for you.

There was a bar a few blocks down from the hospital where everyone gathered after shifts. It was louder than usual for a weekday, the low thrum of music and conversation filling up the air. It had discounted drinks and dim lighting, a place where no one asked the doctors or nurses what had just happened when it looked like they had been through hell. 

Jack was sitting in a booth near the back with John, nursing a half-finished beer. His scrubs had been swapped for a dark jacket, but exhaustion still lined his face.

John exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. “Hell of a shift.”

Jack nodded once, staring at the condensation on his bottle. “Yeah.” Silence followed, heavy but not awkward. The burden of the night weighed on him.

His eyes drifted across the bar and landed on you. You were on a stool near the counter, chatting with one of the nurses, a drink in hand. Your laugh was softer than usual, slower, the kind that came from alcohol loosening the edges of the hard night.

His gaze dropped to your hand once again.

Still no ring.

“Hey,” John said, standing and grabbing his empty bottle. “I’m getting another. Want one?”

Jack lifted his bottle slightly. “I’m good.”

John nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

Jack leaned back in the booth, letting his eyes wander again. They found you on your way over, movement slightly unsteady, yet deliberate.

“Hey, Doc,” you muttered, sliding into the seat across from him, sighing softly as your forearms rested on the table.

“You okay?” he asked immediately. It wasn’t unusual for Jack to see his coworkers like this after a shift, but he still wondered if this was normal for you.

You huffed out a small laugh that didn’t sound very amused. “Define okay.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied you, the tired eyes, the way your shoulders slumped, the weight of the night still sitting on you.

“Rough one,” he said finally.

Your gaze dropped to the table. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the bar filled the silence.

“I kinda like this part,” you admitted quietly.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “The bar?”

You shrugged, tracing the rim of your glass with your finger. “Yeah… not why we’re here, exactly. But the team gets together. Feels… lighter. Less like you’re carrying it alone.”

He softened. He’d seen too many new doctors burn out trying to carry everything. He understood.

“At my last hospital,” you continued, your voice a little looser from the alcohol. “Everyone just… went home. Pretended nothing happened. But here you guys carry the wins and the losses together.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It helps.”

You nodded, shoulders relaxing slightly as you took another sip. Even in your tiredness, there was a warmth to you now.

For a second, Jack just studied you again. The way the tension slowly left your posture. The way you still looked tired but lighter now that the shift was behind you.

Then his eyes drifted back down to your hand. Bare,

He hesitated before speaking. “So… everything alright at home?”

You blinked up at him. “At home?”

Jack nodded subtly toward your hand. “You usually wear a ring.”

You stared at him, surprised. Then laughed, soft, tipsy, a little embarrassed. “Oh my god… alright, I’ll let you in on a secret.”

Jack’s brow lifted.

“What?”

You held up your hand, wiggling your fingers slightly.

“It’s fake,” You leaned back in the booth a little, clearly amused. 

“…Your ring is fake?”

You nodded, taking another sip of your drink before explaining. “Patients, some of them get… handys. Especially at night. You say no, you ignore them, but it doesn't always work.”

Jack’s jaw tightened slightly. Yeah. He’d seen that.

“So I bought a ring,” you continued, tapping your bare finger. “Ten dollars online. Suddenly, I’m someone’s wife. The flirting stops. It’s like magic. Stupid, but it works.”

Jack studied you quietly for a moment. It wasn’t the confession itself that caught his attention; it was the way you said it so casually, as you’d simply adapted to the world instead of letting it push you out of a job you clearly loved. 

“That’s… actually pretty clever,” he admitted.

You grinned. “Right?”

Jack’s gaze lingered, softer now. “So the husband doesn’t exist.”

“Nope.”

Jack smiled into his drink, a warmth threading through him. Somehow, hearing this made him admire you more.

“Well,” he said casually, taking another sip of his beer, “if you’re going to invent a husband…”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by where this was going.

“…you should at least give the guy a decent name.”

You laughed softly. “Oh yeah?” you asked. “What would you name him then?”

Jack pretended to think about it for a moment, leaning back in the booth.

“Hm.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. His gaze met yours, something teasing sparking there.

“Jack,” he said.

You blinked.

“Jack?”

He shrugged lightly, a small grin forming.

“Sounds reasonable.”

You stared at him for a second before laughing, the sound warmer this time.

“Wow,” you said. “That’s bold.”

Jack lifted his bottle slightly, clearly enjoying himself now.

“Just saying,” he replied. “If you’re going to make up a fake husband, you might as well pick a good one.”

You shook your head, still smiling into your drink.

“Careful, Abbot,” you said lightly. “People might start to think you’re volunteering.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary.

“Would that be so bad?” he asked quietly.

The question hung between you for a beat before the noise of the bar swallowed it again.

The next shift felt strangely normal after the night before. 

Did you drunkenly flirt with a fellow attending? Yes, but did you regret it? Nope.

The ED hummed with its usual controlled chaos; it almost felt strange that the world kept moving after a shift like that. You were currently charting at the nurses’ station, twisting the silver band on your finger without really thinking about it.

“Nice to see your husband’s back.”

You looked up. Jack was leaning against the counter across from you, tablet tucked under his arm, the corner of his mouth curved in that quiet, knowing smile.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, shaking your head. “Are you really going to start with that today?”

“Of course,” he said, a small, confident grin tugging at his lips. “I’m hoping to get an audition to play him.”

You blinked at him, half amused, half exasperated.

“What?” you said, lifting an eyebrow.

“If you’re going to invent a husband,” he continued, voice low and teasing, “someone has to audition for the role. And I think I’d be perfect.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous, maybe,” he admitted, “ but if I'm going to audition for the role properly.. I should probably take my lovely wife out… maybe for dinner or coffee sometime. To make sure I'm playing the part right.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the smoothness of it. “Jack Abbot, are you asking me out on a date?

Jack’s grin widened, confident but teasing. “Call it a test run. Coffee after shift, and I can show you my best husband skills.”

You felt a blush creep up your neck and laughed softly, shaking your head. “I… Yes, that sounds perfect.”

“Good, I’ll see you later, wifey.” With that, Jack left the nurses' station, heading into a patient room.

And at the Pitt, you don’t have room for softness.

Jack Abbot notices everything about you. The way you triage with incredible efficiency. The way you steady shaking hands without making a show of it. The way you don’t flinch when someone yells.

He’s never noticed you squint.

Until today.

It happens mid-shift. A trauma rolls in, fast and loud and chaotic, and you’re at the bedside for nearly an hour straight. The air is dry. You blink too much. Your vision starts to blur at the edges. By the time you step out into the hall, your eyes are burning so badly you can barely keep them open.

You duck into the staff bathroom, hands braced on the sink.

“Not now,” you mutter.

The contacts have shifted and one is definitely torn. You recognize that scratchy, wrong sensation immediately. After washing your hands, you take them out carefully, blinking against the sting. The relief is instant—but so is the realization that hits you a second later.

You don’t have spares.

“Great,” you sigh, staring at your blurry reflection.

For a second, you consider just powering through it—squinting your way through the rest of the shift and pretending the sting in your eyes isn’t driving you insane. But you know better. You won’t last an hour like this, and the last thing you need is to misread a chart or medication label because you were too stubborn to grab your backup.

Which means leaving the safety of the bathroom.

You dry your hands slowly, take one last look at your unfocused reflection, and step back into the hallway. Without your contacts, everything feels slightly off-kilter—the lights too bright, the edges of people and gurneys a little too soft. 

You keep your gaze down as you walk toward the lockers, hoping no one stops you on the way.

When you get to the lockers it is mercifully empty. You crouch in front of your locker, fingers fumbling with the zipper of your bag until you find the hard case tucked into the side pocket. In it, wrapped in an old cleaning cloth, are your glasses.

You hesitate again before unfolding them.

They’re simple, with thin metal frames, a little too big for your face, the kind that make your eyes look wider and a touch more exposed. You slide them on and blink a few times as the world snaps back into sharp focus. The clarity is immediate, almost jarring.

There’s a small mirror on the inside of one of the lockers. You glance at yourself, head tilting slightly as you take in the difference. 

You look… different but not worse. Just less guarded somehow, like a layer you didn’t realize you were wearing has been peeled back.

You exhale slowly, straighten your shoulders, and throw the ruined contacts into a nearby trash bin, slide the glasses on, and step back into the chaos of the floor.

It takes exactly thirty seconds.

“Oh my God,” one of the nurses says dramatically. “You wear glasses?”

A couple of heads snap up from charts. Someone actually leans closer, squinting at you like they’re trying to confirm it’s really you.

Shen swivels in his chair, openly staring. “Wait, hold on. Since when have you been hiding these? This is a betrayal.”

“A betrayal?” You repeat flatly.

“Yes,” he insists. “We work twelve-hour shifts together. I thought we told each other things.”

You roll your eyes. “Can we focus on the patients instead of my face?”

“Sorry,” another nurse chimes in. “You just look… adorable.”

Adorable.

You groan. “If anyone says the word adorable again, I’m transferring departments.”

Ellis smirks at your irritation. “Noted. Adorable is off the table. We’ll workshop alternatives.”

There’s laughter. A few exaggerated double takes. Nothing malicious—just the kind of teasing that happens when something shifts in a place that rarely changes.

You try to brush past them, pretending none of this is getting to you, but the teasing follows like a wave. It isn’t cruel. It’s just new and impossible to ignore. And in a place where everything is routine and muscle memory, new stands out.

You adjust the bridge of your glasses self-consciously, wishing your face didn’t feel like it’s under a spotlight.

And then you feel it.

That shift in the air that has nothing to do with Shen or Ellis or any nurse.

You glance up almost immediately.

Jack is standing at the end of the nurses’ station with a chart half-lowered in his hand. He isn’t laughing or smirking or joining in. He’s just staring, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to recalibrate something he thought he understood.

His eyes drag over your face like he’s trying to recalibrate something. Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“What?” You ask when you get closer, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jack doesn’t answer right away. He blinks, slow and deliberate, as if surfacing from somewhere else. “It’s just…” he trails off quietly. “I—”

His jaw flexes. You’ve seen that look before—usually right before he says something sharp or carefully controlled—but this isn’t sharp. It isn’t controlled, but instead stunned.

“You look…”

Your stomach flips despite yourself. 

“Different?” You offer, a hint of defensiveness creeping in.

His gaze softens, and the shift in it makes your pulse stutter. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Different.” A small pause stretches between you before he adds, lower, “Good different.”

The hallway noise seems to dim at the edges. Someone wolf-whistles from behind you. “Oh, he likes it.”

You feel heat climb all the way up your neck. “Can we not do this right now?”

But Jack doesn’t break eye contact, and that’s what makes it unbearable. 

Later, when the rush finally ebbs into something manageable, you find a computer at the end of the nurses’ station and start charting. The department hums around you—monitors beeping, phones ringing, Shen arguing with pharmacy over speaker—but it’s background noise now. 

Your glasses have stopped feeling foreign on your face, though you’re still hyper-aware of them every time you glance down at the screen.

You don’t notice Jack approach until the chair beside you scrapes softly against the floor.

He pulls out the chair beside you and sits—not across from you or at the next computer, but right next to you.

“You don’t wear them often,” he says after a moment, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry past the two of you.

You keep your eyes on the screen, pretending your pulse doesn’t immediately spike. “No. Contacts are easier.”

“For who?” He asks mildly.

“For me.” You huff a quiet laugh. “I get less comments about my sight—or lack thereof—this way.”

He hums at that, but he doesn’t look away. You can feel his gaze tracing over your profile, lingering at the bridge of your nose, the way the thin frames rest against your cheeks. It makes your fingers stumble over the keyboard.

“They suit you,” he says finally.

You snort softly, trying to deflect the sudden tightness in your chest. “That’s not what everyone else thinks.”

“I don’t care what everyone else thinks.”

The words land heavier than they should. You glance up at him, and immediately wish you hadn’t. He’s closer than you realized, one arm resting along the back of your chair, his knee angled slightly toward yours.

“I like seeing your eyes like this,” he continues, voice quieter now, steadier. “They look bigger.”

Your heart stumbles. “They’re the same eyes,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, holding your gaze. “But now I get to see them clearly.”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is, of how easily someone could glance over and notice the way he’s looking at you.

Your glasses slide slightly down your nose when you look back at the screen.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches up. There’s a split second where his hand hovers, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. His fingers gently nudge the frames back into place, the touch light and careful.

It’s brief, but it lingers.

“You should wear them more,” he says quietly.

“So the entire department can keep bullying me?” You let out a small, shaky laugh. 

He almost smiles, something warm flickering in his eyes. “Let them,” he replies. “Gives me an excuse to stare.”

“You stare anyway,” you murmur before you can stop yourself, pulse ringing in your ears.

He doesn’t look embarrassed or caught. Just nods once, slow and certain.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I do.”

And the way he says it makes you think maybe the contacts weren’t the only thing that shifted today.

"Ow ow ow ow ow," You breathe, loosening your grip on the fabric.

It's official. You live in this. You're going to have to start paying rent to this dress.

Unless...

It's no guarantee. He's probably at work. He might not even pick up—but what other choice do you have?

You stomp your foot, defeated, before you hinge forward, blindly searching for your phone.

"Siri, call Jack Abbot."

You wriggle again, trying to shimmy it down. God, how much of you will he be able to see? Maybe you shouldn't have called, maybe you can find your scissors or a knife. A little dicey, but could you at least loosen some of the seams—?

"Hello?"

"Hey!" You half-yell, unsure of how muffled you may sound with the dress lodged around your head. "I, um—How are you?"

"I'm okay, how are you?"

"Good!" Bad. "I have a weird question."

"Okay?"

"Are you home, by any chance?"

"Yeah, why?"

You draw in a deep breath. You can still ditch. You can still avoid your hot neighbor seeing you in an embarrassing, half-dressed, insanely uncomfortable and compromising position. You give the dress one more painful tug, and bite down on the inside of your cheek when it still refuses to budge.

"I have a really big favor to ask and I am begging you not to laugh."

--

Getting the door open is a herculean effort. You have to hinge all the way forward, blindly undo the lock, and step back without tripping over the shoes that you had so stupidly, casually kicked off when you got inside. You wobble as your foot lands on one of the heels, and curse as you regain your footing.

You hear the door open, then close, and then...Quiet. Harrowing quiet. Jesus, how much of you can he see? You know you have your shape wear shorts on, so it's not like you're completely bare. In this moment, the only saving grace of this dress being stuck is that you can't see his face—and while he may be able to feel the embarrassment radiating off of you, he can't see the way it's written all over your features.

"Wow, you weren't kidding."

Not a stellar place to start.

"Why would I have been kidding?" You grit out.

"I'm coming closer," Jack warns. You draw in a deep breath, giving a small nod, which, with your limited range of movement, makes your arms sway back and forth where they're stuck over your head.

"Is it alright if I touch you?" He asks.

"Yeah." Then, "Thanks for asking."

"'Course. I'm, um..." He clears his throat, "I'm going to reach under where it is by your sides."

"Okay."

You wiggle as you feel Jack's fingers tuck under the fabric, fighting back a giggle at the slightly ticklish, feather-light touch.

"Sorry," He mutters.

"It's okay."

"I'm gonna pull up."

The slight tug makes you wince, and you suck in a breath as the dress shifts up, then catches again.

"Sorry. Ah...Tell you what," You hear him shift in front of you, "Put your hands together and lean forward—like you're picking something up."

You do as he said, unable to help the slight whimper of discomfort that slips out.

"I'm gonna pull toward me," He adds, "I want you to try and back out of it—not too hard, we don't want you flying backward. Alright? On three."

"Okay."

"One...Two...Three!"

Two tugs, the deafening rip of the dress, and then light. You stumble back a touch, hands slamming against the wall behind you. Is that was being birthed is like? Oh my god, your arms are down, not stuck by your head. You can fully see the hall light again—and when your eyes land on Jack, you find him turned away, something held in his hand. You think that it's your dress at first, but when he gives it a little shake and mutters, "Here," You realize that it's a t-shirt. You take the shirt, hurriedly tugging it on and kicking the dress into the corner by the door.

"Thank you. Can you give me one second?" You ask, backing into your apartment, "You can grab yourself a beer if you want—or you can leave if you need to, you know, I mean, I don't know what you were up to or if you have something you need to do, or—"

"It's okay."

"Okay."

You scurry down the hall and into your bedroom, leaning back against the door as soon as you're in.

You take in a deep breath as soon as your alone, raising your sore, throbbing arms and burying your face in your hands. You would be lying if you said you've never thought about Jack Abbot seeing you in a state of undress, but this was not the way you imagined it happening.

God, he wasn't even looking at you in the hallway. How stupid had you looked when he walked in?

You walk over to the full length mirror in your room, hesitantly tugging up the t-shirt he'd given you. Your eyes sweep over the temporary indents from where the dress had been stuck, the irritation littering your skin in artificial wrinkles. You sniffle, trying and failing to push away the swell of frustrated tears that crowd your eyes.

God, first the date, now this. You just want to pretend this night never happened.

--

You can hear Jack moving around when you leave your room, having swapped your shape wear for sweatpants. You see the beer in his hand as he wanders slowly around your living room, eyes sweeping across your book shelves. He's turning to meet your eye the second your foot lands on one of the hall's creaky boards.

You can't help but wonder what he notices first: your bloodshot eyes, or the weak smile that you're giving him.

"Hi," You offer lamely.

"Hey. You okay?"

You huff out a self-conscious laugh. "Better, now that I'm slowly regaining the feeling in my arms. Thanks again."

"How long were you stuck like that?"

You open your mouth to answer, but shake your head when you're unable to conjure up an accurate one quickly.

"I don't know. It felt like an hour, but it was honestly probably like...Ten minutes?"

Jack hums, nodding. You can see his eyes sweeping across you, over his shirt where it hangs on your body.

"Appreciate you coming with a shirt," You add, reaching up and tugging the fabric, "Really solid of you to, um. You know."

"Nah, it's nothin'," He shrugs. "I'm sorry about your dress. I'll pay for the repair—"

"Oh, no, god no. No way was I ever gonna wear it again, even if it hadn't ripped. Getting into it was like some kind of medieval torture device. Honestly, I owe you." You give him another quick smile before you turn, heading into your kitchen.

"I hope you don't mind, I helped myself."

"No, of course not. I told you to." You reach into the fridge, pulling a beer out for yourself. "You hungry?"

"I'm okay."

You straighten up and find Jack drifting toward the kitchen, eyes still sweeping across your living room—you couch, your framed photos, the books on your coffee table.

You let yourself look for a few moments, taking in the pull of his t-shirt across his chest. God, what does he look like, under there? If you were just a bit bolder, had been less beaten down by your night, you might ask for a peak, tease that this would make the two of you even. But you aren't feeling very bold after your date outright rejected you, and after you had to summon your insanely hot neighbor to come and help you out of your straight jacket of a dress.

You let your gaze drop to your beer as you see Jack's head begin to turn toward you. Shit, were you staring? Could he feel it?

"I hope I didn't pull you away from anything important."

"Nah. Quiet night in."

"This is gonna be pretty selfish of me to say, but I am...So lucky you weren't working tonight," You laugh self-consciously.

"Did you have a good time?"

"When I got stuck?"

His lips quirk with a smile. "When you were out."

Your smile waivers, and you give a little shrug, looking down into your drink.

"Uh...Honestly? No. I had a really bad date, and then I couldn't get out of that—stupid dress," You laugh shakily, "Tonight's been a bit of a train wreck."

"I'm sorry."

"S'okay. Not your fault."

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"I appreciate that, but I've already taken up way too much of your time."

You hear Jack hum softly, see him come a bit closer in your periphery, hear him sit down his beer.

"I can get out of your hair if you'd like some privacy. But if you'd like some company, I would love for you to take up more of my time."

Your surprise takes over, and you look at Jack before you can stop yourself. There's a hint of a smile on his lips, and the warmth that it wells up in you is almost enough to forget that the first time Jack saw you that evening, your arms had been stuck over your head.

--

When you yawn for the third time, Jack chuckles.

"Alright, I'm callin' it. You're flagging."

You wrinkle your nose with the force of the yawn, grumbling, "Sorry."

"It's okay."

"Not all of us are used to staying up all night."

You stand from your couch as Jack does, trailing him down the hall to the front door. You wrack your mind, trying to find any reason to entreat Jack to stay just a little big longer—some question about what the two of you have been talking about for the last three hours: his work, his history, the motorcycle that he's been helping his friend fix up.

But as Jack turns to face you just steps from your front door, you find that you can't scrounge up anything worth keeping him there for.

"I, um." You clear your throat, "I know I thanked you before—"

"Several times."

"Yeah, but I really do appreciate you coming and helping me, and you just...You helped me make the best of a pretty shitty night."

Jack's head ducks as his smile widens.

"I'm just glad you trusted me enough to come over and help you. Goodnight."

"Night."

You watch Jack open your door, still, and then turns halfway back to face you.

"For the record, that guy you went out with," He shakes his head, and your heart stutters as his eyes sweep over your body, "He has no idea what he's missing."

"Sweet of you to say, Jack."

You see Jack's jaw work for a moment before he's letting go of your door and closing the space between the two of you. You pull in a stunned breath as he raises his hand, the warmth of it radiating just inches from your face.

"Is it alright if I touch you?"

It's nothing like the first time he asked it. Jack isn't still in your hall out of necessity, but because he wants to be. You give a small nod, eyes searching his face as his palm rests against your skin, thumb sweeping across the swell of your cheek. His gaze drops to your lips, and as it lingers, you take a small step, further closing the gap between the two of you.

Jack dips his head toward yours, nose brushing against yours, and you tip your chin up, pressing your lips to his. Jack's hand smooths along your side, drawing you fully into his chest. You give into your urges, hands sliding greedily over his arms, up to tangle in his hair. Jack steers you with steady steps, until you feel your back pressing against the wall.

The kiss breaks slowly, and you sigh softly as Jack's lips trail across your cheek, down to your jaw, the stubble coating his cheeks sending tingles across your skin.

"...Well that woke me up," You mumble, smiling as Jack's chuckle rumbles against your jaw.

"Can I take you out some time?"

You nod, a wave of shyness sweeping over you as Jack draws back to meet your eye.

"I'd like that a lot."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

Jack ducks his head, pressing another kiss to your lips before he reluctantly draws away.

"Thanks again," You add.

"Anytime."

"For the dress, I mean, not for the kiss—Not that I'm not thanking you for the kiss, it was nice, I enjoyed it, I just meant—"

Jack leans in, pressing another sweet kiss to your lips, stoppering your rambling.

"I knew what you meant," He reassures, giving your hip a soft squeeze. "I'll text you, make plans?"

"Okay," You murmur. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Jack offers you one more sweet smile, holding your eye until he's closed the door behind himself. You reach out, locking it, and letting your gaze drop to where the ripped dress is still sitting in the corner. Bad date, awful dress...but a pretty spectacular end to the night.

Your arms are still a little sore, sure—but you know that you're going to crawl into bed with your lips still buzzing from Jack's kisses.

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; 

@missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

 ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; 

By the time you swipe into the Thunderbolts tower, your coffee is already cold and your head is already pounding.

It’s barely 7 a.m., the sky outside still bruised with early morning gray, and yet the building hums like it’s midday. Security lights glow. Elevators ding. Somewhere down the hall, someone is already arguing about ammo requisitions.

You sigh, adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, and keep walking.

Being the Thunderbolts’ assistant means you’re the first one in and the last one out. It means fixing messes before they become disasters and cleaning up the ones that already are. It means triple-booked schedules, emergency debriefs, and last-minute “I forgot to tell you” requests that somehow always become your responsibility.

It also means being largely invisible. You don’t mind. Most days.

Your office sits tucked away from the main operations floor—small, functional, quiet. Your sanctuary. You unlock the door, flick on the lights, and drop your bag onto the chair with a tired exhale.

That’s when you see it.

A single red rose rests neatly at the center of your desk.

You stop short.

For a moment, you just stare, brain struggling to catch up. The desk is otherwise exactly how you left it—files stacked, tablet charging, sticky note reminding you to call accounting—but the rose is unmistakably new. Fresh. Deliberate.

Your brows knit together as you step closer.

“Okay…” you murmur.

You check the room. The door is still locked behind you. No windows open. No card. No note. Just the rose, stem trimmed, petals deep crimson against the pale wood of your desk.

You pick it up carefully, half-expecting it to disappear.

It doesn’t.

A small, surprised smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it. You shake your head, letting out a quiet huff of disbelief. Probably a mistake. Someone dropped it off at the wrong office. Maybe meant for Valentina. Or one of the analysts upstairs.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to toss it.

You find an empty mug, rinse it out, and set the rose inside with a bit of water. It looks oddly perfect there—like it belongs. You try not to think about it as the day takes over. Meetings blur together. You reschedule a training session after John Walker storms out of the gym. You field a call from supplies about missing equipment. You type, print, organize, repeat.

The sun had well set past the horizon before you've began to pack you bag up, grabbing all three folders and your laptop before slugging your bag onto your shoulder. Your hand were always full leaving the office, as you stepped around your desk to walk out something tugged an invisible string within you.

You turned back and looked at the rose sitting on your desk. Your teeth dug into your bottom lip as you hesitated for second before turning back forward, it was just a rose, you told yourself. It didn't mean anything and likely wasn't for you anyways, you'll probably hear about someone who got one tomorrow and then you'll know.

With your mind set on it being an accident you left the Tower and made your way home, but even the evening breeze had nothing to do with the pink tinge to your cheeks.

The next day starts like always, out of bed before the sun has even greeted the sky and out the door as it's slowly peeking through the horizon. One of your favorite parts of your day was your commute to work, albeit hectic, watching the morning wake itself through the parting clouds with birdsong and beaming sun rays just soothed a certain knot in your chest, making you feel that anything was possible.

That was until you got to the office, of course.

"These mission debriefs need to be typed up and filed."

"The pads in the training room need to be rethreaded."

"Ops want the schedule reshuffled again."

Security needs clarification on visitor clearance, and someone’s requisition form is missing a signature that absolutely, definitely cannot wait. By the time you finally make it down the hall to your office, it’s well past your usual arrival time.

You’re frazzled, coffee-less, brain buzzing with a to-do list that feels physically heavy. You swipe your card, already mentally drafting emails, already bracing yourself for the mess waiting on your desk.

The door opens.

And there it is. A single red rose, resting in the exact same spot as yesterday.

You stop so abruptly your bag slides down your shoulder.

For a second, you just stand there, chest rising and falling too fast, the noise in your head grinding to a halt like someone flipped a switch. The rose is perfect—fresh, unbothered, petals still tight at the center. Deliberate. Still waiting for you.

“Oh,” you breathe.

The tension you hadn’t even realized you were carrying loosens its grip, just a little. Your shoulders drop. Your jaw unclenches. You shut the door behind you more gently than usual, like the quiet suddenly matters.

You step closer, eyes scanning the desk for anything else, some note you missed, some clue, some explanation that would make this make sense.

There’s nothing. Just the rose. You let out a small, tired laugh and rub a hand over your face. “This is ridiculous,” you mutter, though there’s no heat behind it. It has to be a fluke. A delivery error. Someone mixing up offices. Maybe whoever it’s meant for hasn’t noticed yet. Maybe today you’ll get a knock on your door—sorry, wrong desk, can I grab that?

But no one comes.

You set your bag down and move automatically, repeating the same motions as yesterday. You rinse out a mug at the tiny sink, fill it halfway with water, and trim the stem just enough to keep it fresh. You place the rose beside the first one, adjusting it until it sits just right.

The effort feels strangely important.

When you sit, the roses are in your line of sight, vivid against the dull beige of paperwork and screens. You tell yourself you’ll move them later. Somewhere less conspicuous.

You don’t.

The day barrels forward at full speed. You draft reports, reroute calls, and mediate a disagreement that nearly turns into a shouting match. Lunch passes unnoticed. Your coffee goes untouched until it’s cold again.

Every so often, your eyes flick back to the roses.

They ground you. Each time your stress spikes, the sight of them eases it back down—just a fraction, but enough to matter. Enough to get through the next task. And the next.

At some point, you catch yourself wondering. Not wildly. Not romantically. Just… curious.

Who would do this without leaving a note? Who would take the time to come by every morning and leave a single rose, like clockwork, and say nothing at all? Someone quiet, maybe. Someone observant. Someone who doesn’t want credit.

You shake your head and refocus on your screen. It’s not for you. It can’t be for you.

Still, when the day finally winds down and the office grows quiet, you linger a moment before leaving. You straighten the roses one last time, fingertips brushing soft petals, and feel a small, unexpected smile curve your mouth.

You leave them there when you turn out the lights. Just in case.

Today's meeting runs long.

You sit in the back of the briefing room, tablet balanced on your knee, fingers moving almost automatically as you take notes. The Thunderbolts fill the table, boots hooked around chair legs, arms crossed, tension and ego packed into the room like it always is. You’re used to being there without being there, eyes down, voice quiet unless you’re called on.

New assignments stack up fast.

Training rotations. Media clearances. Equipment requests. You jot everything down, already mentally rearranging your afternoon to make it all fit. By the time Valentina clears her throat and fixes you with that sharp, knowing look, your list is already long.

“Before you go,” she says, sliding a separate folder across the table in your direction, “these are personal requests. Off the record.”

Of course they are. You nod, accepting it without comment. A whole new list. A whole new set of fires to put out.

The meeting finally adjourns, chairs scraping back as the team stands in a loose, uncoordinated wave. You tuck your tablet under your arm and gather the folders, already bracing yourself for the rest of the day.

You turn too quickly. And walk straight into someone solid.

“Oh—! I’m so sorry,” you blurt out instantly, stumbling back a step. “I wasn’t looking, I—”

A hand comes up, steadying, though it doesn’t actually touch you.

“It’s okay,” a low voice says. “Really.”

You look up. Bucky Barnes. He’s closer than you expect, taller than he looks from across a room, blue eyes soft rather than sharp. For a split second, your brain stalls.

“Oh,” you say, eloquently. “I—sorry. Again.”

He gives a small, almost amused huff of a laugh. “You’re fine.”

You shift the folders in your arms, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. You’ve never really spoken to anyone on the team before—never needed to. They exist in one sphere, you in another. Parallel lines.

“Well,” you start, then stop. Clear your throat. “Um. I was just—checking. If there was anything else you needed? From your list?”

You wince inwardly. Smooth.

Bucky blinks, clearly surprised by the question, then shakes his head. “No. You’ve got everything covered.”

Relief loosens something in your chest. “Okay. Good.”

There’s a brief, awkward pause. You debate filling it with small talk—weather, training schedules, anything—but the words refuse to come. You shift aside to give him space to pass.

Before he does, he looks at you again, expression gentler than you expect.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t work too hard for us, yeah?”

The comment lands heavier than it should.

You smile, small and polite. “I’ll try.”

He nods once, then steps past you, disappearing down the hall with the rest of the team. You watch him go for half a second longer than necessary before shaking yourself and heading the opposite direction, toward your office, your lists, and a desk that, for reasons you still can’t explain—or don't want to admit, you’re suddenly eager to reach.

By the time you make it back to your office, your arms ache from the weight of folders and your head buzzes with overlapping deadlines. You swipe your card, push the door open.

And there it is. Another red rose, waiting in its usual place on your desk.

You stop just inside the doorway, breath catching before you can help it. A smile slips onto your face, slow and unguarded, relief blooming warm in your chest like you’d been bracing for disappointment without realizing it.

“Okay,” you murmur, exhaling. “Good.”

You close the door behind you and set your things down more gently than necessary, eyes flicking back to the rose as if it might vanish if you look away too long. It’s just like the others, fresh, carefully placed, unmistakably intentional.

You shake your head, half-laughing. “You’re really committing to this, huh?”

The room is quiet. The rose, unsurprisingly, doesn’t answer. Still, you find yourself talking anyway as you rinse out a mug and fill it with water. Maybe it’s the stress. Maybe it’s the fact that no one ever hears you complain without interrupting.

“You would not believe the day I’m about to have,” you tell it, trimming the stem with practiced care. “Val gave me a whole separate list. A secret list. Because apparently that’s what my life was missing.”

You place the rose beside the others, adjusting the stems until they sit evenly, then sigh and drop into your chair.

“And don’t even get me started on John Walker,” you continue, booting up your computer. “Who needs three separate uniform fittings in one week? Who? And why is it always somehow urgent?”

Your fingers fly across the keyboard as emails pile up. You vent softly between tasks, muttering about impossible turnaround times and equipment requests that make no sense, about calendars that refuse to cooperate no matter how carefully you arrange them.

The rose listens. Quietly. Faithfully. At some point, somewhere between scheduling a debrief and rewriting a report, you stop. You lean back in your chair and really look at them.

The growing collection of roses sits bright and vivid against the neutral tones of your office, petals brushing together like they belong. You didn’t even realize how many there were now. You count them once, then again, just to be sure.

“This is getting a little ridiculous,” you say softly, though there’s no real complaint in your voice.

Your brow furrows as you wonder, again, where they’re coming from. How someone keeps getting in without you noticing. Why they bother at all. There’s no note. No expectation. Just the flowers. Every day.

For you. The thought sends a small, unfamiliar flutter through your chest.

Work eventually pulls you back in, but something has shifted. You take a real break for once—standing, stretching, sipping water instead of caffeine. When the day finally winds down and the office empties, you move a stack of folders aside before shutting down your computer.

You pause, then slide a pen holder over, clearing a little extra space on your desk. Right where the rose always sits. You hesitate, then smile to yourself, feeling faintly foolish and strangely hopeful all at once.

“Just in case,” you murmur. You turn off the light and leave, the desk waiting quietly in the dark—ready for tomorrow.

The next morning greets you the same way.

Another rose. Another soft, involuntary smile.

You don’t even question it anymore, you just step into your office, let the door click shut behind you, and breathe out like you’ve been holding it all night. The rose waits in its place, perfectly centered in the space you cleared yesterday, as if whoever left it noticed.

That thought lingers longer than it should. You repeat the now-familiar ritual—mug, water, trimmed stem before the day pulls you away from your desk entirely.

Today isn’t a desk day.

Valentina sends you running physical errands across the tower: dropping off documents, coordinating fittings, tracking down approvals in person because apparently email is no longer sufficient. You weave through hallways and training rooms, clipboard tucked under your arm, moving through the Thunderbolts’ space in a way you usually avoid.

It’s louder here. Heavier. You’re double-checking a storage manifest when you turn a corner too quickly and nearly collide with someone again.

You stop short this time.

“Sorry—” you start, then blink. “Oh. Hi.”

Bucky Barnes. Again. He’s leaning against the wall near the equipment lockers, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp like he’s just come from training. He straightens when he sees you, expression easing into something familiar.

“Hey,” he says. “We keep meeting like this.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.”

“Seems like you’re just busy,” he replies easily.

You nod, lifting your clipboard. “Errands. All day.”

“Sounds rough.”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around the edge of the board. For half a second, the roses are right there on the tip of your tongue. Maybe he might know something about them. The absurdity of them. The comfort. The curiosity that’s been gnawing at you all week.

You swallow it down.

Don’t be weird, you tell yourself.

“Well,” you say instead, “I should—uh—keep moving.”

“Right.” He pauses, then adds, “If you need anything, let me know.”

You smile, small but genuine. “Thanks.”

You’re halfway down the hall when Valentina’s voice cuts through the air. “Ah. There you are.”

You turn, bracing yourself.

“I’ve decided,” she continues smoothly, already walking, “that we’ll be hosting a gala for Valentine’s Day. Donors. Press. Allies.”

A gala. Your stomach drops.

“I want you to plan it,” Valentina finishes, glancing back at you like she’s just assigned you a coffee run.

You stop walking. “I—sorry—me?”

“Yes,” she says flatly. “You’re capable. You’ll handle it.”

And just like that, she’s gone. You stare after her, heart racing, mind already spiraling through venues, security, catering, guest lists. A gala. In less than two weeks. For this team.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“You okay?”

You hadn’t realized Bucky was still there. You look at him, stress written all over your face, and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “She wants me to plan a Valentine’s Day gala.”

He blinks. “That’s… a lot.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit. “This is insane.”

Bucky studies you for a moment, then smiles—soft, steady, reassuring.

“You’ve got this,” he says. “I’ve seen how you work. You’ll do a great job.”

The words hit deeper than you expect. Your shoulders ease. Just a fraction. Enough.

“Thanks,” you say quietly. “That actually helps.”

He nods once, like it’s a given. “Anytime.”

When you finally make it back to your office, the roses are waiting. The space you cleared is filled perfectly. You set your things down, take a steadying breath, and open a new document.

Valentine’s Day Gala — Planning

For the first time since Val dropped the bomb, you don’t feel like you’re drowning. You glance at the roses, then get to work.

Valentine’s Day arrives like a held breath finally released.

The days leading up to it blur together in a haze of logistics and late nights, venue walkthroughs, security approvals, last-minute menu changes, donor seating charts that refuse to cooperate. Every morning brings new stress.

And every morning brings a rose.

You stop pretending it’s coincidence somewhere around the fifth one. By the eighth, you buy a proper vase. By the time Valentine’s Day dawns, the roses fill it completely, lush, red, alive, sitting proudly on the corner of your desk like proof that something good can exist alongside the chaos.

They’ve become your anchor.

Now, you’re dressed for the gala, standing in your office in front of your desk, heels clicking softly against the floor as you pace. The dress feels strange after weeks of practical clothes, elegant, fitted, unmistakably formal. You tug once at the fabric, then force yourself to focus.

Your phone is wedged between your shoulder and ear as you review final details with the caterers, fingers tapping nervously against your tablet.

“Yes, confirmed vegetarian options are clearly labeled,” you say. “And the band arrives at six for soundcheck? Perfect. Thank you.”

You end the call, exhaling, then immediately bring up the next checklist. Everything has to be perfect. It has to be. A light knock sounds at your door.

“Yeah, come in,” you call automatically, already turning back to your desk.

The door opens quietly. You don’t look up right away, flipping through notes, muttering under your breath. “If this is about seating, I swear I already—”

You turn. Bucky Barnes stands just inside your office. For a second, your brain refuses to process the sight of him.

He’s in a suit, dark, tailored, broad shoulders filling it effortlessly. His hair is neatly styled, jaw clean-shaven, the sharp line of him softened by something almost nervous in his posture. His hands are tucked behind his back like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

“Oh,” you say, eloquently, blinking. “Hi. Um, did you need something?”

He swallows, nodding once. “Yeah. I… actually, I do.”

You glance at your desk, then back at him. “Okay. I can—give me one second and—”

“No,” he says gently. “It can’t wait.”

Something in his tone makes you still. You set the tablet down slowly. “What’s going on?”

Bucky exhales, shoulders rising and falling as if he’s been bracing himself for this moment all day. Then he brings his hands forward.

He’s holding a single red rose. Your breath catches.

“I need to confess something,” he says.

Your heart starts to pound, loud in your ears. You don’t speak. You’re not sure you could.

“I’ve been the one leaving the roses,” he continues, voice low but steady. “Every morning. Sneaking in early, before anyone else got there. I just… wanted to brighten your day. No pressure. No expectations.”

You stare at him, then at the rose, then, slowly, at the full vase on your desk.

“Oh,” you whisper.

He steps a little closer. “I see how hard you work. How you hold everything together without anyone saying thank you. And you’re kind, quietly kind. You don’t make a show of it. You just… do it.”

His gaze doesn’t waver from yours.

“I admire that,” he says. “I admire you. I just didn’t know how to tell you without making it awkward or… weird.”

A breath shudders out of you, half-laugh, half-disbelief. “You broke into my office every morning.”

He winces. “When you put it like that, yeah. That sounds bad.”

Despite yourself, you laugh—soft, overwhelmed, emotional. Your eyes sting.

“You don’t know what those meant to me,” you say quietly. “I thought I was invisible.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately. “Not to me.”

He holds the rose out to you, hand just slightly unsteady. “I was hoping, if you wanted, that tonight wouldn’t just be work. That maybe I could take you out after the gala. A real date.”

The room feels smaller. Warmer. Like everything has narrowed down to this moment. You take the rose from his hand, fingers brushing his.

“I’d like that,” you say, voice soft but sure. Bucky smiles then, really smiles, and for the first time all day, the weight lifts completely.

The gala is perfect.

From the moment the doors open, everything moves like it’s been rehearsed a hundred times, guests flowing in smoothly, music low and elegant, the band hitting every cue. The lights glow warm instead of harsh, the décor understated but intentional. Exactly right.

You move through the evening with a practiced calm, heels clicking softly as you check in with staff, answer questions, and adjust tiny details no one else would ever notice. It all works. Every risk pays off.

Across the room, Bucky watches you more than once. You don’t notice at first—not until you finally pause near the edge of the dance floor, exhaling as the band shifts into a slower song. That’s when he’s suddenly there, standing beside you, offering his hand.

“Dance with me,” he says.

Your heart jumps. You glance around, instinctive panic flaring. “Here? With everyone?”

He follows your gaze, donors, press, teammates, and then looks back at you, completely unbothered.

“So what?” he says simply. “You deserve to be seen.”

The words land deep.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you place your hand in his. He leads you onto the dance floor, one hand settling at your waist, the other holding yours steady and sure. At first, you’re stiff, hyper-aware of every pair of eyes.

Then Bucky leans in slightly. “Just look at me,” he murmurs.

You do. The rest of the room fades. The music carries you, his movements calm and unhurried, like he’s done this before, or like nothing else matters. Your nerves melt away, replaced by something warm and buoyant in your chest.

For the first time all night, you’re not managing anything. You’re just… there.

The evening winds down gradually, guests filtering out with polite smiles and praise you’re too tired to fully absorb. When the last of them leave, you kick off your heels behind the scenes and start helping staff pack up, dress hiked up, hair slightly loosened.

“You don’t have to do that,” a familiar voice says.

You look up to find Bucky reappearing, jacket off, already grabbing a stack of chairs.

“I do,” you reply. “I always do.”

He studies you for a second, then shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”

Still, he helps. Together, you tidy the space, working in easy silence broken by soft laughter and the clink of glassware. When everything’s finally done, Bucky stops and presses a cool bottle into your hand.

“Break,” he says. “Non-negotiable.”

He leads you out onto the deck, the city lights stretching wide and glittering below. The night air is crisp, refreshing. You pop the champagne quietly, pouring into two plastic cups you somehow still have.

You talk. About nothing. About everything. The absurdity of the team. Your favorite music. The roses, he admits he was terrified you’d hate them. You tell him they got you through the hardest weeks you’ve had in years.

Time slips by unnoticed until the last lights inside click off. When it’s finally time to leave, Bucky walks you down to the curb and flags a cab before you can protest. He opens the door for you, lingering for just a moment.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, smiling. “For our date.”

He leans in, brushing a gentle kiss to your cheek—warm, deliberate, sweet. You smile all the way home, the city rushing past outside the cab window, knowing that tomorrow… you won’t be invisible at all.

The afternoon stretches long and anxious.

You pace your apartment, outfit choices strewn across the bed like casualties of indecision. Every mirror reflects a different worry—too casual, too formal, too flashy, not enough. You check your hair, your nails, your bag, and then start over.

After an hour of this exhausting cycle, you finally settle on something simple: a soft floral dress that sways just past your knees and a jean jacket that keeps it grounded. You stare at yourself in the mirror, take a deep breath, and tell yourself it’s fine. It’s fine.

The nervous second-guessing doesn’t have time to return. There’s a knock at the door—quick, polite, and undeniably him.

You steady yourself, letting out a small, reassuring breath, and open it. Bucky stands there, looking impossibly calm, holding something that immediately steals your attention. A bouquet, impossibly full and vivid, tucked carefully in both hands.

Pink roses, Gerbera daisies, Oriental lilies, larkspur, white snapdragons, and lavender stock. Petals brushing each other delicately, colors and shapes blending into something breathtaking. You inhale sharply, you'd never seen such beautiful flowers before.

“It’s… it’s incredible, this is the prettiest thing I've ever seen.” you breathe, fingers brushing against the blooms as if they might vanish.

He smirks, that mischievous glint in his eyes. “I've seen prettier,” he says, winking at you.

You laugh softly, unable to stop yourself, and accept the bouquet. The weight is perfect, the scent overwhelming in the best way. You carry it inside and place it in the center of your table, the arrangement spilling over with color and life.

At a glance, your apartment looks like a tiny, personal garden. You turn to him, teasing, a small smirk curling your lips.

“At this rate,” you say, tilting your head, “I’m going to have enough flowers for my own flower shop between here and the office.”

Bucky laughs, low and warm, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Then I’ll have to make sure I keep supplying you,” he says, stepping inside. “Somebody has to keep your flower empire going.”

And just like that, the nerves melt a little, replaced by the warmth of him, the colors of the flowers, and the promise of the evening ahead.

The night begins with the kind of energy that makes your nerves settle somewhere in the back of your chest.

Bucky leads you out into the crisp evening air, the city lights fading behind you as you approach Coney Island. The smell of fried dough and saltwater drifts on the breeze, blending with the faint tang of cotton candy. Your hands are brushing, then locking together, and you realize you’re smiling without even thinking about it.

First stop: the arcade. Lights flashing, tickets clattering, and the smell of popcorn in the background. He insists you start with a game of ring toss, laughing every time you nearly, so nearly, miss a ring. Then he drags you to the strength tester, and you watch him grunt and strain while you roll your eyes, amused.

Next, the claw machine. He makes a show of trying, pulling the lever with exaggerated effort, and after a few failed attempts, he triumphantly hands you a stuffed bear. “For you,” he says, grinning, pride twinkling in his eyes.

“Not bad,” you tease, hoisting it up. Then you spot the air hockey table, and suddenly competitive fire sparks inside you. “Your move, Barnes.”

He laughs, confident, and the game begins. The puck slides back and forth, rapid and loud, but within minutes, you’ve completely beaten him. He feigns outrage, grabbing his chest in mock horror. “Cheater!”

“I think you just needed practice,” you tease, smirking.

Afterward, you walk along the boardwalk, the evening breeze tugging at your hair, the ocean glinting in the distance. Without thinking, Bucky slides a hand into yours. You glance at him, heart thudding. He bends slightly and presses a soft kiss to the back of your hand.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs. “Being you.”

You let yourself melt a little at that, squeezing his hand. The two of you drift to a quiet spot for dinner, a small seaside café tucked away from the throngs of tourists. Plates arrive, warm and simple, the golden glow of the sunset painting your faces.

As you talk, laugh, and share stories, a dollop of dessert clings to the corner of your lip. He notices it instantly.

Before you can react, his thumb sweeps it away, brushing softly over your skin. You look up at him, heart hammering in your chest, and something electric sparks between you.

He leans in slightly, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft at first, curious, hesitant, but quickly deepens, the heat between you building, breaths mingling, teeth catching slightly as both of you get lost in it. You press into his side and feel him hum against you, a hand brushes the hem of your dress before slowly tracing up, pressing soft circles into the skin of your upper thigh.

A soft squeak leaves your lips as he squeezes the soft flesh, making your legs close on instinct, trapping his hand in the warmth. He nips your bottom lip and you sigh, letting your body go lax under his touch. Your mind and heart start to run like an F1 race, the warmth of his hand against your skin makes you shudder and sends a lick of heat up your spine and down to your lower stomach. A cool night breeze washes over you both and finally, you pull back, chests rising and falling in tandem, eyes locking. The world around you disappears, leaving just the two of you and the taste of each other lingering.

“You drive a hard bargain,” he murmurs, voice low, lips grazing yours once more in a teasing ghost of a kiss.

The night isn’t over yet. He leads you to his bike, safe and careful, securing you in front of him. The ride is exhilarating, wind whipping your hair, laughter spilling into the night, city lights streaking past. When he parks outside your stoop, he turns to you, leaning in just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, brushing your forehead with his hand.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispers, a promise in the night air, before stepping back and letting you climb your steps, heart racing and cheeks warm.

The next morning feels different.

You catch it the moment you step out of your apartment—lighter, brighter, like the world tilted just enough in your favor overnight. You’re practically bouncing as you head into work, replaying snippets of laughter, the wind in your hair, the warmth of Bucky’s hand in yours.

Even the elevator can’t touch your mood.

Valentina steps in halfway down, heels sharp against the floor, already talking before the doors close. She launches into a list of new tasks—follow-ups from the gala, donor reports, future planning that somehow needs to be done immediately.

You nod. “Sure. I’ll handle it.”

She blinks, just slightly, clearly expecting resistance. When none comes, she smirks and turns back to her phone. You hum the rest of the ride.

The sound follows you down the hall, soft and absentminded, as you swipe into your office. You flick on the light—

—and there it is.

Another rose.

This one sits in its usual place, perfectly centered. But this time, a small folded note is tied neatly around the stem with thin twine. You laugh out loud, a real laugh, warm and unguarded.

“Of course,” you murmur. You cross the room and carefully untie the note, fingers brushing the familiar red petals before unfolding the paper.

Hope today’s a good one. —B

Your cheeks heat instantly.

You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you place the rose into the vase, adjusting the stems until it fits just right among the others. The bouquet looks full now, lush and intentional, like it’s always been meant to be there.

So do you. You step back, taking it in, basking in the quiet glow of it all, the date, the roses, the note, the knowledge that someone sees you. Appreciates you. Thinks about you when you’re not in the room.

Your phone buzzes a moment later.

Bucky: Still smiling?

You bite your lip, cheeks aching from it. You glance at the roses, then back to your screen, heart full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time.

It means fixing messes before they become disasters and cleaning up the ones that already are...

You don’t mind. Most days.

As a "go-to" person on my team with no additional title or perks, I sometimes feel invisible, overworked, and tired.

A single red rose rests neatly at the center of your desk.

This would make my day!

It has to be a fluke. A delivery error. Someone mixing up offices. Maybe whoever it’s meant for hasn’t noticed yet. Maybe today you’ll get a knock on your door—sorry, wrong desk, can I grab that?

This would be me. 😂😭

Every so often, your eyes flick back to the roses.

They ground you. Each time your stress spikes, the sight of them eases it back down—just a fraction, but enough to matter. Enough to get through the next task. And the next.

The little things make a huge difference.

You look up. Bucky Barnes. He’s closer than you expect, taller than he looks from across a room, blue eyes soft rather than sharp. For a split second, your brain stalls.

WHOOP. There he is! 😍

Before he does, he looks at you again, expression gentler than you expect.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t work too hard for us, yeah?”

I'll try not to, Sarge. 😭

“And don’t even get me started on John Walker,” you continue, booting up your computer. “Who needs three separate uniform fittings in one week? Who? And why is it always somehow urgent?”

Why can I see this happening? 😂

“Just in case,” you murmur. You turn off the light and leave, the desk waiting quietly in the dark—ready for tomorrow.

Hopeful and we love it.

“I’ve decided,” she continues smoothly, already walking, “that we’ll be hosting a gala for Valentine’s Day. Donors. Press. Allies.”

A gala. Your stomach drops.

“I want you to plan it,” Valentina finishes, glancing back at you like she’s just assigned you a coffee run.

This bitch...

“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit. “This is insane.”

Bucky studies you for a moment, then smiles—soft, steady, reassuring.

“You’ve got this,” he says. “I’ve seen how you work. You’ll do a great job.”

Encouragement goes a long way. 🥰

You turn. Bucky Barnes stands just inside your office. For a second, your brain refuses to process the sight of him.

Valid reaction.

He’s holding a single red rose.

YAAS!!! 😍

“I’ve been the one leaving the roses,” he continues, voice low but steady. “Every morning. Sneaking in early, before anyone else got there. I just… wanted to brighten your day. No pressure. No expectations.”

He's perfect. I said what I said.

“You deserve to be seen.”

The words land deep.

Sobbing over here. 😭

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, smiling. “For our date.”

Giggling and kicking my feet.

And the date! The flowers, the arcade (love arcades), the claw machine (yes, also love those), and the kiss. Please. 🫠🫠🫠

Hope today’s a good one.

—B

...

Bucky: Still smiling?

You bite your lip, cheeks aching from it. You glance at the roses, then back to your screen, heart full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time.

Yes. You definitely are.

What a balm to my soul. This is so fluffy and soft and beautiful. You outdid yourself.

Now, if only we could all have a Bucky leaving us roses and making sure we don't work too hard. 🥰

It was a disaster. An unmitigated disaster.

You should've known better. There were severe weather warnings throughout Scandinavia, a storm brewing over the Arctic, snow in the forecast. And then there was you, in the smallest rental car possible, braving the gusting winds on your way to the ultimate Christmas retreat with your remaining single friends. Escaping family dinners, pitying looks from siblings and mothers and aunts, drunken cousins and uncles, screaming children high on sugar and pre-present nerves. Escaping grey, dull, wet weather in exchange for snow covered forests and glittering, frozen lakes.

Except, in order to have a white Christmas, there had to be snow. And exactly all of that snow was arriving right now, while you were driving from the small Norwegian airport, at a snail's pace through increasingly hazardous weather. Admittedly, the forests and hills were living up to all your white Christmas dreams, but the speed at which they were disappearing, obscured by the snow, was alarming.

Halfway through your drive, your phone rang, buzzing in your pocket. It took another hour before you found a place to pull over to check.

'Bad news! Our flight from London is delayed because of the weather, will update you as soon as we're boarded. See you soon, can't wait! Drive safe! Lots of love!!'

"Fuck. And bloody brilliant…"

With a deep sigh you put the phone in the cup holder, the reception bar mocking you with its empty status. You hoped they were in the air already, but until you got to the cabin and connected to the wifi, it seemed like you would be in the dark. And as you put the car into drive again and carefully accelerated, you tried to not think about the increasing darkness around you and the fact that you'd be unable to reach anyone if something would happen as you navigated the treacherous road.

The drive from the airport to the cabin was meant to be an easy two hours, but you'd reached hour four by the time the GPS indicated that you were nearing the turn off to the farm that housed the cottage that had been rented by one of your friends. You had instructions on how to open the lock box and retrieve the key, and you were longing to arrive and give up your death grip on the steering wheel. Just a few more miles…

The small road through the forest had been ploughed, thankfully, and you let yourself relax as the forest thinned out and the road winded over open fields between rolling hills. The cottage wasn't far no-

A hard gust of wind gripped your small rental and tugged it to the left, the car skidding across the polished surface of the snow covered road. In panic you yanked the wheel to the right, and suddenly the world was spinning. You screamed as the snow outside the car blurred into whirling white clouds, your hands wrestling with the shuddering wheel for what felt like several minutes, but in reality was probably just a few seconds, and then jolted to a halt at a sharp angle.

You let out a gasp, your heart threatening to jump out of your chest with how hard it was beating, adrenaline surging through you. The car was standing still, the world was no longer spinning, but you could feel the wind tugging at the car as snow whipped across the cracked wind screen. With shaking hands you reached for your phone, trying to remember the emergency number, was it the same as the UK?

A disaster.

The empty reception bar was mocking you with its…well…emptiness.

"Oh, fuck…" you exhaled.

An unmitigated disaster.

Pero Tovar closed the door of the wood shed and picked up the final load of chopped logs, bending his head down against the wind and the snow as he made his way back to the main house. The storm was really picking up and he'd spent the day preparing to hunker down for a few days before he could get the tractor out and plough the road again. He'd managed one pass before the wind got too strong, and now all he needed to do was get the last load of wood into the house. The electricity would most likely cut out soon, and then he'd be relying on the diesel generator for electricity. But for heating, nothing beats the wood fired stove and fireplace in the old house.

He pushed the door open, balancing the wood basket as he tried to stop the wind from rushing into the house.

"Quickly, Ravn, do your business and come back in," he told the large black dog that slipped past him and out into the snow, "Not even you should be out in this storm."

He put the wood down inside the door and pushed it closed, glancing out through the window as Ravn barked. The dog was standing at the gate and barking at the faint light of something out on the road.

Pero frowned, grabbing the binoculars on the window sill and trained them on the light. The whirling snow made it hard to see, but among the swirling white, he saw a dark shape and two headlights.

"You've got to be kidding me…" he groaned, putting down the binoculars, his head dropping between his shoulders. With a sigh he grabbed his coat again, at least he hadn't taken off his boots yet, and tugged the hood up over his head. The keys to the off-road truck were next to the door, and he grabbed them as he stepped outside again.

"Ravn! Here, boy!"

The dog loped through the deep snow as Pero pulled open the garage doors. Even though it had only been half an hour since he cleared the yard, it was already a few inches deep. The truck had no issues with it though, as soon as Ravn was in the passenger seat, it rumbled out of the garage and through the blizzard. Pero flicked the switch for the roof mounted flood lights, casting the road in front of them in dazzling bright light. In the distance he could see the source of the faint light Ravn had spotted; a small car in the ditch, its nose buried in a snow drift.

"Stay in here, boy," he told Ravn as he pulled up next to the car and opened the door. The flood lights lit the scene, and he could see a woman staring at him with wide eyes as he approached.

"Are you injured?" he called, raising his voice to be heard through the howling wind.

You almost cried with relief as you saw the truck stop by the car. The heavy snow had already begun to cover the windshield and it was getting cold. In vain you'd tried getting through to the emergency number without luck, and you were just bracing yourself to step outside and see if you could spot any buildings nearby, when the scene outside the windshield was lit up. A man stepped out of the truck, bundled up in a thick looking coat with a hood pulled down over his eyes, making it impossible to see his face as he raised his hand and waved at you.

"I'm ok," you called back at him, "But I need help."

He came forward at that and tugged at the door, pulling hard at it a few times before it budged and pushed the snow out of the way.

"Does anything hurt?" he asked as he pulled it open, "Can you move?"

You nodded, flinching backwards in your seat as the icy wind blasted through the car and cut through your jumper.

"Grab your coat, I'll take you to the cottage. I'm Pero Tovar, the owner. I'm guessing you're the one renting the place for Christmas?"

You nodded again as you began to shiver, "Yes, my friends were meant to be here already but I think they're still stuck in London."

You grabbed your coat from the back seat and pulled it on, stepping into the snow and promptly sinking down to your knees with a gasp. Snow filled your boots and covered your jeans.

"Here, take my hand," the man said and held out a big hand covered in a giant glove, "We'll have to leave your car here 'till morning, I can't pull it out in this weather. Get in the truck, don't mind the dog, and I'll get your bags from the back."

"T-thanks," you stuttered, your teeth chattering, as Pero, seemingly unperturbed by the snow, moved to the back of the car as you hurried over to the truck. The large black dog gave you a friendly 'woof' as you pulled yourself into the passenger seat, and leaned over to sniff your shoulder. The dog's owner soon followed, tossing your cabin bag and carry-all in the back. The truck's engine was rumbling and he soon had it turned around and heading towards a faint light in the distance. He'd pushed back the hood of his coat as he came into the car, and you were caught by surprise by the sharp scar that cut across his left eye. He caught your side long glance, and you ducked down, tugging at your soaked jeans.

As he drove he glanced down at your boots as you tried to scoop the snow from them.

"Who told you those were boots for winter weather?" he asked, the skepticism clear in his voice. He had an accent you couldn't place, not Norwegian for sure, maybe Spanish.

"These?" you asked unnecessarily, "Uh, the lady in the shop? She said they had good grip and were great for winter weather."

The man sighed and shook his head, "Maybe great for a London winter as long as you stay away from rain. That material will be soaked through in minutes and then you'll start losing your toes. But I guess you don't go outside much, so it won't matter."

"I go outside," you protested, "I'm just not used to snow."

"I can tell," Pero replied with a crooked smile, "But you'll be snowed in for the next few days though, and you're friends probably won't make it for another two or three days, I don't know when I'll be able to plough the road again."

"Two or three days!?" you exclaimed, "But…Christmas will be over by then!"

"Welcome to Norway," he replied with the tone of someone who didn't worry about it being Christmas or Thursday.

You sighed and slumped against the car seat, sniffling as the truck pulled into the yard of a small cabin.

"This is the place, there's wood for the fireplace inside, and if the electricity goes out you'll get power from the generator at my house," he pointed through the swirling snow at a larger house that was barely visible, "Please don't overload the system if that happens."

You nodded, feeling very small and helpless as he pushed the door open and jumped out, making you follow. The wind ripped through your coat the second you were outside, and your feet were indeed cold and wet. Pero grabbed your bags and led you to the porch, punching in a code in the lock box, he soon had the front door open.

"Here," he said, putting down your bags inside and handing you the key, "the fridge should be stocked with the essentials until you can get to the shop."

Not waiting for a reply, he gave you a curt nod and walked down the porch stairs.

"Thanks for the help," you called after him, trying to give him a smile as he turned and looked up at you, "I thought I was gonna spend the night in the car and freeze to death, I really appreciate you coming to the rescue."

"Yeah, you got lucky," he replied with a frown, "C'mon, Ravn."

With that the big black dog jumped back into the car, its owner doing the same as you shut the door to the cabin and sighed.

You stood for a few seconds in the small entrance area, shivering in your wet boots as you peered into the dark cabin. There were no lights, and you could feel the cold of the house seeping through your coat.

"Fuck…" you mumbled, "Fuck, fuck, fuck…" 

There was no use holding it in any more, with a whimper you sank down to the floor, your back against the wall. Your jeans soaked through as you sat down in a puddle of melted snow, but you were past caring. With a sob you let the tears that had been threatening to spill over since you first crashed flow freely, as you buried your face in your hands.

Pero drove the few hundred meters back to his house, something stirring in his mind, nagging at him.

"Fuck…" he mumbled, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Why had you given him that look at the door, a vulnerable smile, eyes too bright? He was content to spend Christmas on his own, snowed in, with Ravn and a bottle of whisky. But something had stirred and now… Well, now he was feeling like the world's biggest shit for leaving you with your wet boots and hunched shoulders.

With a sigh he turned the truck around and headed towards the cabin again. He knew exactly why. It was either his dick or his heart making him turn around, but both were clearly too easily influenced by a pretty smile.

It was still dark in the cabin when he pulled up, and he couldn't see you as he got out and climbed the porch steps again.

"Hey, miss," he called as he knocked on the door. To his surprise he saw movement from the floor, and you looked up at him through the porch window.

He opened the door and stepped in again, closing it behind him to keep the snow out. 

"Are you ok?" he asked and immediately regretted his question. You were furiously wiping your cheeks, your eyes wet and swollen, you were clearly not ok.

"Y-yeah, y-yeah," you hiccuped, heat rising in your cheeks at being found bawling on the floor by the tall, dark haired man, "I-I'm fine."

Pero's look softened, and he held out his hand, "No, you're not fine, cariño. C'mon, you need to get warm and dry, and maybe some food, ok?"

For the second time in less than half an hour, you took his hand, but this time he had no gloves on, and you felt the warmth of it envelop your cold fingers as he helped you stand up.

"Here," he said, and without ceremony, he shrugged out of his great coat and swaddled you in it, pulling up the hood over your head so that your face was almost hidden, "Let's get to the truck."

"Th-thanks," you sniffed, "I'm sorry, I-I'm causing so much trouble for you."

He grunted in reply, pulling the door to the cabin closed, "No trouble, bad for business to have a guest freeze to death."

You caught the tail end of his smile as he helped you into the truck, and you felt a spark of warmth in your chest, the bad day fading a little bit. The coat smelled like wood smoke and wet dog, pine trees and snow, and was heavy on your shoulders as Pero rounded the truck and climbed inside. Within no time he'd manoeuvred the truck back to the yard in front of the big house, and held out his hand for you to get out again.

His house was warm and filled with light. Music was coming from somewhere inside, and the house smelled of the same wood smoke and pine trees as the coat. Ravn shook off the snow and disappeared into the house, while Pero led you to sit down on a wooden bench next to the door, taking his coat from you and hanging it up on a hook.

"Take your shoes off, and your socks, I'll grab a towel, you can have a shower to warm up and change into dry clothes."

He was off before you could say thank you, disappearing after the dog into the house. You pulled your boots off, your wet socks coming off at the same time, and by the time he was back, you were massaging your cold toes.

"Follow me," he said and led you through the house.

The hot shower was heaven. When you left the bathroom in a cloud of steam, you were warm and toasty again, with dry clothes and your shrivelled toes hidden inside your thickest socks. Following the sound of the music, you found Pero in the living room, stoking a fireplace.

He looked up as you came in, and gestured towards the coffee table, "I made some tea and there's stew in the bowls, and some bread."

With a deep sigh you sank down on the couch, tears suddenly welling up again, as gratitude for his efforts overtook your tired and hungry state. Pero's eyes widened and he looked so terrified at your tears, that you had to smile through them, making him look even more concerned.

"I'm sorry," you said, shaking your head as you wiped your cheeks, "I'm a mess, I promise I'm not usually this weepy. I just…I just…don't know what's wrong," you sighed and Pero sat down on the couch, grabbing a bowl.

"You need food, I think," he said, handing it to you with a thick slice of bread, "Eat. You'll feel better."

He was right, of course, and the stew was rich and flavourful, warming you from the inside as the fire crackled in the fireplace and filled the room with its glow. When you'd scraped the last of it from the bowl with the heel of your bread, you sank back against the couch and sighed.

"Thank you, that was perfect. You were right, I needed some food."

"Yeah, I guessed," Pero replied with a chuckle, as he cleared the table and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned a moment later, holding two glasses.

"Not sure if you're the whisky drinking type, but it's all I've got," he said, grabbing a bottle from the book shelf.

"Sure, whisky sounds nice," you replied, scooting up so that you could pull your feet under while he poured a measure in the glass and handed it to you, before pouring one for himself and sitting down.

"To being rescued from freezing to death by a kind stranger," you said, raising your glass to Pero, and he chuckled, raising his in return.

"To spending Christmas Eve indoors," he said, "And to not freezing to death."

The whisky went down smoothly, and this time it was Pero's turn to sigh and sink deeper into the couch.

"Long day?" you asked and he looked over at you from under his dark lashes, his eyes half closed.

"Not as long as yours I think, but yes, long day. Long year."

The last thing he said with a deeper sigh as he drained his whiskey and left it resting on his thigh, rubbing his other hand over his face. His thick fingers dwarfed the glass and the angle of his body left his long legs stretched out, the edge of his jumper creeping up to reveal just a sliver of tanned skin. The sight made a new wave of heat rise in you that had nothing to do with the whisky you were still sipping.

"Why a long year?" you asked, pulling your gaze away from his soft belly, and he half shrugged from his end of the couch.

"Moving country, figuring out how to run this farm, handling lost tourists, it all adds up."

"Hey," you protested softly, the teasing lilt of his last words letting you know that he wasn't serious.

"You're not the first one to misjudge the weather, or how long the drive is," he smiled.

"Thank you," you said, "And I am really grateful for your help, letting me invade your house and all. You could've just left me in the cabin."

"I usually do," he replied, "leave them in the cabin, I mean. But you…looked…very cold. And I don’t handle pretty women crying very well either."

You'd been watching his eyes in the low light of the living room, a warm brown colour that turned golden when they caught the light of the fire. But his compliment, followed by another smile from him, made you look away, twirling the glass in your hands as you smiled in return, feeling heat creep up your neck again.

"What's the story behind the sword?" you asked to change the subject, pointing to a long and dangerous looking blade hanging on the wall above the fireplace.

"It's an heirloom," he said, "My father said it has been passed down to the oldest child in our family for centuries."

"How old is it?" The blade looked very old, and like it needed two hands to wield. Curiously you stood up to take a closer look at it.

"I don't know," Pero replied from the couch, "It's got a Latin inscription and a red cross, but I don't know if it's really from the Crusades."

You stood on your tip toes to peer at the Latin along the blade, and behind you Pero chuckled as he got up.

"Here, let me show you," he said and lifted it down from its supports on the wall. With an easy swing he presented the hilt of the long sword to you.

"The inscription says 'Deus det mihi vires', or 'God give me strength'."

"Is that your motto to put up with lost tourists?" you asked with a smile, and Pero chuckled again.

"Some days, yes."

"It looks real, do you think it might be that old?" you asked, as you watched the light from the fire shimmer along the blade.

"Yeah, probably. Do you want to feel the weight?" he asked, "Grab the handle like this with your main hand, and then your other hand like this."

You wrapped your fingers around the worn leather handle as he’d shown you, feeling the softness of years of use under your palms as Pero let go.

"Ugh," you huffed, "It's heavy!"

"It is," he replied, "And even if it's not a thousand years old, I'm sure it's real. This wasn't made for decoration. Here, like this."

He came up behind you and adjusted your grip, "Put your thumb here and turn your hand like this…" he instructed, as your brain suddenly stuttered to a halt when his scent filled your nose. He was standing very close, reaching over your shoulder to correct your grip, and your back was suddenly pressed against his chest. When you turned your head to look up at him, you were met by the sight of his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly, his eyes glancing to yours before he looked down at his hands wrapped around yours, a dark flush creeping up his golden skin.

"If you do this and…"

He trailed off, looking back at you again as you parted your lips, taking a shallow breath.

"You…can…c-can I…" he mumbled, his eyes fixed on your mouth, and you nodded in silent response.

The sword clattered softly to the rug as he cupped your cheek with his hand, warm and soft under his touch, and slowly captured your lips with his. You turned in his arms, letting him pull you in closer as your fingers found the tangled curls at the nape of his neck. With a low hum, he pulled you down to the floor, pushing the long sword to the side, as you made him open his mouth to yours. Smooth whiskey flavours filled your mind while his hands found a sliver of warm skin under your jumper, and caressed it softly. His lips were pliant and insistent, pressing themselves against yours as you pulled him closer.

"Are you my Christmas present?" you mumbled, smiling against his cheek as he trailed small, hot kisses down your jaw, moving down your neck.

"No, I think you're mine," he replied in a low voice, and sucked a sharp kiss into the thin skin under your ear, making you tighten your grip on his hair and gasp into the dim room.

Pero groaned at the sweet sound, letting his tongue sweep across the same spot again.

"Do that again," he moaned, feeling you arch under him as he nipped at your throat, "Please."

You tugged at his curls, making his head swim as you urged him to kiss your lips again, moaning into his mouth as he pushed his hands higher up under your jumper. Your skin was warm and soft, yielding under his finger tips, and as you pulled his shirt over his head, he buried his face against the supple flesh of your breasts.

"I'm never ploughing that road, just so you know," he mumbled, his eyes darkening as you moved his hand down to wear heat was pooling between you.

"I'm happy to wait 'till s-sp-spring…" you gasped, his fingers finding their mark.

Pero wanted to watch you fall apart under him, but your hand tugged at his hair and pulled him down to your mouth again. He lost himself in the feeling of your body filling his senses, the storm outside fading, the warmth of the fire making his skin damp and hot as he moved with you, in you, narrowing his world to the sounds of your whimpered moans, his own strained groan, and the release he teased from your body and then poured back into you with his own pained groan.

When your combined heartbeats slowed down, and the sweat cooled on your skin, he reached up and grabbed the quilt on the couch. It wrapped you in a warmth while your head rested on his arm, his hand drawing soft patterns on your back.

"What are you thinking about?" Pero asked as the corners of your mouth curved up in a small smile.

"I'm thinking I probably need to get better winter boots," you replied, "Seeing as you're not ploughing that road any time soon."

"Never ploughing that road," Pero chuckled quietly, "I'm keeping my Christmas present."

The night had barely begun, and somehow we found ourselves in the familiar chaos of the squad’s favourite bar. Everyone was nursing drinks, laughter bouncing off the walls, neon lights painting the room in that familiar haze of warmth and chaos.

I was perched on a barstool beside Nat, sipping a soda, while Jake leaned against the counter across from me, pretending to be casual. Or at least, that was the act. His smirk twitched every time I laughed, every time I caught his eye, and I could see the tension coiled in his shoulders.

“Hangman,” Payback drawled, clearly three drinks in and feeling heroic, “you’ve been awfully quiet tonight. Not chasing tail?”

Jake rolled his eyes, pretending not to hear. “I’m not a dog, Payback.”

“No, but you are obsessed with someone,” Payback said, smirking knowingly, motioning vaguely in my direction.

I nearly choked on my drink, and Jake’s jaw tightened. He looked at me, wild, conflicted, like he wanted to smile but also kill his friend at the same time.

“Oh, come on,” Reuben called from the pool table, grinning. “Everyone sees it! The way you look at her, the way you don’t even bother flirting with anyone else… Hangman’s got a serious crush!”

Jake’s smirk flickered. Dangerous. “I’m not ‘crushing’ on anyone,” he said, low, almost growling, voice edged with that protective undertone I knew all too well.

Nat, ever the instigator, leaned close to me and whispered, “See? This is why I tell you he’s hopeless. The whole squad knows he’s in love with you.”

I snorted softly, embarrassed and secretly delighted. “Maybe they’re exaggerating.”

Jake’s gaze snapped to me, intense, fire behind his usual cocky mask. “Exaggerating?” he repeated, voice low, sharp. “You think I’m exaggerating?”

I gulped, caught off guard. “I...I didn’t say that…”

“You didn’t have to,” he murmured, and just like that, the bar faded from my attention. The teasing voices, the neon glow, the music they all blurred into the background. His eyes were fixed on me, dark and intense, that wild energy I’d known for years coiled like a spring ready to snap.

Payback raised an eyebrow, laughing. “Ohhh, I think I’ve hit a nerve!”

Jake’s jaw flexed. “I don’t...”

“Deny it!” Reuben shouted. “Say it!”

Nat groaned, hitting her palm against the bar. “Oh God, it’s happening. This is what I live for.”

I covered my face, half mortified, half thrilled. “Nat! Stop!”

But Jake didn’t answer the squad. He didn’t need to. His hand brushed against mine under the table, just lightly, and I felt the spark a reminder of everything unspoken.

The teasing escalated. “You gonna ask her out, Hangman, or are we gonna have to do it for you?” Payback laughed.

Jake’s grin returned cocky, but tighter this time. “You think I haven’t wanted to?” he said, voice low, eyes locked on mine. “I’ve wanted… this… for longer than I care to admit.”

The squad whistled and shouted encouragement, but I barely noticed. The heat in his gaze was all-consuming. Every teasing comment, every jest from the squad, every laugh I gave him, it had all been building. And suddenly, he couldn’t hide it anymore.

He stood abruptly, hands gripping my waist, dragging me to the side of the bar, away from everyone else. His voice was rough, barely above a whisper, but loaded with intent. “I can’t anymore. I’m not hiding it. I want you. You. Always you.”

I stared at him, stunned, my pulse pounding. “Jake… what—”

“Later,” he said, voice dark, intense. “Later I’ll show you exactly how I feel. But right now, I just needed you to know…” His thumb brushed lightly over my jaw, eyes never leaving mine. “…I can’t keep pretending.”

Nat leaned over from a few stools away, smirking at me. “You two are screwed.”

I laughed breathlessly, heart racing, but couldn’t respond. Because my entire body, my mind, my thoughts they were all locked on him. And I knew, at that moment, nothing would ever be the same.

Later, he led me to the jet hangar. He said he wanted to show me something. Something he claimed was “mind-blowing” but really, I think, was just an excuse to get me alone.

“See that beauty?” he said, gesturing to one of the jets. “My pride and joy.”

“It’s… impressive,” I said, walking closer.

He leaned against the wing, arms crossed, smirk in place. “Yeah. But not as impressive as you.”

I froze. The words hit like a sucker punch. My stomach flipped, my cheeks heated. “Jake…”

He laughed, low and rich, but there was no hiding the intensity behind his eyes now. The playful cockiness was gone, replaced with something darker, fiercer.

“Y/N,” he said, stepping closer, voice low, intimate. “I’m tired of waiting. Tired of pretending.” He stopped, swallowed. "while I’m going crazy knowing you’ve been right here, and I haven’t said anything.”

My chest tightened. “Jake… before tonight I really had no idea you felt like this.”

He smirked, dangerous now, his usual cocky edge mingling with something raw. Then he was close. Too close. Hands on my waist, thumbs brushing my hips. I could feel the hard line of his chest against mine.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, leaning in. “Just to have you… to know you’re mine.”

“Yours?” I breathed, voice shaky.

“Yes,” he said, eyes dark, lips barely brushing mine. “Only mine. Do you understand?”

I swallowed. “I… think so.”

His hands slid up to my face, cradling my jaw, tilting my head gently. “Say it.”

“What?” I asked, heart in my throat.

“I want to hear you say it,” he whispered, lips brushing my ear. “Y/N… you’re mine. Only mine.”

Heat surged through me. My hands went to his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath his jacket. “Jake…I’m yours.”

That grin… that smirk… was gone. Replaced with something almost tender, but still edged with hunger.

He kissed me then slow at first, testing, teasing, brushing lips against mine, letting the tension build, letting me respond on my terms. But the moment I leaned in, he deepened it, hands running down my back, pulling me flush against him.

I gasped, fingers threading into his hair as he kissed me harder, claiming, needing, taking. Every restraint he’d held in the squadron, every playful mask he wore? Gone. It was just him, raw, real, and wanting me.

I melted against him. Heat, desire, months of unsaid words, all coming crashing together.

When we broke apart, our foreheads touching, breathing hard, he muttered, voice rough, low: “I could do this forever.”

I laughed breathlessly. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Both,” he said, smirking but eyes wild, dark, and dangerous. “I could spend every second showing you just how much I’ve wanted this, wanted you… wanted us.”

I shivered. “Jake…”

“Shhh,” he murmured, pressing his lips to my neck, kissing down my jawline, nipping lightly. “Tonight, you’re mine. And I’m going to prove it. Slowly, carefully… unless you want it faster.”

I swallowed hard, heart pounding. “Faster,” I whispered, daring him.

His grin returned, cocky and confident as always, but with a hunger underneath that made my knees weak. “Oh, darlin’, you have no idea.”

Hours later, after the adrenaline had settled into a simmering heat, we were leaning against the jet, bodies pressed together, fingers intertwined. My hair was messy, his jacket slightly rumpled from our kisses and touches, and every inch of my body ached for more, for him, for this.. for us.

“I’ve wanted to do this forever,” he murmured, fingers brushing my cheek. “And I’m not stopping. Not for anyone. Not for anything. You’re mine, Y/N. Only mine.”

I smiled, resting my forehead against his. “I know.”

“And you?” he asked, wild eyes searching mine. “Do you want this? Us?”

“I… yes,” I admitted. “I’ve wanted this too. More than I realised.”

That smirk returned, cocky, confident, playful, but now it held something softer, something tender. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me. Forever, if you’ll have me.”

I laughed, heart full, breathless. “I think I can manage that.”

His hands found my waist again, pulling me closer, pressing me to him, and I realised then that months of waiting, months of tension, months of unspoken words, had led us here.

Finally.

Finally, I was his.