Flesh Of My Flesh

“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”

“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.

“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”

Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”

Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”

“Have I met him?”

“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”

You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.

Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”

You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.

“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”

“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.

You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.

You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.

Out steps a mountain of a man.

Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.

“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”

His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.

“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”

He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.

“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.

“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“

“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.

Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”

Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.

Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’

But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.

“Try it again,” an order, not a request.

Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.

“Terminal clamp.”

You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.

“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.

“Pop it,” he calls out.

You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.

You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.

Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.

“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”

He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.

“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”

“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.

“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.

“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.

Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”

You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.

“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.

“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”

A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”

You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.

“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”

Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.

He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”

He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”

“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”

He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.

“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.

“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”

His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.

“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“

“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.

“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“

“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.

“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.

Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”

That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.

“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”

He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.

“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.

“Shit—“

You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.

You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.

It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.

That’s worth celebrating.

You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.

You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.

You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.

Bucky.

The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…

You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.

As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.

You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…

You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.

Nothing.

Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.

Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.

Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.

With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.

You really wish you kept those beers.

When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.

Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?

The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.

You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.

You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.

You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.

Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.

When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.

Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.

He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.

You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.

You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.

But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.

Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.

The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.

Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.

But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.

By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.

You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.

“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.

He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.

You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.

So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.

On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.

You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.

Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.

You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.

So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.

This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.

The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.

Occam’s Razor strikes again.

You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?

Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?

Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.

Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.

It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.

You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.

The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.

You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.

“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.

“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”

“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”

She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”

You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”

“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.

“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”

There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”

You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”

“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”

“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”

“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.

You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.

“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.

“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.

“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.

“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”

You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.

“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”

You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”

Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”

Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.

“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.

“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.

“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”

A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”

You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.

While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.

You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.

Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.

You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.

It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.

Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.

Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.

The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.

“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.

Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.

“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.

“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“

“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”

She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”

You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.

You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.

You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.

Your lips part.

Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.

He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”

You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.

“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.

Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”

“Then you should drink with us.”

“Not interested.” You blink.

“…why not?”

He shrugs.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.

A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”

“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”

Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.

Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.

Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.

Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.

Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.

Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.

You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…

Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.

This turns out to be easier said than done.

You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.

Then a knock interrupts.

You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.

Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.

“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”

His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”

Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.

“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”

He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”

“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.

“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”

“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.

“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.

“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.

“Then at least let me watch.”

Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.

“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.

“Smells good.”

His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.

“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.

“I told you not to call me—“

“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”

From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“

Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.

“You asked me to fix your shower.”

“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.

“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”

Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”

He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“

“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”

“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”

“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”

He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.

“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”

You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”

“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”

You scoff.

“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”

“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”

With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.

“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.

“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.

“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”

You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.

“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”

“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”

He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”

“What night?” Bucky grunts.

“The night we were drinkin’.”

He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”

“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”

He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”

Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”

He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”

Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.

“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”

“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”

“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.

“It’s — well, I’m just—“

“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.

“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”

You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?

You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.

“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.

“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.

“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.

For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”

You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”

“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.

“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.

“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.

Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.

“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”

You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”

“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.

“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”

“I thought you got things to do today.”

“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”

It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.

A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“

“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—

“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.

“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.

“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.

“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”

Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”

He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”

Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.

“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”

“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.

“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”

You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.

“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.

“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.

“And?”

You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“

Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”

He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”

A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.

The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.

A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.

A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.

Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.

A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.

But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.

When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.

You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.

You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.

Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.

You take a large sip of beer for courage.

“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”

You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.

Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.

Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.

“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”

Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”

“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”

“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“

“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”

There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.

“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”

He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”

Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.

Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.

You blink.

“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”

Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”

“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”

“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”

“I got what?”

“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”

Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”

The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.

“Uh…”

He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?

You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.

“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.

“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.

“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”

“Please don’t,” you groan.

He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—

“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.

You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?

But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.

Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.

Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.

When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.

“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”

By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.

You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”

Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”

Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”

She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”

“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.

“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.

“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“

After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.

Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.

That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.

The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”

Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.

“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.

“Good to see you again, Viz.”

You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.

But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”

“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”

“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.

“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.

“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.

“Nat’s just a friend.”

“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”

The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.

Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”

You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.

As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.

You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.

“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”

You’re dragged away before you can say a word.

Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.

As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.

Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.

Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.

Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.

“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”

A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”

“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”

“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”

“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”

“Maybe four years ago,” he says.

“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.

“Whaddya mean?”

He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“

Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.

“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”

The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”

“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”

“Nope — not Texas.”

You pout. “Gimme a hint.”

“East coast.”

You stare.

“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.

“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”

“Worse. Brooklyn.”

Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”

“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.

“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”

“A story for another time.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.

“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.

He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.

“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.

You balk. “I never said that—“

“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.

“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”

“Yeah — do you know him?”

He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.

“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”

“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”

Bucky nods. “Good…good.”

Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.

“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.

“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”

You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.

Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.

“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.

You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.

“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.

“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.

Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.

“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”

“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.

“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”

“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.

“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.

“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”

You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—

“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”

Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—

“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.

The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.

“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.

“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”

Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”

You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”

Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”

She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.

“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.

“Thought I’d walk you back.”

You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”

“You can see my door from here.”

“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.

Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”

“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”

You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”

“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”

“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.

Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.

“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.

Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?

“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.

“You think that’s enough to stop me?”

Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”

Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.

It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.

Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.

But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.

You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.

Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.

Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.

While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.

You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.

“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.

Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.

“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.

Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.

So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.

When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.

You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.

And then you hear it.

It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.

A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.

You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”

Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.

Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.

Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.

You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.

Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”

You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.

His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”

Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”

“But you didn’t.”

The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.

“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.

“Bullshit,” he counters.

“It’s the truth—“

“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”

You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”

“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”

There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.

“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.

“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.

“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.

You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.

But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.

“I know,” you whisper back.

This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.

He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.

You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.

You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.

And then he kisses you.

Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.

You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.

His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.

The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.

“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.

His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.

And then he gently pushes you off his lap.

Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.

“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”

“Then why did you stop?”

He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.

“I know. You shouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.

“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”

You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”

“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”

“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“

He barks out a humorless laugh.

“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”

All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—

He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“

“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”

Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.

“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”

His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.

“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.

He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.

The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.

Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”

Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.

He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.

“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.

The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.

Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.

What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.

Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.

But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.

And Bucky…

You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.

You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.

His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.

He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.

Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.

On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.

Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.

You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.

So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.

The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.

But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.

You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.

The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.

But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.

“Where’ve you been?”

You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.

“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”

His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”

You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.

“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.

“What for?”

“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”

He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”

A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”

Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”

Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”

He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”

A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”

“You need money?”

“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“

“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”

“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“

“Because it helps me to not think about you!”

The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.

“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”

“Kid…”

“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”

“That’s not why I’m here—“

“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”

Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”

“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“

Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.

You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”

You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”

He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”

Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”

“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”

His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.

But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.

His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.

“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.

“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”

The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…

“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”

He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…

You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”

As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.

Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.

“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”

You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.

“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”

Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.

“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”

A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.

Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.

You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”

Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.

“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”

He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.

You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.

It’s the easiest decision to make.

You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.

Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.

“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”

“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”

He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”

Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”

“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.

“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.

It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.

“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”

His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.

“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.

Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.

“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”

Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.

Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.

Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.

“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”

You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”

“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.

“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.

But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.

But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”

His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.

“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”

“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.

“More, Bucky, please.”

He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.

“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.

His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.

You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.

“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.

“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.

“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”

You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.

“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.

“But—“

“No.”

You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.

Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.

Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.

He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.

“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.

“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.

“S-so— so good—“

“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”

“…m-more?”

Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.

He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.

“Bucky,” you warn.

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”

A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.

“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”

The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”

He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.

The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.

He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.

“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.

He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.

Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.

You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”

He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”

“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.

“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”

His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.

You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.

You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.

With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.

His good girl.

“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.

“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”

A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.

Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”

The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.

“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”

“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”

“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.

“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”

Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.

The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.

Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”

You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.

“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.

“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”

Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.

His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.

“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”

His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.

“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”

Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”

All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.

“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.

“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.

“Shit—“ you exhale.

Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.

“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”

He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.

“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”

His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.

“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?

“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.

Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.

“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.

“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”

He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.

A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”

There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.

“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”

Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.

“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”

You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”

“Me? Never.”

A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.

“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.

“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.

His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”

A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”

He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.

“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”

Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.

Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.

sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!

good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!

Some days the ache is a low fog, a softness you can move through if you keep moving, if you keep the kettle of your body warm. Some days it is a bright, thin wire that hums when you reach for things, sings when you twist your wrist the wrong way. Today it's somewhere in between, a weather that keeps changing its mind. You keep a bottle of water within easy reach and your wrists aligned like you were taught, and you tell yourself that this is a building full of doors and you know how to open them, that hinges are patient things, that you can be, too. You take inventory of small mercies—chairs with arms, a keyboard that doesn't stick, a mug that fits your grip—and you stack them like coins you intend to spend later.

Hotch has been courting you for weeks, and you have been letting him, which feels like letting a door stay ajar in a hallway that is always, always busy. There are the gifts that are not called gifts—an extra mug appearing on your desk on a cold morning, dark blue with the FBI seal; a scarf folded with careful precision over your chair when the building air turns too sharp; a file already clipped and labeled before you realize you were going to ask for it, the tab placed where your eyes always look first, the kind of foresight that feels like being met halfway. There is the way he pauses, just a fraction, to ask if you need anything before he disappears into a meeting, and the way he listens to the answer like it matters more than the meeting does, like your answer is a room he intends to stand in for a moment instead of passing through.

There is his scent, clean and cedar and ironed shirts, kept deliberately at a respectful distance, like a tide that knows exactly where the sand gives way and chooses to stop there, like a promise that has decided to be patient and call that a virtue. When he leans over your desk to look at a schedule, he angles his shoulders so you still have space. When he stands behind you while you print something, he stands like a guardrail, not a wall. You notice these things because your body notices these things before your head does, cataloging them the way it catalogs exits.

You know what it means. Everyone does, in the quiet way offices know things before they say them, in the way looks pass like notes folded small. You feel it most when your joints flare and he notices before you do, a hand hovering near your elbow without touching, an offer that is never quite a question, a quiet, "Sit," that somehow sounds like care instead of command. Sometimes he brings you tea without comment, sets it down on the corner of your desk like it's always been there. Sometimes he just stands there a second longer than he has to, like he's making sure the room is shaped correctly around you, like he's checking the weather again before he leaves.

Sometimes you catch him watching you the way people watch a horizon—like he's measuring something that can't be hurried, like he's tracking a line only he can see. Sometimes you catch yourself cataloging the way his sleeves crease, the way he holds a pen, the way his voice settles the room without raising itself, like gravity has learned how to speak. You tell yourself this is just the bullpen doing what it does: turning proximity into patterns, patterns into habits. You tell yourself you are good at habits. You tell yourself that doors don't have to be opened all at once, that you can stand in the frame and breathe for a while.

So when the new courier shows up, all bright grin and louder shoes, you brace yourself for the minor disruption of it, the way your day ripples when someone brings a package that requires a signature and a smile and a brief rearranging of your careful stacks. He's an alpha—his scent announces him like a trumpet in a quiet room—and he leans in too close as he sets the box on the edge of your desk, laughs too loud at something that isn't quite a joke, says your name like it's a gift he's already unwrapped and plans to keep the ribbon.

"Did anyone ever tell you," he says, eyes flicking to your throat and lingering there, "you've got the kind of scent that makes a man want to take his time?"

The words sit in the air longer than they should. You feel them land on you like dust that doesn't belong to this room.

You keep your voice in its practiced register, warm but firm, the one that says thank you and please and this is a federal building all at once. "I'll just need your signature here." You slide the clipboard toward him. Your fingers protest at the angle, a bright line of pain sketching itself across your knuckles, and you breathe through it like you always do, like the pain is a tide and you are a pier that has learned how to let it pass under. The pen clicks. The paper shifts. You keep your eyes on the line where he's supposed to write, like that line is a boundary you can enforce by believing in it hard enough, like ink can be a kind of fence if you draw it straight.

He signs with a flourish, leans in again, says something about coffee later, about how he could show you a place, about how he likes the way you smell when you concentrate, like it's a compliment and not a claim. You answer with the same small, professional smile you give to everyone, the one that lives in your cheeks and not your mouth, and you feel the bullpen tilt, just a degree, like a floor that remembers an earthquake long after it's done. You tuck the clipboard away. You say, "Have a good day." You mean it the way you always mean it: generally, harmlessly, as a door closing. You watch him go because it's easier than watching the room watch you, easier than counting how many eyes learned your name a second time.

You don't look for Hotch. You don't have to. You feel him the way you feel a change in weather through old glass, the way the air gets a little more deliberate, a little more still, the way conversations seem to decide, all at once, to choose their words more carefully, as if the room has been given a ruler.

Across the room, his gaze is a dark line drawn with a steady hand. His scent, usually so carefully leashed, sharpens—not loud, never that, but focused, a blade honed in a quiet room. It doesn't spill. It doesn't flare. It just… arrives, and stays, like a weight set down exactly where it belongs. You feel it like a change in barometric pressure behind your eyes. He doesn't make a scene. He never would. He finishes what he's doing with the same precise economy he brings to everything else, sets down his pen, answers a question without looking away from the file in front of him, closes a folder, opens another, checks a time he already knows. And when the courier finally leaves with a lingering glance and a promise that hangs in the air like smoke, Hotch does not go back to his office.

He comes to you, but not directly. He waits until you've stacked the last of the files, until you've flexed your fingers under the desk and pretended they don't ache, until you've taken the small, careful sip of water that keeps your hands steady. He waits until you've stood and the room has done that small, familiar sway it sometimes does, and he's there without making it a thing, without turning it into a spectacle. He waits until the corridor behind the records room is empty in that particular way that belongs to government buildings—no echoes, just the sense of them, like a held breath in concrete, like the building is listening for its own name.

"Walk with me," he says, and it is not an order, not quite, but it carries the weight of one anyway, the way gravity does, the way doors do when they open the only way they can. The way maps do when you follow them.

You do. The carpet muffles your steps. The lights here are dimmer, kinder, and you realize you've been holding your shoulders too high without meaning to, like you were bracing for a draft that never came. You notice the way he keeps his pace matched to yours without making a show of it, the way he turns corners like he's clearing space ahead. You're barely halfway through asking what's wrong—your voice doing that small, careful thing it does when you're trying not to assume, when you're trying to leave room for exits, when you're trying to keep the world from tipping—when he steps in close. Too close. The space between you goes thin as paper, goes bright as a line struck on a match, goes suddenly very, very deliberate, like someone has drawn a circle and you're standing in it together.

"He doesn't get to flirt with you like that," Hotch says, and his voice is lower than it was in the bullpen, lower than you've ever heard it, really, like he's moved a conversation from a room with windows into a room with doors. "Not when I'm courting you."

Your heart forgets its job for a second. Then it remembers all at once, too much and too fast, and you have to count your breaths like they're stairs, one, two, don't trip. Your breath catches like fabric on a nail. You can feel the echo of the courier's cologne still, faint and wrong, a ghost of something you didn't want to carry with you, and beneath it Hotch's scent, steady and certain, like a line you can follow in the dark, like a road that has decided to stay put and call that loyalty.

"I didn't—" you start, because you always start there, because explanations are your first language, because you believe in footnotes. The word falls apart before it gets to its second half, turns into a pause you don't know how to fill.

His hand comes to your hip, not grabbing, not rough, just there—grounding and possessive all at once, fingers curling in the soft knit of your cardigan like he's checking to see if you're real, like he's anchoring a thought before it drifts. The heat of him is a pressure you can map: shoulder, chest, the careful space he still leaves for your breath, the way he stands like he's already decided where the lines are and intends to keep them. Your omega instincts, usually a quiet background hum, surge up like a tide that has found the moon and decided it will not be ignored, like a bell rung in a room you didn't know had one.

"You accepted my gifts," he continues, and there's something in his eyes that looks like restraint holding a door closed, something that looks like patience that has learned how to be sharp without cutting. "My care. That means something."

You want to say something practical, something that sounds like you. You want to say of course it does, or I didn't mean to, or even just his name in the tone you use when you're trying to keep a room steady. You want to say you didn't encourage him, that you did exactly what you always do, that you kept the lines where they belong and wrote inside them, that you colored neatly. What comes out is a sound that lives somewhere between a breath and a question, and it surprises you enough that you almost laugh at yourself for it, a small, startled sound that turns into a swallow halfway through, like your body is editing you.

Your knees go soft. You lean into the wall without meaning to, the cool of it a brief mercy against the way your body is rewriting its own rules. The ache in your hands is still there, but it's quieter, like it's listening, like it's decided to wait and see what the rest of you is going to do. His scent unfurls with intention now, not the polite distance of the bullpen but the full, honest thing—cedar and clean paper and a darker note beneath, something that says home in a language you didn't know you spoke, something that says stay without raising its voice. It curls around your thoughts. It makes your spine feel like a line being gently, insistently underlined. It makes your ache feel like a low tide instead of a storm, like a problem that has decided to become a background instead of a headline.

He steps closer. Noses along your throat, not touching, then touching, the barest brush of skin that sends a line of heat down your spine like a match struck in a quiet room. You can feel him breathing you in like he's reading something he intends to remember, like he's committing a paragraph to memory and checking the margins. He scents you with full awareness, full intention, and the corridor seems to narrow to the space your bodies share, like the building itself has decided to look away out of politeness, to give you the courtesy of a closed door that isn't there.

You moan, barely audible, more surprise than anything else, and he answers with a low, satisfied sound that settles into you like a promise you didn't know you were waiting for. His hand tightens just a little at your hip, not enough to hurt, just enough to say I'm here, just enough to say stay, just enough to say this is not a misunderstanding, not a story being told from two different ends with different maps.

"I should have been clearer where it counts," he murmurs, and it's not an excuse so much as a calibration, a thing adjusted rather than set down, like moving a piece of glass so it catches the light instead of cutting you. "You've known. I've known. The team's known," he says, thumb pressing once, steady, at your hip. "I just haven't said it loud enough for anyone outside these walls. I won't apologize for being clear now."

You nod because nodding is easier than speaking and because the world feels like it's tilted toward him and you are a cup that has finally found its saucer, because your thoughts keep circling the same bright point and not quite landing, because the corridor smells like paper and quiet and something beginning. Your fingers curl in the fabric of his sleeve, careful of your joints, careful of the way your hands sometimes argue with you, and he notices—of course he does—shifting just enough that the angle eases, that the pressure becomes support, that the ache becomes background noise again instead of a headline, a footnote instead of a thesis.

His mouth finds yours, and the kiss is rough and reverent, like he's been holding back for weeks and has decided, finally, to stop pretending he doesn't want what he wants. It's not hurried. It's not shy. It's the kind of kiss that takes inventory: the way you breathe, the way you lean, the way your hands shake and then don't, the way you fit into the space he's making like you were always going to, like the room was waiting for you to stand there and prove it right.

For a second, the building disappears. There is only the pressure of him and the quiet thunder of your own pulse, the way his scent wraps around you like a coat that knows your shoulders, the way your thoughts go soft at the edges and bright in the middle, the way time does that strange, merciful folding-in on itself and decides to stay folded.

When he pulls away, it's slow, like he's making sure you're still there, like he's giving you time to find your feet again, like he's proving to both of you that he can, that he will. His mouth brushes your ear, and his voice is a promise kept close, a line drawn where it can't be mistaken, a map written in a language you already understand. "I'll take my time proving it," he says, "but make no mistake— you're mine, and I want everyone to know it."

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Art from amazing readers

01 - 02 - 03

"Look at the concentration on that thing," Brennan muttered, laying down two kings. "You'd think those boots were made of gold."

A ripple of laughter circled the table. Soldat didn't react. His shoulders remained perfectly squared and his breathing even, as he moved on to the next boot in the endless line they'd provided him.

“I wonder if Zola matched all the parts properly when he stitched it together,” Schmidt mused, his voice flat with casual cruelty. “That arm looks a bit darker compared to the torso, don’t you think?”

Hayes leaned forward, squinting through the haze. “Now that you mention it… yes. There- along the shoulder. The seam is clear enough. Skin tone’s all wrong.”

“Ran out of quality stock,” Brennan said with a snort. “Had to make do with whatever corpses were left on the field.”

The cloth in Soldat’s hand stilled. Not long, just the faintest pause, before resuming its rhythm. A strand of dark hair fell across his face, obscuring the pale blue eyes that remained fixed downward.

"I heard Zola's been wanting to test all its... functions," Hayes said, in a conspiratorial whisper. "Says we've only scratched the surface of what it can do."

Schmidt raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Use your imagination, I know you can," Hayes gestured vaguely toward the figure on the floor. "Built it from the finest specimens. Young soldiers, all in their prime. One would assume everything works."

The laughter that followed was harsh and grating. Soldat continued his work, but the cloth twisted faintly in his grip, knuckles white against the leather.

"Damn, Hayes. You have a sick mind."

"Just saying," Hayes shrugged, taking a swig from his glass. "Waste not, want not, right? If we're keeping the thing around for entertainment..."

"Might be fun during the next card game," Schmidt added thoughtfully. "Could use something to liven up these long nights."

Soldat reached for another boot. His movements remained controlled and mechanical, but a keen observer might have noticed the slight tension that crept into his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched almost imperceptibly.

"Pass," Hayes said, folding his cards. "But speaking of entertainment… Soldat."

The dark threads of hair framed his features as his head lifted immediately. Blue eyes, startlingly cold in the gaslight, fixed on Hayes with perfect, hollow attention.

"Bring us another bottle from the cabinet. The good stuff."

He rose smoothly to his feet with fluid movements despite the patchwork nature of his construction. Up close, the signs were more obvious: the subtle color variations where different limbs had been grafted together, the scars that marked the seams of Zola's handiwork. A masterpiece of anatomical engineering, cobbled together from the finest specimens the battlefield could provide.

He crossed to the liquor cabinet with measured steps, each footfall silent on the stone floor. His hands -one noticeably paler than the other- reached for the crystal decanter with precision.

"Look at that," Brennan murmured appreciatively. "Moves like a dancer. Zola really knew what he was doing."

The Soldat returned with the bottle, setting it on the table with careful precision before resuming his position on the floor into the posture of a penitent. He picked up another boot, another cloth, and fell back into the rhythm of endless, meaningless labor.

"You know what I heard?" Hayes leaned forward. "Zola's been keeping notes. Detailed observations about its... responses. Physical reactions. Reflexes."

"What kind of responses?"

"The interesting kind." Hayes grinned wolfishly. "Apparently, despite all the conditioning, some basic human reactions are still intact. The body remembers what the mind's been trained to forget. Touch, pressure, pain. The instincts are still in there."

"That so?" Schmidt dealt another hand. "Might warrant investigation. For scientific purposes, naturally.”

"Of course," the others chorused, laughter filling the smoky air.

Brennan ground his cigarette into the tray. “Strange, though. It’s too quiet tonight. Usually, we obtain at least some sound out of it when we work it like this.”

Hayes tilted his head, studying the figure on the floor. “You’re right. Normally, there’s a grunt, a breath, something. Tonight, nothing.”

"Maybe it's finally learning its place," Schmidt observed. "Though I have to admit, the silence is almost... disappointing."

Hayes reached for the empty glass, rolling it in his palm before sending it spinning across the room. It shattered against the Soldat’s back, exploding into shards that rained around him.

Not a flinch. Not a flicker. He bent only to the task at hand, as though the violence had never happened. He simply reached for another boot and continued his methodical polishing, ignoring the glass that now littered the stone around his knees.

Brennan clicked his tongue. "Didn't even blink."

"Clean that up," Schmidt ordered casually. "With your hands. Don't want anyone cutting themselves on your mess."

Without hesitation, Soldat set down the boot and complied. He collected each piece carefully, tiny cuts blooming along his skin where the edges bit in, but he did not pause, did not look at the red that streaked his fingers. Stacking all in a neat pile beside him, he returned to his polishing as if nothing had happened.

The officers exchanged glances across the smoke and cards, their expressions a blur of cruelty, boredom, and something close to admiration for the thing they commanded.

----

Heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor, growing closer. The card game paused as a junior operative burst through the door, his face flushed from running.

"Sir," he panted, addressing Schmidt. "Urgent telegram from headquarters."

Schmidt’s eyes read the message, and his expression hardened line by line until his jaw clicked audibly. He crushed the telegram in his fist. “Shit. The operation at the Archduke’s gala is scrubbed. Faulty intelligence. Security doubled.”

"What does that mean for us?" Hayes asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

"It means," Schmidt stood slowly, "that we need the Soldat. Tonight. And it needs to be fast."

The men exchanged uneasy glances. Fast meant automobile, a technology so recent and expensive that using one would draw unwanted attention. Witnesses. Complications.

"We'll have to use the box." Brennan muttered.

In the corner, the polishing cloth went still. For the first time that night, the Soldat froze entirely. For just a moment, his pale blue eyes widened before the mask of compliance slipped back into place.

"Soldat," Schmidt barked. "Leave those boots. Get your gear. Now."

He rose smoothly to his feet, stepping carefully away from the glass fragments near his knees. Blood from the cuts on his palms dripped steadily onto the stone floor as he moved toward the door with silent steps.

The basement of the manor was a different world. Darker, damper, thick with the smell of mold and neglect. His bare feet made no sound on the worn stone steps as he descended into the depths of the building. A narrow corridor led to his cell, if it could be called that.

A windowless room barely large enough to hold a rickety cot and a threadbare blanket that had seen better decades. No comfort, no softness. Just containment.

In the corner was a reinforced wooden chest, its iron bands and heavy lock speaking to the importance of its contents. he knelt before it and worked the combination with precision. The lid opened with a protesting creak, and the smell of oiled leather and steel spilled into the cell. Inside lay his second skin, Hydra’s true claim over his body.

A fitted black leather uniform that seemed to absorb what little light filtered into the cell. The jacket was cut in a military style but modernized, with reinforced panels across the chest and shoulders. High boots polished to a mirror shine sat beside fitted trousers designed for silent movement. Fingerless gloves lay folded beside a utility belt equipped with holsters and pouches for various implements of destruction.

And there, nestled at the bottom like a sleeping serpent, was the mask.

The leather contraption swallowed the lower half of his face, a cage of straps and buckles designed to bite into flesh during long hours of deployment. It did not simply silence him; it stripped away the possibility of identity. Not a soldier. Not a man. A weapon.

Soldat’s breathing hitched almost imperceptibly as he lifted the gear from its resting place. Outside, he could hear the men moving urgently, their voices carrying down through the manor's ancient walls. Time was running short, and delays were not tolerated.

He began to change, trading his shapeless gray uniform for the sleek black leather that transformed him from prisoner to predator. The trousers were tight around his legs, the boots laced up until they bit into his calves, and the jacket fastened against his chest as though it had been cut from his very outline.

The muzzle came last, as it always did. His hands trembled -barely, briefly- as he lifted it to his face, feeling the familiar weight of leather against his jaw, the press of straps against his head. The buckles clicked into place, sealing away the last traces of whatever humanity might have remained in his expression.

When the door of the cell opened again, the creature that stepped through was not the kneeling thing with bloodied palms and silent obedience.

It was the Winter Soldier.

----

Schmidt stood behind a wooden table in the briefing room, with blueprints and diagrams spread before him like a battle plan. Hayes flanked him.

"Your target," he began without preamble, “A Philosopher's Stone. Genuine, if the reports are to be believed.”

“Intelligence suggests it can transmute base metal into something harder than steel," Hayes added with barely contained excitement. "Imagine what we could accomplish with such materials."

Schmidt spread the blueprints wider, tracing his finger on the building's layout. "The estate belongs to Lord Pemberton, a collector of... unusual antiquities. The stone will be housed in his private vault, here-" he tapped a room in the building's east wing, "behind a steel door and combination lock. Security consists…”

Soldat absorbed every detail: entry points, guard rotations, the location of the servant's quarters, and the distance between the main house and the gate. His mind catalogued each piece of information with mechanical precision.

"You have four hours from insertion to extraction," Schmidt continued. "Retrieve the stone. No witnesses."

The muzzle allowed no voice, but Soldat’s curt nod was enough.

"Needless to say, failure," Hayes said quietly, his eyes trailing meaningfully over his body, "is not an option."

It never was. Beneath the black leather, scars crossed Soldat's skin, marks that had nothing to do with Zola's surgical reconstruction. Reminders of lessons, the price of imperfection carved into flesh that felt pain all too keenly despite its origins.

"Move out," Schmidt ordered.

Soldat followed his handler through the manor's twisting corridors to the hangar that waited at the far end of the complex, a converted stable large enough to house Hydra's most valuable assets.

He carried no weapons. Those would travel separately inside the vehicle, stored in compartments designed for easy access once they reached the target site. His next accommodation, after all, would have precious little room for anything beyond his own body.

Barely room enough for that.

In the center of the cavernous space was an automobile, black and impossibly modern for the remote countryside. But it wasn't the vehicle that drew his attention.

It was the iron trunk strapped to its rear.

The container was built like a vault, thick iron plates riveted together, with only a handful of small holes drilled near what would be the head. Ventilation, just enough to sustain life. Nothing more.

His steps slowed almost imperceptibly as they approached. His breathing, already controlled by the restrictive muzzle, would become a careful exercise in survival once sealed inside that metal tomb. Every inhalation would need to be measured, calculated, and conserved.

For just a moment -barely a heartbeat- he hesitated.

The crack of a palm against leather echoed through the hangar like a gunshot.

"Move, you worthless piece of shit!" Schmidt's voice exploded with sudden fury, his hand still raised from the vicious backhand that had snapped Soldat's head to the side. "What do you think you are, standing there like some frightened child? You're nothing! A fucking collection of spare parts stitched together for our convenience!"

Soldat's head remained turned from the blow, a red mark blooming across the exposed skin above his muzzle.

"You exist because we allow it," Schmidt continued, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. "You breathe because we require it. You feel pain because it serves our purposes. And you will get in that box because that's what tools do, they get stored."

He grabbed a fistful of dark hair, wrenching Soldat's face toward the iron container. "Look at it. That's where you belong.” Then he shoved him toward the trunk with enough force to send him stumbling forward.

"Now get inside before I decide you need a more permanent reminder of your place."

The Soldat’s back straightened as all traces of hesitation vanished behind the mask. He approached the iron container already calculating angles, positioning, and the careful arrangement of limbs necessary to fit within the cramped confines.

The box yawned open like a hungry mouth, waiting to swallow him whole.

He placed one booted foot inside, then the other, lowering himself with fluid grace despite the restrictive space. His knees drew up to his chest, arms folded tight against his torso, and then shifted to his side, dark hair falling toward his face as he settled into the cramped fetal position that would be his world for the next several hours.

The iron walls pressed against him on all sides, cold metal biting through the leather of his uniform. Through the small ventilation holes, he could see fragments of the hangar's gaslight, brief glimpses of freedom that would soon disappear entirely.

Schmidt's came from behind him, twisted with disdain. "Useless trash," he muttered, slamming the lid down with a resounding clang.

----

"Alright, who's driving?" Brennan's voice came muffled through the iron walls, followed by the sound of car doors opening.

"Not me," Schmidt replied with a slight slur. "Had three glasses of that whiskey, maybe four. You're more sober than I am."

"Like hell I am. You saw me matching you drink for drink all evening."

A pause.

"Fine," Schmidt said with exaggerated patience. "We'll take turns. Two hours each. You start, I'll sleep, then we switch when we hit the halfway point."

"Fair enough. Wake me if you see any constables on the road."

The engine roared to life with a mechanical growl that vibrated through every rivet of the iron container. Soldat closed his eyes, focusing on the careful rhythm of breathing that would sustain him through the journey ahead. Each inhalation had to be measured, each exhalation controlled. The mask made everything more difficult, forcing air through narrow passages while the metal box turned his breath stale and warm.

The automobile lurched forward, beginning its journey through the winding country roads that would take them to the target.

For nearly two hours, he endured the relentless punishment of rutted dirt roads and rocky paths barely wide enough for the automobile's wheels. The primitive roads of the countryside were never meant for such modern contraptions, and his body pressed against the unforgiving metal with each violent jolt, the constant battering made worse by the cramped confines. Then something changed.

The vehicle veered sharply to the right, and he felt the sickening sensation of the wheels leaving the treacherous mountain path entirely, plunging over the rocky embankment into the ravine below.

The world became chaos: metal slamming, glass shattering, the sickening sensation of weightlessness, followed by hard impacts as the vehicle tumbled down the steep embankment. The iron trunk became a battering ram, slamming against trees and rocks, each collision driving Soldat against the container's walls with crushing force.

Then, silence.

Smoke. The distant crackle of flames began to spread through the wreckage near him.

He lay still in the darkness, assessing damage and cataloguing pain. His left shoulder felt wrong. Dislocated, perhaps fractured. Blood trickled from somewhere above his right eye, warm and sticky against his face. But he was alive.

Alive, and trapped.

----

She lay in her bed staring up at the wooden beams that crossed her cottage ceiling.

Tomorrow would mark exactly two years since she'd stepped off the mail coach in this remote village, carrying nothing but a battered medical bag and the desperate need for silence.

She closed her eyes, but the sleep remained elusive. It always did when her mind wandered back to the years that had led her here.

The war had demanded nurses, and her country had been bleeding young men faster than the hospitals could tend them. She'd learned her craft not in the sterile halls of some prestigious institution or a convent, but in the chaos of military campaigns that had stretched across her homeland for the better part of a decade. Women like her -unmarried, without family ties- had been essential when every able-bodied person was needed to keep soldiers alive.

Six years in the military hospital. Six years of learning to set bones, stitch wounds, and recognize the difference between a man who would live and one who wouldn't. She'd become skilled at reading pain in a soldier's eyes, at knowing which wounds were beyond her abilities and which she could heal with careful attention.

Then came the draft notice. Two more years, this time in field hospitals that moved with the army itself. Tents pitched in mud, working by candlelight, and the constant thunder of artillery that made her hands shake as she tried to thread needles with precision.

When the war finally ended, the city felt like another battlefield. Too many people, too much noise, too many reminders of what she'd seen and done. The offer to work as Dr. Whitmore's assistant in this isolated village had felt like salvation, a chance to practice in quiet rooms where the loudest sounds were birds singing outside the windows, and for the first time in years, she could breathe without smelling blood.

The villagers had their peculiarities, certainly. They were suspicious of outsiders, prone to superstition, and sometimes brought her patients with ailments that seemed more suited to the last century than this one. But the doctor paid for her services, as also did the people who ventured to her house instead of going to the clinic for small things, and most importantly, they left her alone when she needed solitude.

She turned onto her side, pulling the quilt up to her chin. Tomorrow she would gather herbs from the undergrowth in the forest, as she did every few weeks when her supplies ran low. The routine had become her comfort, walking the familiar paths, identifying plants by touch and scent, and filling her satchel with nature's gifts.

----

The first light of dawn was creeping through the window when she finally gave up on sleep. She rose quietly and moved to the small wardrobe that held her possessions.

Her fingers found the familiar fabric hidden behind her respectable dresses: the practical bloomers she'd worn during her time at the field hospitals. The divided skirt had been scandalous enough in a war zone; here in the village, it would be nothing short of outrageous. But the forest paths were treacherous, full of roots and brambles that could easily catch in a dress, and she had no intention of returning home with torn fabric and scraped knees.

She pulled the bloomers on quickly, followed by a simple blouse and sturdy boots. The best part of leaving before the village woke was avoiding the disapproving stares that would surely follow if anyone saw her in such "immodest" attire.

A lady, after all, should never draw unwanted attention from passersby, even if that lady happened to be trudging through dense undergrowth in search of medicinal herbs to heal them.

In the small kitchen, she prepared a quick breakfast of tea and bread, eating by the window as she watched the world slowly wake around her. Then she braided her hair back into a practical plait and secured some tools in a leather satchel that would hold the day's harvest.

The walk to her favorite gathering spot would take nearly two hours through increasingly wild terrain, but she didn't mind. The solitude was worth every step, and the herbs that grew in that remote area were some of the finest she'd ever found. By the time she returned, the satchel would be full of plants that Dr. Whitmore's patients would need in the coming weeks.

She stepped out into the cool morning air, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders as she began the long walk toward the forest. The road was empty, and she moved quickly, eager to reach the tree line before anyone might spot her unconventional clothing.

----

Soon the roofs of the village disappeared behind her, and the dirt road gave way to a narrow track where brambles tugged at her bloomers.

The forest thickened the farther she went, until the morning light broke only in scattered shards through the canopy. Her satchel was already half full with chamomile and willow bark when she decided to venture a little further up the hillside, searching for a particular mushroom that grew only in the soil near the summit.

As she advanced through the dense undergrowth, something dark and unnatural caught her eye between the trees ahead. She paused, squinting through the dappled shadows, trying to make sense of the shape that didn't belong among forest and stone.

Metal. Twisted and blackened.

Her training took over before her brain could intervene. She moved toward the wreckage promptly, already cataloguing possibilities. A cart accident, perhaps, or some piece of industrial equipment that had somehow found its way into this remote wilderness.

But as she drew closer, the disaster became clearer.

It was an automobile, one of those impossibly expensive modern things she'd only heard described in the city, never crossed one. The vehicle lay on its side, its elegant lines now warped by impact and flames.

Her steps quickened despite the rational knowledge that after such devastation, there were unlikely to be survivors. Still, years in field hospitals override logic.

Someone might yet live. Someone might yet be saved.

But as she reached the twisted wreckage, hope died in her chest.

Two figures sat slumped in what remained of the automobile's interior, barely recognizable as human. The fire had been merciless, leaving behind only charred remains that spoke of a death too swift for suffering, or so she hoped.

She whispered a brief prayer for their souls and stepped back from the scene, scanning the scattered debris for anything that might identify these poor souls. Personal effects, luggage, anything that could help her notify their families or at least give them proper names for burial.

That's when she noticed it, at perhaps twenty feet from the main wreckage, half-hidden behind a fallen log.

A metal container, roughly the size of a large trunk but built with the reinforcement of a bank vault. Iron plates riveted together with industrial precision, the surface darkened by soot but otherwise intact. It must have been thrown during the automobile's tumble down the embankment.

She approached it carefully. There were small holes drilled on the sides. Ventilation holes, perhaps? An odd feature for luggage, but then again, she'd never seen an automobile before today, much less whatever cargo such wealthy travelers might carry.

Maybe inside she would find documents, identification papers, something to help piece together who these people had been. The least she could do was ensure they received proper burial rites and that word reached whatever family might be waiting for their return.

The lock looked complex, but the impact might have damaged the mechanism. She knelt beside the container, running her fingers along its edges, searching for any weakness that might allow her to open it and discover the identities of the poor souls who had met such a violent end in this peaceful forest.

----

Darkness had been his companion for hours now. Thick, suffocating darkness broken only by thin streams of light filtering through the ventilation holes.

His body had grown stiff and cold in the cramped confines, his muscles cramping from the enforced fetal position. The muzzle made every breath a careful calculation, and the stale air inside the container had grown heavy and warm with his exhalations.

Then he heard them, footsteps, soft but distinct against the forest floor.

Every sense of his body sharpened instantly, battle-trained instincts overriding physical discomfort. Through one of the small holes, he could make out movement between the trees. A figure approached the wreckage, and he pressed his eye closer to the openings, straining to see clearly through the limited view.

A woman. But dressed... strangely. Practical clothing that was more suited to man's work than feminine respectability. She moved toward the burned automobile, and he watched her pause at the sight of the bodies inside.

Her posture spoke of familiarity with death, professional assessment rather than feminine hysteria.

Then her gaze found the container.

His heartbeat quickened, a betrayal of the perfect stillness they'd trained into him. She was walking toward him now, circling the iron trunk with obvious curiosity. She could free him. But then what?

The mission parameters came to his mind: no witnesses. But his handler was dead, his charred remains were testament to that.

The woman appeared to pose no immediate threat, but years of experience had taught him that threats often came in deceptive packages.

Yet, she was his only chance to escape this iron coffin. Without her intervention, he would die slowly, as his air supply dwindled and his water ran out.

Through the small opening, he watched her work at the lock. She whispered something -words he couldn't quite make out through the metal walls- but her tone seemed... kind? Concerned?

His training collided with something else, something deeper and more human that the conditioning had never quite managed to erase. The part of him that recognized compassion when he saw it, even if he couldn't remember the last time he'd experienced it himself.

----

She forced the lid open with both hands, metal biting back and groaning until something gave in.

The stench hit her first: sour sweat, rusted metal, and underneath it all, the metallic tang of old blood. Her stomach lurched, but she pushed harder, and the lid fell back with a hollow clang.

She found herself staring down at a large body, folded into a space that seemed far too small to contain it. Dark hair fell across a muzzled face that was more angles than curves; his wrists bore the telltale bruising of restraints.

For a second, her brain refused to make sense of it, because people didn’t go in places like this. Even in the worst hospital, or the psychiatric wards she'd heard whispers about, or even prison cells. This was worse.

Cult sacrifice, she thought darkly, some ritual cage. Or human trafficking. Something obscene.

Her mind catalogued the obvious injuries: contusions across his exposed skin, the unnatural angle of his left shoulder, the telltale signs of dehydration in his sunken cheeks.

But it was his eyes that made her blood freeze.

Pale blue and burning with the desperation of a cornered animal, fixed on her with an intensity that made every instinct scream danger. She wanted to reach out, but his stare nailed her where she stood. This was no accident victim. This was something else entirely.

She used a gentle tone, the same one she'd used with delirious patients who couldn't distinguish friend from foe. "It's alright," she whispered, though nothing about this was alright. "You're safe now. I'm going to help you."

Her hands hovered uselessly in the air, as if touch alone could conjure sense from this nightmare. She swallowed, fixed her gaze on the black mask strapped tight over his mouth and jaw. Not cloth. Something harsher, molded. It erased half his humanity, leaving only his eyes, and they were a world unto themselves. Glacial, fever-bright, alive with a feral calculation that made her pulse stumble.

Slowly, she lowered one hand, palm open, “I just want to check you,” she murmured, though her voice quivered. “Make sure you’re not-”

A shift. Barely more than the flex of muscle under dark leather, but enough to stop her breath. His shoulders twitched like he meant to unfold, to get out from that coffin of steel.

Her instinct screamed to slam the lid shut and run.

Instead, she forced herself an inch closer, brushing the rim of the box with her fingertips.

The sound he made was not a word. It was the guttural choke of someone whose throat had forgotten how to speak. Low, warning, animal. His stare pinned her harder than any chain could.

She froze, realizing all at once that whatever this man was -victim or monster- he was not used to mercy.

----

The lid opened, and suddenly the world became too bright, too vast, too unpredictable. his pupils contracted painfully as daylight flooded his iron prison, and with it came the scent of trees and damp herbs, alien smells after hours of breathing his own stale air.

The woman's silhouette blocked out part of the light, and every conditioned reflex screamed the same message: new contact equals a potential threat, equals eliminate.

Pain lanced through his dislocated shoulder as he managed to shift maybe two inches. His legs, cramped from hours in the same position, barely responded to his command. The most he could manage was that slight twitch of his shoulders. Pathetic, but apparently enough to make her freeze.

Good. Fear was useful. Fear kept people at a distance.

The sound that emerged from behind his muzzle was barely human. Part warning growl, part the rasp of air through a throat that had been silent too long. He couldn't form words even if he wanted to, couldn't explain, threaten, or negotiate. All he had were his eyes, and he used them like weapons, fixing her with a stare that had made grown-up men step backward.

She didn't run. That was... unexpected.

Instead, she moved closer, touching the edge of his prison. He could see her hands shaking despite her calm voice. Probably it was her professional instinct versus self-preservation, he had seen it before.

But this was different. She wasn't Hydra. The way she looked at him, the horror in her expression when she'd first opened the container... that wasn't the clinical assessment of a handler evaluating their asset. That was a genuine shock at his treatment.

Which meant she was either an exceptional actress, or she truly had no idea what he was.

His eyes tracked her movements as she leaned closer, cataloguing every detail. Her clothing suggested practical work rather than wealth. Her posture spoke of some kind of medical training, since she seemed confident around injuries and blood. And underneath it all, that gentleness in her voice that his mind insisted must be manipulation, even as some deeper part of him wanted desperately to believe it might be real.

He flexed his fingers. If he pounced now -if his body would even allow it- her throat would be within reach. Quick, simple, and efficient. A solution Hydra would approve.

And yet… he didn’t.

He hated to hesitate.

"You're hurt," she said simply, keeping her voice soft.

His eyes tracked the movement of her lips, then darted to her hands, back to her face, then to the forest beyond her shoulder.

Calculating escape routes, she realized. So she reached slowly toward the leather satchel at her side, watching his reaction. The moment her hand moved, his entire body went rigid, that warning sound rumbling again from behind the mask. She froze, palm still open in the air.

"I’m gathering medicine," she whispered, tapping the satchel gently. "Some is for pain."

Something flickered across his visible features. Confusion, perhaps, or disbelief. As if the concept of someone offering to ease his pain was foreign as a language he'd never heard.

She withdrew her hand, settling back on her heels. "I won't touch you without permission," she said firmly.

His eyes widened fractionally, and she caught something raw and desperate flashing across his features before the mask of wariness slammed back down.

----

Minutes passed in tense silence. She didn't move closer, didn't reach for him, didn't do anything but sit beside the container and occasionally glance around the forest, as if keeping watch. The gesture was unconscious, protective, and it did something strange to his chest, a tightness that had nothing to do with the muzzle's restrictions.

When a branch snapped somewhere in the distance, his reaction was immediate and violent. His body jerked against the container's walls, sending fresh agony through his dislocated shoulder, but he couldn't stop the response, couldn't control the way his nervous system flooded with panic chemicals.

"Shh," she breathed, and before she could think better of it, her hand was extended toward him, not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her palm. "It’s just a squirrel. You're safe."

Safe. Another impossible word.

But her hand... wasn't closed into a fist. Wasn't holding a weapon or a tool. He stared at it, this foreign gesture, trying to process what it meant.

Slowly -so slowly she barely dared to breathe- his own fingers stretched from where they'd been pressed against his chest. His hand was shaking, fine tremors that spoke of exhaustion and overstimulated nerves, but he lifted it anyway.

He didn't quite touch her. Just let his fingertips hover an inch away from her palm, close enough to feel her heat.

It was the first choice he could remember making in years.

The first time he had reached toward another person instead of backing away.

Then retreated.

----

"Can you sit up?" she asked eventually, "That shoulder needs attention, and lying like that will only make it worse."

He considered this. His body was screaming at him to move, to get out of this confined space, but the other voice in his head -drilled into him, beaten into him-insisted he wait for explicit permission. He hesitated, staring at her lips, waiting for the tone of authority that never came.

With considerable effort, he braced his good arm against the metal wall and pushed himself upright. Every inch was agony. His shoulder throbbed with each movement, and his vision hazed at the edges, but he gritted his teeth behind the muzzle and made no sound. He would not show weakness. Weakness cost blood.

"Carefully," she murmured, softly. Her tone held no impatience, no irritation at his obvious limitations. "There's no rush."

No rush. When had there ever been no rush? When had anyone ever told him to take his time, to move at his own pace?

For a flicker of a moment, he hated her. Hated the softness of her tone and the impossible patience in her eyes, because it made his chest hurt.

Yet he couldn’t look away.

He found himself staring at her again, trying to decode this impossibility of a woman who looked at him and saw something worth helping instead of something to be used.

"So… may I look at your shoulder then?" she asked, in the same careful tone. "I need to see how badly it's dislocated."

He stared at her. The question was something foreign and dangerous. May I? Not an order. Not a demand. A request for permission that he could theoretically refuse.

His breathing quickened behind the muzzle. Permission implied choice, and choice implied consequence, and consequence meant pain if he chose wrong. But she was waiting, patiently, for an answer he didn't know how to give.

Slowly, reluctantly, he managed a single, jerky nod.

She moved with deliberate care, telegraphing every motion as her hands approached the leather of his jacket. Her fingers found the fastenings, and she began to work them loose with the efficiency of someone accustomed to undressing patients.

The moment her knuckles brushed against his collarbone through the leather, he flinched violently. Not from pain -though his shoulder screamed in protest at the movement- but from something different.

Touch that wasn't meant to hurt him was so foreign that his body didn't know how to process it. Every nerve ending fired warning signals, even as a treacherous part of his mind relished the warmth of her skin, the gentleness of her hands.

She froze immediately. "I'm sorry," she whispered, pulling back. "Did I hurt you?"

He shook his head frantically, then stopped, confused by his own reaction. Why was he apologizing? Why did he care if she thought she'd caused him pain?

"The jacket needs to come off so I can see the damage properly," she said softly. "I can help, or you can do it yourself if that's easier."

The leather was tight against his body, designed for stealth and durability rather than easy removal. With his left arm useless, getting it off alone would be nearly impossible. But the alternative-

His good hand clenched into a fist against his thigh, nails biting into his palm through the fingerless glove. The physical pain was easier to process than the emotional chaos her simple offer had unleashed.

After a long moment, he forced himself to meet her eyes and nodded again. Permission granted, even though every instinct screamed against it.

She worked with care on the intricated fastenings of his jacket. The leather was unlike anything she'd encountered. Reinforced, military-grade. As she peeled it away from his injured shoulder, she realized there was nothing beneath it. No shirt, no undershirt. Just skin pressed directly against the harsh material.

Her hands faltered as more of his torso came into view.

The dislocation itself was bad, yes, but treatable. Her training could assess that with a glance. What stopped her cold were the other things.

Scars. Not the random marks of an accident or battle, but precise, surgical lines that traced along his shoulders where arms met torso, skin tones mismatched in subtle, unnatural variations. And down the center of his chest, a vertical scar ran from sternum to navel, perfectly straight, perfectly intentional.

She tried to keep her expression neutral, professional, but her brow furrowed despite her efforts. In all her years tending battlefield injuries, in all the horrors she'd witnessed in military hospitals, she had never seen anything like this.

This wasn't surgery to heal. This was a surgery to build.

Her gaze met his, searching for some explanation, some context that would make sense of what she was seeing. But his pale blue eyes were fixed on her reaction, tracking every flicker of her expression like a man taught to read danger in the smallest twitch.

He was waiting for her to recoil. Waiting for the disgust, the fear, the horrified recognition of what he was.

She forced her hands to remain steady as she gently examined the shoulder joint, even as her mind reeled with impossible implications.

Her fingers pressed carefully along the swollen ridge of his shoulder, testing the resistance of bone against muscle. He flinched, almost imperceptibly, but didn't pull away. Not once. He just sat there on the crate, breathing shallowly through the black mask, just looking at her.

"You're going to have to stay still," she murmured, more to fill the silence than because she thought he needed instruction.

She braced him with one hand against his chest, feeling the heat of his skin under her palm, and the steady thrum of his heart. With her other hand, she eased the joint back into place with a clean motion.

The pop was muffled, but his reaction wasn't. His whole body tensed, jaw clenching beneath the mask, veins rising at his temple, but not a sound escaped his lips.

When it was done, she let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. His arm hung heavy but properly aligned now.

----

For a long moment, neither of them moved. He stared down at his shoulder with something approaching bewilderment, as if he couldn't quite comprehend what had just happened. Slowly, tentatively, he rolled the joint. The sharp pain that had been his constant companion for hours was... gone.

His eyes snapped back to her face, wide with confusion that bordered on panic. This made no sense. Pain was alleviated through punishment, by earning relief through completing tasks, and by proving one's worth. Not freely through gentle hands and whispered reassurances.

She was still watching him with that same careful attention, and he realized she was waiting for some kind of response. Gratitude? Recognition? He didn't know what she expected, didn't know what was appropriate. His handlers had never required thanks for maintenance; he was equipment, and equipment was repaired when it broke, nothing more.

But this felt different. She felt different.

His good hand moved without conscious thought toward his shoulder, then stopped just short of touching the spot where her palm had pressed against his chest. The skin there still felt warm, still carried the ghost of her touch, gentle and utterly foreign.

A sound escaped his lips then, barely audible through the muzzle. Not quite a whimper, not quite a sigh. Something raw and confused and desperately grateful that he had no words for.

She leaned back slightly, giving him space, but her expression remained soft. "Better?" she asked simply.

He nodded. It was all he could manage to do, but to him it felt monumental. The acknowledgment that yes, she had helped him, and he was better because of it.

The concept was so alien to him that it made his chest compress with something that might have been emotion, if he'd been allowed to feel such a thing.

Next Chapter

Permanent Tags: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska @identity2212 @dracosathenaeum @frog-fans-unite

The shower feels almost unreal.

Not because there’s anything extraordinary about it. It’s your shower. Your shampoo bottle tipped sideways in the corner. Your face wash balanced precariously near the sink because you keep forgetting to put it away properly. The same faint crack in the third tile from the drain you’ve noticed a hundred times before.

But tonight it feels sacred.

Steam curls thickly through the bathroom, fogging the mirror and softening the edges of everything until the world becomes water and warmth and white noise.

For the first time all day, you were able to lie Aurora down peacefully in her crib.

No tiny cries cutting through your nervous system like biological alarm bells.

Just heat pouring over your skin in endless steady sheets.

You stand beneath it with your eyes closed and let yourself exist for a second.

Actually exist.

The water loosens muscles you didn’t even realize had locked up. Your shoulders ache beneath it. Your back protests faintly. Every part of you feels overused in the deeply physical, deeply human aftermath of childbirth and exhaustion and loving something so much it rewired your entire body overnight.

Earlier, Aurora spit up down the front of your shirt.

A truly impressive amount, honestly.

You’d stared at it for a full five seconds before realizing you were too tired to care.

And then somehow the day just… kept happening around it.

Feeding her.

Holding her.

Trying to remember if you’d eaten.

By the time night arrived, you still smelled faintly like sour milk and baby lotion and exhaustion.

Now the water strips all of it away slowly.

Steam kisses against your skin. Shampoo lathers beneath your fingers. The scent blooms warm around you, familiar enough to feel grounding.

You tilt your face into the spray and exhale so deeply it almost hurts.

God.

You could live here.

No one warned you how much becoming a parent turns basic hygiene into a luxury experience. This isn’t a shower anymore. This is a spiritual retreat with plumbing.

You scrub carefully around the lingering soreness still threaded through your body, movements slow and thoughtful. 

You rinse the last of the conditioner from your hair slowly, fingers combing through damp strands while water streams warm down your spine.

The monitor sits on the sink beside you.

Tiny.

Silent.

You’ve looked at it at least twelve times in the last five minutes.

Probably more.

Not because it’s made a sound. It hasn’t. The little screen is black, the sound signal is in the green, peaking slightly at the sound of the lullaby you left playing. But no cries.

And yet your eyes keep flicking toward it anyway, instinct dragging your attention back every few seconds like an invisible thread tied somewhere beneath your ribs.

The first few times, it made sense.

You were checking.

Now it’s become automatic.

Your body still hasn’t learned the difference between silence and danger.

You exhale slowly and lean your head back beneath the spray again.

The water drums softly against your skin.

You should get out.

You know you should.

The heat is making your skin pink at the edges, and your fingers are starting to wrinkle slightly from staying in too long.

But the second you think about stepping out, your entire body protests.

Because outside the shower, there are responsibilities again.

Laundry.

Bottles.

The constant low-level awareness of another tiny human existing in the next room.

In here, for ten stolen minutes, there’s only warmth.

Only steam and quiet and the strange suspended feeling of being no one’s immediate emergency.

You close your eyes again.

You would stay in here forever if your body would let you.

Honestly, if someone slid a sandwich through the curtain every few hours and promised the apartment wouldn’t collapse without you, you could probably evolve into some kind of aquatic cryptid and never leave.

But your breasts are starting to ache.

Not sharply yet. Just that deep, heavy pressure building beneath your skin, warm and insistent, your body already preparing for the next feeding before Aurora has even made a sound.

And she will wake up soon.

You know it with startling certainty now.

Not from the monitor.

From somewhere deeper.

Some new instinctive clock stitched directly into your nervous system.

You glance toward the sink again automatically.

Still quiet.

Still sleeping.

But probably not for long.

A small sigh leaves you, half resignation, half reluctant amusement.

“Alright,” you murmur softly to absolutely nobody. “Tiny dictator wins again.”

The water slips down your shoulders one last time as you reach reluctantly for the handle.

The second the spray stops, cool air rushes in around you.

Immediate betrayal.

You make a face at the universe.

The bathroom suddenly feels quieter without the constant rush of water filling it, every tiny sound sharper now. The drip from the showerhead. The faint lullaby crackling softly through the baby monitor. Your own exhausted breathing.

You pull the curtain aside, steam curling outward in thick clouds.

The mirror is completely fogged over now, your reflection reduced to a vague silhouette moving through white haze. For a second, you barely recognize yourself anyway.

Damp hair clinging to your shoulders.

Softness everywhere.

Healing everywhere.

Evidence.

The monitor remains quiet while you dry off slowly.

Too slowly, probably.

Because exhaustion has turned every task into interpretive dance performed underwater.

You manage moisturizer on autopilot. Brush your teeth with one eye half closed. Tug on one of Spencer’s old T-shirts and a pair of soft shorts because actual pajamas currently feel like a commitment you’re not emotionally prepared to make.

By the time you finish combing through your damp hair, your boobs hurt enough to become officially annoying.

“Yep,” you mutter at the ceiling. “She’s waking up soon.”

You reach for the bathroom door handle with the slow, automatic movement of someone running on borrowed energy and muscle memory alone.

Your hand wraps around it.

You twist. Push it open slightly.

And then you stop.

The house is still quiet. That same late-night hush, the kind that sits in corners and softens edges and makes every sound feel like it belongs to a different world. The hallway beyond the bathroom is dim, the faint glow from the living room barely reaching this far like a memory of light rather than light itself.

But down the hall—

Aurora’s room is glowing.

Not dark like you left it.

A soft lamp burns inside, warm amber spilling through the crack in the door like something has gently exhaled light into the room and forgotten to take it back.

Your stomach tightens instantly.

Slowly, you push the bathroom door open just a little more.

You stare.

For a second, your brain refuses to process it.

Because you know—viscerally, absolutely—you turned that lamp off.

You closed the door.

You remember the soft click of it.

The careful dark you left behind.

Your body reacts before your thoughts fully catch up, that same stitched-in instinct snapping taut beneath your ribs.

Aurora.

Your pulse shifts. You tense. For a second, your entire being forgets how to be anything except alert.

It’s not a thought so much as a snap of instinct.

Your gun. 

It's in the safe on your dresser. You could grab it quietly and quickly. You could—

“…and in astrophysics, there’s a concept called gravitational time dilation, which basically means time passes slightly differently depending on how strong gravity is in a given place.”

It’s Spencer.

Soft. Sleep-warmed. Threaded with that familiar gentleness he only uses when he thinks the world is made of something fragile.

Your shoulders drop so fast it almost hurts.

The panic drains out of you in one clean, disorienting wave, leaving behind only exhaustion and the faint sting of adrenaline leaving your bloodstream like a departing storm.

You exhale once.

Slow.

Then again.

A breath that feels like coming back into your body.

Right.

You gave him a key.

Of course Spencer Reid would be in your baby’s room at what feels like an unreasonable hour explaining spacetime to a newborn like it’s a bedtime story and not one of the most incomprehensible forces in the universe.

You lean lightly against the wall for a second, eyes closing briefly. Then you move.

Quiet steps across the hallway carpet. Damp hair cooling against the back of your neck. One hand still loosely curled around the edge of your oversized shirt like your body hasn’t entirely caught up to the fact that the danger has already passed.

The closer you get, the clearer his voice becomes.

“…which sounds fake,” Spencer is murmuring softly, “but technically the astronauts on the International Space Station age very slightly differently than we do on Earth because of velocity and gravitational variance, so really, relativity is less of a theory and more of an aggressively proven inconvenience.”

His voice drops lower for a second, fond amusement threading through it.

“I know. Very rude of physics.”

You reach the door.

It’s cracked open just enough to let warm light spill into the hallway in a thin golden line.

And there he is.

Spencer sits in the rocking chair beside the crib, socked feet planted unevenly against the floorboards like he got here quickly and forgot to settle properly afterward. Aurora is tucked carefully against his chest, bundled in one of the pale yellow swaddles someone gifted you at the baby shower.

She’s awake.

Barely.

Tiny eyes heavy with sleep, one fist tucked near her cheek while Spencer supports her effortlessly against him, his long fingers spread protectively across the curve of her back.

The lamp beside him paints everything honey-soft.

His hair is a mess.

Not styled messy. Real messy. Flattened on one side from exhaustion, curling slightly at the ends. His glasses sit low on his nose, and there’s a faint crease across his T-shirt like he either slept in it or accidentally used it as a burp cloth sometime in the last hour.

Probably both.

You don’t interrupt.

You can’t.

Something about the scene in front of you feels too delicate to touch directly, like stepping closer too fast might scatter it into pieces before you’ve fully held it.

Spencer keeps rocking slowly, the old chair creaking softly beneath him in uneven little rhythms. Aurora rests against his chest with complete, unconscious trust, her tiny face tipped toward the sound of his voice like she already knows it belongs to safety.

Outside the nursery window, the world is dark blue and silver at the edges.

Inside, everything glows warm.

Spencer adjusts the blanket around her with absurd care before continuing in that quiet, thoughtful cadence of his, like he’s explaining the universe one piece at a time because he genuinely believes she deserves to know how astonishing it is.

“Technically,” he murmurs, “most of the atoms in your body were formed inside stars billions of years ago, which means you are, scientifically speaking, made of recycled cosmic debris.”

Aurora blinks slowly.

Spencer smiles faintly.

“I know,” he whispers. “Very dramatic.”

Your chest aches so hard it almost feels physical.

Because this is Spencer.

This is how he loves.

Not loudly. Not carelessly.

He offers people pieces of the universe wrapped carefully in his hands and trusts them not to break.

His thumb strokes lightly across Aurora’s back while he rocks her again, smaller this time.

“And before you get concerned,” he continues softly, “which I assume you will eventually because you’re biologically related to me now, space is mostly safer than people think it is.”

A tiny pause.

Then quieter:

“Still probably don’t become an astronaut.”

You bite down on a smile.

Spencer looks at Aurora for a long time. His finger runs gently across her little cheek, and something in his expression shifts then.

Softer somehow.

The edges of his humor fading into something deeper.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I spent a long time thinking the world was mostly something to survive.”

Spencer looks at Aurora like he’s trying to memorize her and understand her at the same time.

“And sometimes it is,” he admits. “Sometimes it’s loud and unfair and people leave or hurt you or disappear before they should.”

His voice stays calm, but there’s something beneath it now. Old bruises wrapped carefully in gentleness.

“But then…” He swallows once, eyes flicking over her tiny face. “Then there are moments like this.”

The rocking chair creaks softly.

“You.”

Your throat tightens instantly.

Spencer exhales through the smallest smile, disbelieving and tender all at once.

“And suddenly the entire universe feels different.”

Aurora squirms faintly in her sleepiness, one tiny hand escaping the blanket near her cheek.

Spencer immediately tucks it back in with careful fingers.

“I’m going to keep you safe,” he whispers.

The words are quiet. Certain.

Not dramatic promises made for comfort. Not impossible guarantees.

Just truth.

The kind spoken by someone who has already decided it with every part of himself.

“I’ll always keep you safe,” he murmurs.

That’s what does it.

The tears hit you so suddenly you barely have time to process them before your chest tightens and a tiny involuntary sniffle slips out into the quiet room.

Spencer’s head snaps toward the doorway immediately.

His entire body changes in an instant.

One second soft and thoughtful, the next alert with concern so immediate it’s almost violent in its intensity.

“Hey—”

He stands too fast.

The rocking chair bumps backward slightly from the sudden movement, and he catches Aurora instinctively against his chest before it can even shift her.

His eyes lock onto you.

Your damp hair. Your face. The tears gathering faster now that you’ve been caught.

“Why are you crying?” he asks immediately, voice tight with alarm. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

You let out one helpless, watery laugh that absolutely does not help the situation.

His concern sharpens further.

“Oh god,” he says, already moving toward you. “Are you in pain? Do you need to sit down? Did you tear something? Should I call someone?”

“Spence—”

“Because you’re crying and there are several medically significant possibilities associated with postpartum recovery and I really need you to be specific right now—”

“I’m okay.”

He reaches you anyway, still visibly unconvinced.

Aurora stays tucked securely against his chest while his free hand comes immediately to your face, thumb brushing anxiously beneath your eye like he can physically check for danger there.

“You’re crying,” he says softly, bewildered by it.

“You were talking to her,” you whisper back.

“That’s…” He blinks once. “Yes?”

“About space.”

His expression somehow becomes even more confused.

“…Yes?”

“And then you told her you’d always keep her safe.”

Understanding hits him slowly. You watch it happen in real time. The panic easing first. Then confusion. Then something gentler.

His shoulders lower a fraction.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

You laugh again through another sniffle, wiping quickly beneath your eyes. “You sounded so serious.”

“I was serious.”

“I know,” you say, voice wobbling around the edges. “That’s why I’m crying.”

Spencer stares at you for a second like this information genuinely short-circuited him.

Then his entire expression softens into something unbearably tender.

The hand against your cheek slides more fully along your jaw.

“You’re crying because I love our daughter?” he asks carefully.

“You were giving her a physics lecture at two in the morning.”

“She seemed engaged.”

“She’s six pounds.”

“That’s not mutually exclusive.”

Another laugh escapes you before you can stop it, quieter this time.

Spencer watches you like each sound physically settles something inside him.

Then, very gently, he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Spencer’s lips linger against your forehead for a second before he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again.

Close enough that you can still feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

Aurora makes a tiny sleepy noise between you both, nestled securely against his chest like she’s already decided this is her preferred method of transportation.

You sniff once, rubbing quickly beneath your eyes again.

Then you narrow them at him a little.

“…You scared me,” you mumble.

Immediate guilt flashes across his face. “What?”

“I came out of the bathroom and her light was on.” You gesture vaguely toward the nursery behind him. “And you were just… in here. Existing ominously.”

“Ominously?” he repeats softly.

“You know what I mean.”

His expression crumples slightly with regret. “I’m sorry.”

“I almost went for my gun.”

That visibly alarms him. “You almost what?”

“You left the door cracked and I saw the light and my brain immediately went full Final Girl survival mode.”

Spencer looks genuinely horrified by this development.

“I should’ve texted you,” he says immediately.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t think.”

“You literally always think.”

“That’s fair.”

You cross your arms loosely over yourself, oversized shirt sleeves swallowing part of your hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”

His face softens again then, concern melting into something quieter.

“I knew Rory was going to wake up soon,” he says gently.

You smile. “Rory?”

“Oh, uh—” Spencer smiles sheepishly. “I thought maybe… a cute nickname. So… Rory. Do you not like it?”

Your expression softens instantly.

“No,” you say quietly. “I love it.”

The relief that crosses his face is small but immediate, like he’d been bracing for the possibility that you might hate it and had already prepared to retire it forever if you did.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You glance down at Aurora, bundled against his chest. “Rory fits her.”

Spencer looks down at her too then, and something in him visibly melts all over again.

“She just…” He huffs a tiny laugh through his nose. “She feels like a Rory.”

“She does.”

Aurora makes a faint little sigh, entirely unaware that she’s currently being assigned lifelong emotional significance while unconscious.

Spencer’s thumb strokes gently across the blanket wrapped around her.

Then he looks back at you, softer now.

“I wanted to let you sleep,” he says quietly. “Or… shower. Relax for a little while without worrying she’d wake up.”

Your chest tightens again, though this time the ache comes wrapped in warmth instead of tears.

“You came all the way over here just so I could shower in peace?”

A faint flush creeps into his face like he’s embarrassed to have been caught being thoughtful.

“She started fussing about ten minutes after I got here,” he admits. “I figured if she cried loud enough for the monitor to pick it up, you’d get out early.”

You stare at him.

And there it is again.

That impossible tenderness that keeps sneaking up on you in ordinary moments and wrecking you from the inside out.

“So you just…” You gesture toward him vaguely. “Secret-agent babysat?”

“I had a key,” he says, like that explains everything.

“It does not explain the stealth.”

His mouth twitches faintly. “You sounded relaxed.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “Were you listening to my shower?”

“No,” he says immediately.

A beat.

“…Not intentionally.”

You just look at him for a moment.

At the sleep-rumpled hair falling into his eyes. At the baby tucked carefully against his chest like she’s made of spun glass and starlight. At the lingering concern still softening the space between his eyebrows because you cried for thirty seconds and his nervous system apparently filed it as a national emergency.

You are catastrophically in love with this man.

Spencer’s still watching you carefully, probably trying to determine whether you’re about to cry again or accuse him of committing shower espionage.

Instead, you hear yourself say:

“Move in with me.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Spencer blinks.

Once.

Then again.

Like his brain just fully unplugged from the wall.

You suddenly become very aware that perhaps this was not the smoothest delivery.

Your stomach flips immediately.

Because Spencer still hasn’t said anything.

He’s just staring at you with this utterly stunned expression, mouth parted slightly like every word he’s ever learned abandoned him at once.

And in the absence of a response, your brain does what exhausted brains do best.

Panic.

“I mean,” you say quickly, already talking over yourself, “obviously you don’t have to. I just thought maybe it made sense because you’re already here all the time anyway and half your stuff is basically migrated over through natural selection at this point, and you already have a key and technically you’ve slept here for like… four consecutive nights now.”

Spencer opens his mouth.

You keep going.

“And your apartment’s smaller and your shower pressure kind of sucks, respectfully, and also I just…” Your hands gesture vaguely between the two of you like your emotions are now operating entirely through exhausted charades. “I don’t know. We’re already doing all of this together and I love you and you love me and she’s ours and maybe I just want you here all the time instead of leaving eventually and—”

“Hey.”

His voice is soft.

Gentle enough to finally interrupt the spiral.

You stop mid-sentence.

Spencer’s looking at you now with something so openly overwhelmed it almost knocks the breath out of you again.

Not uncertainty.

Not hesitation.

Just pure emotional astonishment.

Like you handed him something fragile and impossible and he still hasn’t recovered from the weight of it.

“Oh,” you say quietly, immediate embarrassment creeping in now. “You don’t have to answer right away, I just kind of blurted it out and maybe postpartum hormones are staging a hostile takeover of my frontal lobe, so—”

He kisses you.

Completely cutting you off.

Aurora remains safely cradled between his chest and one arm while his free hand finds your waist instantly, pulling you gently into him like he physically couldn’t stay still another second.

The kiss is warm and immediate and full of something almost aching in its sincerity.

You make a small startled sound against his mouth before melting into it anyway.

Because Spencer kisses like he means everything.

Like every feeling arrives fully formed and honest.

When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling.

Not the small, shy smiles he sometimes tries to hide.

This one is bigger.

Brighter.

Disbelieving in the happiest possible way.

“I would love to move in with you,” he says softly.

Your entire body goes still.

“…Yeah?”

A breath of laughter escapes him, almost overwhelmed around the edges.

“Yes,” he says again, forehead falling lightly against yours. “God, yes.”

Something warm bursts through your chest so fast it feels almost liquid.

You laugh helplessly, relief and joy tangling together until neither feels separate anymore.

Spencer’s eyes crinkle softly as he looks at you.

“You thought I was unsure?” he asks quietly.

“You were silent for a really long time.”

“It was like… four seconds.”

“That’s a year in panic time.”

A tiny laugh slips out of him.

Then his expression softens again as he looks at you standing there in oversized clothes and damp hair and lingering exhaustion, eyes still slightly glassy from crying over astrophysics and fatherhood.

“You asked me to build a life with you,” he murmurs. “My brain needed a second to survive that.”

For a moment, neither of you moves.

The nursery light glows soft around the edges of him, turning everything warm. Gold on his skin. Gold in Aurora’s tiny blanket. Gold caught in the damp ends of your hair where they cling to your shoulders.

And Spencer is still smiling at you like you’ve just rewritten gravity in front of him.

Your chest feels too full for your body.

“You know,” you murmur, voice quieter now, “most people probably discuss moving in together under less emotionally unstable circumstances.”

“We can revisit it later if you want,” he says immediately. “I can prepare a pros and cons list. Or a timeline. I could make a spreadsheet.”

You laugh softly. “There he is.”

“A spreadsheet would actually be useful.”

God.

You love him so much.

tags:

The room changes shape.

At first, it’s just movement at the edges.

A shift in footsteps. The soft squeak of rubber soles against polished floor. The quiet rustle of gloves being pulled on, snapped into place with practiced ease.

Then the light changes.

Something bright is wheeled over you—adjusted, angled—and suddenly the space between your knees is flooded with a clean, focused glow. It’s not harsh, exactly, but it’s intentional. Directed. Like a spotlight finding its mark.

You blink against it, breath catching as the next contraction starts to gather low in your abdomen.

“Okay,” your doctor says, voice steady and warm, threading through the movement like a guide rope. “We’re just going to make a few small adjustments, alright? You’re doing beautifully.”

You nod, even though your brain is already starting to narrow again, pulled inward by the rising pressure.

Hands move around you—not overwhelming, not chaotic. Efficient. Coordinated. Someone adjusts the bed, and you feel it beneath you—the subtle shift as the lower half angles slightly downward, opening your hips just a little more.

“Let’s bring you up just a bit,” your doctor continues, one hand light but firm at your shoulder. “There we go—good. You're going to push here soon. Keep your chin tucked when you push, like you’re curling around your baby. We’ll do it together.”

Spencer’s hand never leaves yours.

Not when the bed shifts. Not when the light brightens. Not when more people step into the room, their voices low and calm as they take their places like this is a dance they’ve done a thousand times.

You feel it though. The room filling.

The quiet expansion of presence. More eyes. More hands ready. More now.

“Okay,” your doctor says again, softer this time, closer. “I know everything feels like it’s happening very quickly, but you’re in control here. Your body knows exactly what to do. I’m just here to help you through it.”

That lands somewhere deep, even as your breath starts to stutter with the next contraction building faster this time.

Spencer shifts closer, his other hand coming up to brace gently behind your shoulders as you’re guided into position. Not pushing. Just there. Solid. Ready.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady near your ear. “You’re not doing any of this alone.”

“I know,” you breathe, even as your fingers tighten around his.

The pressure surges.

Stronger now. Heavier. Like gravity itself has decided to lean in.

“Okay,” your doctor says, and there’s a slight change in her tone now—not urgency, but precision. Focus sharpened to a point. “Big breath in—deep—”

You inhale, chest expanding as much as it can around the weight of everything happening.

“And now curl forward and push. Right into it. That’s it—”

You bear down.

And the world condenses.

The light above you blurs at the edges. The room fades into pieces—sound without shape, motion without detail. All of it narrowing into this one moment, this one effort, this one impossible, necessary push.

A strained sound escapes you, raw and unfiltered.

“That’s it,” your doctor encourages immediately. “Perfect—just like that—hold it—”

Spencer’s voice cuts through everything else.

“Stay with it,” he says, closer now, steady like gravity. “You’re right there, keep going.”

“I can’t—” you gasp, the pressure almost too much to hold onto.

“You are,” he counters instantly, not louder, just certain. “You’re doing it right now.”

“Five more seconds,” your doctor says. “You’re doing exactly what you need to—don’t let it go yet—”

Your whole body strains, every muscle pulling inward, downward, focused on something you can’t see but can feel moving.

“Three—two—one—okay, breathe.”

It breaks.

You fall back against the pillows, breath tearing out of you in uneven bursts, your body going loose all at once like it forgot how to hold tension.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-gasping.

“That was excellent,” your doctor says, and you can hear the smile in it. “That’s exactly how we want it.”

You let out a breath that trembles on the way out.

Spencer’s thumb is still moving over your hand, grounding you back into the room piece by piece. The light. The voices. Him.

“You did really well,” he murmurs.

“I hated it,” you manage weakly.

“That’s fair.”

There’s a flicker of quiet laughter somewhere near your shoulder—one of the nurses, maybe—but it’s soft, warm. Not at you. With you.

Your doctor adjusts slightly again, her presence steady, hands sure and unhurried even as everything else feels like it’s accelerating.

“You’re making real progress,” she says. “Baby’s moving down exactly how we want. You’re going to feel more pressure as we go—that’s a good sign, even if it feels intense.”

You nod faintly, even as your chest rises and falls too fast.

“Okay,” she continues, “next contraction, same thing. Deep breath, curl forward, push into it. I’ll guide you.”

Guide you.

That word anchors again just as the next wave starts to build.

Faster this time.

Your fingers tighten around Spencer’s.

He notices immediately.

“I know,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”

“I don’t want to do that again,” you breathe.

“I know,” he repeats. Then, gentler, “But you can.”

The pressure rises, pulling you under before you can think too hard about it.

“Alright,” your doctor says, voice calm but focused. “Here we go, big breath—”

You inhale.

“And push.”

You curl forward, exactly like she showed you, chin tucked, body folding in on itself as you bear down again, a broken sound slipping out of you as the force takes over.

“That’s it, perfect positioning. Keep going.” your doctor encourages.

Spencer’s hand tightens around yours, his other steady at your shoulder.

“You’re doing it,” he says, voice low and unwavering. “Just like that.”

“Three more seconds—”

Your breath shakes.

“Two—”

Everything tightens.

“One—okay, breathe.”

Your chest heaves as the contraction ebbs, the world rushing back in around the edges like sound returning after a long drop underwater.

For a second, there’s only breath.

In. Out. Shaky. Real.

Spencer’s hand is still there, anchoring you to something solid. His thumb keeps tracing that same steady path over your knuckles, like he’s memorized the shape of you through motion alone.

“You’re doing incredibly well,” he says quietly.

“Great, thank you,” you say. “Keep doing that. Feels nice.”

“What? Encouraging you?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” your doctor says gently, shifting her position again. “You’re getting very close now. I’m going to have you do that again with the next contraction, just like before. You’re moving her down beautifully.”

You nod faintly, even as your body starts to gather itself again, the next wave building with quiet inevitability.

“You’ve got this,” Spencer says.

The contraction rises. Stronger. Lower.

“Here we go,” your doctor says, voice sharpening just slightly with focus. “Big breath in deep—”

You inhale, your chest expanding against the pressure.

“And push, right into it—”

You bear down again.

This time, something shifts.

It’s subtle, but unmistakable.

A deeper stretch. A different kind of pressure. Not just downward now, but outward, like your body is opening around something that is very, very real.

A strained sound tears out of you, sharper than before.

“Good,” your doctor encourages quickly. “That’s exactly it—she’s right there—keep going—”

“Spence—” your voice breaks.

“I’m here,” he says immediately, closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours now. “Stay with me. Just a few more seconds.”

“Hold it, hold it, don’t let it go yet…” your doctor guides.

Your entire body strains, every muscle pulling tight around that overwhelming stretch.

And then—

“Okay, breathe.”

It releases.

But not completely.

You fall back again, breath shuddering out of you, but the pressure doesn’t disappear this time. It lingers. Heavy. Present.

Different.

You blink, disoriented. “Why—why does it still feel like…”

Your doctor’s voice is calm, but there’s a note of something brighter in it now.

“Because she’s right there,” she says. “You’re crowning.”

Crowning.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, your eyes going wide despite everything.

Spencer freezes for half a second beside you. You feel it in the way his grip tightens just slightly, like the word hit him too.

“She’s—?” he starts.

“Yes,” your doctor confirms, warmth threading through her voice. “Your baby’s head is right there. You’re doing it.”

You shake your head once, overwhelmed, a half-laugh, half-gasp breaking out of you. “I don’t like that. I don't like that phrasing.”

There’s a ripple of soft laughter around the room—gentle, encouraging, never unkind.

Another contraction begins to build.

Stronger.

Sharper.

“Oh fuck—” you breathe, your hand clamping down on Spencer’s again.

“I know,” he says, already there. “I know.”

“This next one, I want you to push slowly,” your doctor says. “Controlled. We’re going to ease her out. Listen to me, okay?”

You nod quickly, even as your breath starts to stutter.

“Big breath in—”

You inhale.

“And gentle push, slowly—”

You bear down again, but this time—

This time it burns.

Not pain, not exactly. The epidural dulls it, softens the edges, but there’s still a raw, stretching intensity that steals the air from your lungs.

Spencer’s voice is right there, low and steady. “Breathe. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

“I’m not okay,” you insist, borderline delirious.

“You are,” he says, softer now. “You’re right at the end.”

“Okay, pause—breathe—” your doctor instructs.

You collapse back again, panting, your entire body trembling with effort.

“She’s right there,” your doctor says again, almost in awe. “You’re so close.”

Another contraction is already building.

Fast.

Relentless.

You feel it and immediately shake your head. “No. No, no, no—”

Spencer leans closer. “One more,” he says gently. “Just one more like that.”

You squint at him. “You don’t know that.”

“I have moderate confidence,” he says.

You let out a broken laugh that turns into a gasp as the contraction peaks again.

“Okay,” your doctor says, focused now. “This is it. Big breath—”

You inhale, your entire body bracing.

“And push—steady—steady—”

You bear down.

Everything narrows.

The stretch, the pressure, the overwhelming, impossible need to finish this—

“That’s it—that’s it—keep going—” your doctor encourages, voice rising just slightly.

Spencer’s hand tightens around yours. “You’re doing it. You’re doing it—”

“I can’t—” you gasp. “It's too much. I can't do it—”

“You are. Almost there, sweetheart.”

“Head’s out—” your doctor says, calm but bright.

Your eyes snap open. “What?”

A chorus of soft laughter ripples through the room.

“Do you want to see?” the nurse asks Spencer gently.

“No!” you say immediately. “Absolutely not—” You turn your head toward Spencer, eyes narrowing despite everything. “You are not allowed to look.”

More laughter, warmer this time, wrapping around you like something light in the middle of everything heavy.

“Okay,” your doctor says, smiling audibly now. “Next contraction, we’ll get the rest of her out. You’re almost there.”

Almost there.

The next contraction builds before you can even process the last one.

“Okay—big breath—”

You inhale.

“And push—”

You bear down one more time, everything in you pulling toward that final moment—

And then—

Release.

A sudden, startling absence of pressure. A shift so immediate it almost feels unreal. 

For one suspended, impossible second, there’s nothing.

No pressure. No strain. No burning stretch pulling you apart from the inside.

Just… absence.

actual birth is over, but a warning that there is a mention of cord cutting in a few paragraphs!

Your body doesn’t know what to do with it. It feels like stepping off a moving train and still swaying in place, like everything should still be happening but suddenly isn’t.

Your breath catches in the hollow space where the effort used to live.

And then—

A sound.

Sharp. New. Indignant in the way only something brand new can be.

Your head jerks forward instinctively, eyes wide, searching—

“There she is,” your doctor says, and there’s something different in her voice now. Not just calm. Not just practiced.

Bright.

Real.

The cry cuts through everything again, louder this time. Alive.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, and it comes out like you don’t quite believe your own voice belongs here anymore.

There’s movement between your legs, quick but careful, and then—

Warmth.

A sudden, solid weight placed against you, low on your stomach, slick and real and there.

You gasp, the sound breaking into something softer, something unsteady.

She’s smaller than you expected.

And heavier.

And real in a way nothing else has been until this exact second.

“Oh—oh my god,” you repeat, your hands coming up instinctively, hovering for half a heartbeat like you’re afraid to touch her—

—and then you do.

Your fingers find her, trembling, sliding gently over damp, warm skin, over the soft curve of her back. She’s still crying, little chest heaving, limbs moving in loose, uncertain motions like she hasn’t quite figured out gravity yet.

“Hi,” you breathe, voice shaking. “Hi, baby—”

Spencer hasn’t said a word.

You feel him before you look at him—his hand still wrapped around yours, but looser now, like he forgot how tightly he was holding on.

When you turn your head, he’s staring.

Not at you.

At her.

His entire expression has gone still in a way you’ve never seen before. Not blank. Not frozen. Just… completely overtaken. Like every thought he’s ever had stepped aside all at once.

“…She’s here,” he says, and it’s barely above a whisper. Like saying it any louder might break something sacred.

You smile, tears slipping free before you even register them.

“She’s here,” you echo.

“Dad,” your doctor says gently, cutting through the haze with a small, knowing smile, “do you want to cut the cord?”

It lands in the room like a new object being introduced to gravity.

Spencer blinks.

Once.

Then again.

It takes him a second too long to process the word like it might be metaphorical. Like it might be optional in a philosophical sense rather than a literal, immediate invitation.

“…Can I?” he asks, and his voice cracks slightly on the first syllable.

Your doctor’s smile widens just a fraction, soft and amused in the warmest way. “Yes. If you’d like to.”

Spencer looks at her like she’s just offered him access to something forbidden and sacred at the same time.

His hand tightens slightly around yours. “I… didn’t realize that was—”

“Spence,” you cut in, voice weak but immediate, threaded with exhausted affection and something dangerously close to laughter, “shut up and cut it.”

That does it.

A sound breaks out of him then. Not a laugh he can fully contain. It slips out sideways, breathy and disbelieving, like his body finally gave up trying to process everything neatly.

“Okay,” he says, still smiling like he can’t quite believe this is real. “Okay.”

He looks at the doctor again, more carefully this time. “I can do it?”

“Yes,” she confirms softly. “I’ll guide you.”

He nods once, sharp and almost scientific in its focus returning, but there’s still something undone at the edges of him as he lets go of your hand reluctantly.

He moves carefully. Like the space between him and everything important has suddenly become fragile.

You watch him take the small scissors with slightly too much precision, like he’s afraid even the weight of them might matter too much.

The doctor guides his hands gently into place. “There.”

A small, decisive motion.

Your doctor nods approvingly. “Perfect.”

Spencer freezes for half a second longer, scissors still in his hand, like he’s waiting for confirmation from the universe itself that he didn’t just accidentally break something important.

The scissors are taken from him. He lets them go too easily, like his fingers forgot they were holding anything at all.

You can barely feel your own body.

Not because of the epidural anymore. Something deeper than that. Like your mind is standing a half-step outside of you, watching everything happen through glass that just turned warm.

She’s crying. Strong, healthy, real.

A nurse moves in close, efficient and gentle, and you see it in fragments first: gloved hands, a small clamp being positioned, the careful, practiced pinch of something that used to be a bridge.

“The cord is clamped,” your doctor says softly, almost reverent in its simplicity. Then she smiles, already moving with calm efficiency. “We’re all done here. She’s perfect.”

Perfect.

The word lands in your chest and just… stays there.

Someone reaches in again and you see it properly now—your daughter, wrapped loosely in a soft towel, tiny fists flexing like she’s arguing with the concept of being held still. A small knit hat is lowered onto her head with careful hands, absurdly oversized, slipping just slightly before being adjusted.

“There we go,” the nurse murmurs, smoothing it down. “Now you’re official.”

You let out something between a laugh and a sob without meaning to.

Spencer makes a sound beside you like he’s trying not to fall apart quietly in a room that is not designed for falling apart.

“I didn’t know they did hats,” he says, very softly.

“Most babies are born underprepared,” your doctor replies, still smiling.

He nods once, like that is a legitimate systemic issue he will file away for future consideration.

Then he looks at you.

And whatever he sees there seems to undo the last of his careful composure. Tears fill his eyes and trail down his cheeks immediately.

You don’t even have time to ask what’s wrong before movement happens around you again—gentler now, slower, like the room is transitioning into something new without announcing it.

“Okay,” your nurse says softly. “We’re going to bring her to you now.”

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

“Okay,” you whisper back, like you’re agreeing to something you don’t fully understand but trust anyway.

Spencer is immediately closer again.

One hand finds the edge of your shoulder, grounding you without pressure, like he’s afraid even touch might be too loud for this moment.

“I’ve got you,” he says, like it’s instinct now. Not reassurance. Just fact.

“I know,” you breathe.

And then she’s lowered into your space.

Careful hands guide her in, and suddenly there is weight where there wasn’t weight before.

Warm. Living. Unmistakably real.

Your gown is adjusted with quiet efficiency, the fabric pulled down just enough, and then she is placed against your bare chest.

Skin to skin.

The world rearranges itself again.

Because nothing prepares you for that first contact. Not reading. Not imagining. Not the hours of waiting or the months of anticipation.

It’s just… her.

Small and warm and solid in a way that feels impossible for something so new. Her cries soften immediately the moment she’s settled, not gone, just… less lost. Like she recognized something she was looking for.

Your hands come up automatically.

Careful. Shaking.

You touch her like you’re learning a language no one taught you but your body somehow remembers anyway. Fingers tracing the soft curve of her back, the tiny rise of her ribs, the delicate shape of something that shouldn’t fit in the world yet does.

“Oh my god,” you whisper again, but this time it doesn’t sound like disbelief.

It sounds like recognition.

Spencer leans in slightly, hovering at your side like he doesn’t want to interrupt gravity.

He doesn’t touch her at first.

Just watches.

Like if he looks too directly at her for too long, something might shift too fast.

“She’s…” he starts.

Stops.

Tries again.

“She’s very small.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. “That’s your observation?”

“It’s accurate,” he insists faintly.

“She was just inside me, Spence,” you murmur, still staring down at her like she might disappear if you blink too hard. “I think we know she’s small.”

That earns the smallest, most disbelieving laugh from him. Like his brain needed something normal to grab onto and your tone handed it a lifeline.

The nurse pulls your blanket up over both of you, tucking it gently around your shoulders and over the baby, cocooning you in warmth that feels almost unreal after everything that came before it.

The room dims slightly as lights are adjusted. Not dark. Just softer.

Contained.

Spencer finally sits properly at your side again, but he doesn’t settle all the way. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to yet.

“She’s not crying anymore,” you say. 

“She’s listening,” Spencer says.

His hand hovers for a fraction of a second over her, suspended in that fragile space between “touch” and “don’t disturb this miracle,” before he finally lets his fingertips land.

Gentle.

Careful in a way that feels almost reverent.

He traces the curve of her cheek with the back of one finger.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just… exists under his touch like she was always meant to be there.

Spencer’s breath catches slightly.

“…She’s so warm,” he says, like he’s surprised the world got that detail right.

You let out a soft laugh, exhausted and dazed and still not entirely convinced this is real. “Yeah. Because she's stolen all of my warmth."

That earns you a faint, disbelieving huff of laughter from him, but his eyes don’t leave her.

“Anyway, she's listening,” Spencer repeats. “To your heartbeat. She’s been hearing it constantly for months. It’s one of the first familiar rhythms she’s ever known.”

His hand slides a little higher, careful not to disturb her hat as he brushes a thumb along the edge of her temple.

“When newborns are placed skin-to-skin, they often orient toward the chest first,” he continues quietly. “It’s not just warmth. It’s recognition. Your body is… the closest thing she has to home right now.”

Something in your chest tightens at that. Not painful. Just overwhelming in a way you don’t have words for yet.

You look down at her again.

So small. So certain in her smallness.

Her tiny fist flexes against your skin like she’s testing the world one sensation at a time. Her breathing is uneven, still learning itself, but steadier now than it was before.

“She's perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah. She is.”

“Alright,” the nurse says gently, glancing between you and Spencer and then down at the tiny, breathing miracle on your chest. “We’re going to give you some time. We have a policy—first hour is just you, your partner, and your baby. Skin-to-skin, bonding, all of that good stuff.”

You nod, though it’s a little delayed, like your brain has to travel farther than usual to reach your body.

“After that,” she continues, “we can bring visitors in if you’d like. Family, friends—whoever you’re ready for.”

Visitors.

That feels like a word from another life. A different chapter. Something that belongs to a version of you that existed before this exact second.

“Okay,” you manage, voice soft and uneven. “Okay.”

Spencer nods immediately beside you, his voice steadier, though it still carries that quiet, stunned reverence he hasn’t quite shaken yet. “Thank you.”

The nurse smiles—one of those knowing, seen-this-a-thousand-times smiles that somehow still feels personal.

“Of course,” she says. Then, softer, almost like she’s letting you in on a secret, “Take your time.”

And then she’s gone.

Time does something strange after that.

It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even slow. It just… loosens its grip. Like it’s no longer measuring anything important.

You don’t move.

Not really.

Your hands stay where they are, curved protectively around her, fingers splayed just enough to feel the steady rise and fall of her tiny breaths against your skin. Every inhale she takes feels like a quiet miracle. Every exhale, proof she’s staying.

You just… look at her.

Your daughter.

The word lands differently now. Heavier. Not in a way that weighs you down, but in the way something precious settles into place and refuses to be ignored.

Her eyes are open.

That surprises you more than anything else.

Wide. Searching. Not focused, not really, just drifting in soft, uncertain movements like the world is a watercolor painting she hasn’t learned how to interpret yet.

You blink slowly, studying them like they might give you answers if you just look long enough.

“They’re gray,” you murmur, voice hushed without meaning to be.

Spencer leans in a fraction closer, following your gaze immediately. “Most newborns have that,” he says quietly. “It’s due to low melanin levels in the iris at birth. The final color can take months to stabilize.”

You hum softly. Of course he knows that.

You tilt your head just slightly, watching the way her eyes drift, catching light, unfocused but curious in that instinctive, brand-new way.

“I wonder what they’ll be,” you say.

Spencer is quiet for a moment.

Not because he doesn’t have an answer. Because this isn’t a question that wants one.

He watches her instead.

The way her tiny brow shifts. The faintest crease forming like she’s already trying to make sense of something far too big for her.

Your fingers trace lightly along her back again, slower this time, more certain. Mapping her. Learning her.

She’s so small.

Spencer wasn’t wrong.

But she feels… complete. Not fragile in the way you expected. Not breakable. Just new. Like the world hasn’t had time to leave marks on her yet.

“She has your nose,” you say suddenly, the observation slipping out before you can stop it.

Spencer blinks. “What?”

You tilt your head slightly, studying her face with exaggerated seriousness now. “That’s your nose.”

He leans in closer, squinting just a little like that will somehow improve the resolution of a newborn’s features.

“I don’t think that’s enough data to make that determination,” he says.

You huff a soft laugh. “It absolutely is.”

“She’s been alive for less than an hour.”

“And already taking after you. That’s crazy.”

He exhales through his nose, something warm and disbelieving curling through it. “That’s not how genetic expression works.”

“Too late,” you say. “I’ve decided.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no real argument in it. Just quiet amusement threading through something much bigger he hasn’t fully put down yet.

She makes a small sound then.

Not a cry. Not even close. Just… a noise.

Soft. Curious. Like her voice is testing itself the same way her hands do, flexing and curling against your skin in slow, uncertain movements.

Both of you freeze.

It’s immediate. Instinctive. Like the world just held its breath with you.

Her mouth opens slightly, lips parting in a way that feels deliberate even if it isn’t. Her head shifts—just a little—cheek brushing against your chest as she turns.

Searching.

Spencer notices it at the same time you do. Of course he does.

“That’s a rooting reflex,” he murmurs, voice dropping even lower, like he’s afraid to interrupt something sacred. “She’s—she’s looking for—”

“I know,” you whisper, even though your voice wavers just slightly on the edges.

Your hand moves without thinking, adjusting her just a little closer, supporting the small, fragile weight of her head.

She settles almost immediately.

Like she found what she was looking for.

The shift is subtle, but it hits you anyway. Deep. Immediate. Something instinctive answering something instinctive, your body responding before your brain even catches up.

For a little while, neither of you says anything.

The room feels… hushed in a different way now. Not the clinical quiet from before, not the focused stillness of work being done. This is softer. Like the air itself is trying not to interrupt.

You shift slightly against the pillows, adjusting her with careful, uncertain hands. The nurse had helped at first—guided her, guided you—but now it’s just the two of you figuring it out in real time.

It’s awkward for a second.

More than a second, if you’re being honest.

You glance down, brows pulling together faintly as you try to follow the vague memory of instructions that felt much clearer when you'd binged an entire series on Youtube on breastfeeding.

“Okay… wait,” you murmur, half to yourself. “She’s—she’s supposed to…”

You trail off, gently repositioning her, your fingers a little clumsy but determined.

Spencer doesn’t interrupt.

He watches.

Not in a way that makes you self-conscious—there’s no scrutiny in it. Just quiet attention, like he’s cataloging something important without quite knowing where it belongs yet.

“You can say something, you know,” you mutter after a second, a hint of tired humor threading through it.

“I’m… trying to determine if this is a situation where my input would be helpful or intrusive,” he says carefully.

You huff a soft, breathless laugh. “Bold of you to assume I know the difference right now.”

That earns a faint smile from him, small but real.

“…Okay,” he says, leaning just slightly closer. “Do you want me to—look something up? Or—”

“No,” you cut in gently, shaking your head. “I think… I think I just have to—”

You adjust her again, a little more instinctively this time.

And then—

Oh.

She latches.

It’s not painless, but not exactly painful either. There’s a strange, pulling sensation—new, unfamiliar, a little overwhelming in its own right—but it’s not wrong. It’s… purposeful. Like your body recognizes the action even if your brain is still catching up.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Spencer’s head tilts slightly. “Oh?”

You let out a small, disbelieving breath, your hand coming up to steady her without even thinking about it.

“I think—” you swallow, eyes fixed on her, “—I think she’s actually doing it.”

There’s a pause.

Spencer leans in just a fraction more, careful, like he’s approaching something delicate and alive.

“…She is,” he says quietly.

You can hear it in his voice—that same note from earlier. The one that sounds like awe trying to disguise itself as observation.

You laugh softly under your breath, the sound shaky but warm. “Okay. Okay, that’s—” you shake your head faintly, overwhelmed in a quieter way now, “—that’s kind of incredible.”

“It is,” he agrees.

breastfeeding no longer described but still sort of mentioned

Silence settles again, but it’s different this time.

Full.

You shift slightly, getting more comfortable, your body slowly unwinding now that the urgency is gone. The blanket tucked around you both traps the warmth, turning the space into something cocooned and small.

“She just… knows how to do that?” you murmur after a minute, still watching her like she might suddenly reveal a second, even more surprising skill.

“Instinct,” Spencer says softly. “Newborn reflexes are… remarkably well-coordinated in certain areas. Rooting, sucking—those behaviors are present almost immediately after birth.”

You glance up at him, one brow lifting faintly. “You’re trying very hard not to turn this into a lecture.”

“I am,” he admits.

“Good,” you say, a ghost of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Keep that up.”

He huffs a quiet breath, something like a laugh hiding inside it.

“…It’s difficult,” he says. “There’s a lot of relevant information.”

“I’m sure there is,” you reply. “But right now, I’m gonna go with ‘she’s doing great’ and leave it at that.”

“That’s a valid summary,” he concedes.

You settle back a little more, your head tipping against the pillow as the initial intensity of everything starts to melt into something slower. Softer. The adrenaline is ebbing now, leaving behind a kind of quiet, heavy clarity.

Your fingers move absently along her back again, tracing the same path over and over, like you’re memorizing her through touch.

“She’s so calm,” you say.

Spencer watches her for a moment, his expression gentler than you’ve ever seen it.

“She’s where she’s supposed to be,” he says.

That does something to you.

It lands deep, quiet but solid, like a stone dropped into still water.

You blink a couple of times, your vision going just slightly unfocused before you rein it back in.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I guess she is.”

She stays latched, small and determined, her tiny body pressed close to yours in a way that feels both fragile and unshakable. Each pull is soft but purposeful, a quiet rhythm that anchors you deeper into the moment. You hadn’t known what to expect from this part. If it would feel clinical, awkward, uncertain.

It doesn’t.

It feels… right. Strange, yes. New in every possible way. But right, like something ancient and instinctive slipped into place without asking permission.

You keep one hand curved around her back, fingers splayed gently, feeling every small shift of her as she feeds. The other rests near her head, thumb brushing lightly along the edge of her hat. 

There's a sparse head of brunette hair peaking out from under it. Not a lot, but more than you'd imagined.

Eventually, the rhythm slows.

It’s gradual at first. Easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. The small, steady pulls become softer. Less frequent. Her movements lose that determined edge and drift into something looser, sleep tugging at her in quiet increments.

You feel it before you see it.

The way her body relaxes more fully against you. The tiny weight of her settling, heavier now in that boneless, dozing way that makes your chest tighten for reasons you don’t try to name.

You glance down.

Her eyes are closed.

Not tightly. Not fussing. Just… gone, like someone gently flipped a switch and she decided that was enough world for now.

Her mouth is open, a bit of milk dripping from the corner of her lip.

You smile faintly, your voice softer than it’s been all day. “She fell asleep.”

He watches her for a long second, like he’s verifying it from multiple angles. Then his shoulders ease just slightly, something in him settling alongside her.

“…That was fast,” he says.

“She’s had a big day,” you murmur.

That earns a quiet breath of a laugh from him, warm and almost disbelieving.

“Statistically speaking,” he says, “this is likely the most eventful day of her life so far.”

“Wow,” you reply, deadpan. “Incredible insight.”

“I try.”

You shift carefully, adjusting her just enough to keep her comfortable without waking her. Every movement feels deliberate now, like the margin for error has shrunk to something sacred and small.

The room hums quietly around you. Distant sounds. Soft movement beyond the door. But none of it touches this space.

Spencer watches you settle her, something thoughtful passing through his expression before he looks back up at you.

“…Is there anything you need?” he asks.

It’s simple. Quiet. But it carries weight, like he means anything.

You consider it for a second.

“There is one thing,” you say.

He straightens slightly, attention sharpening immediately. “What is it?”

You look at him then. Really look at him.

At the way he’s still half in awe. At the way his composure keeps slipping at the edges, like he hasn’t quite figured out how to hold all of this yet.

“…Give me a kiss,” you say softly.

There’s a flicker of surprise in his expression. Not confusion. Just… a brief pause, like his brain didn’t anticipate something so simple.

Then he smiles.

It’s small. Warm. A little tired. A little overwhelmed. Entirely him.

“Okay,” he says.

He leans in carefully, one hand coming up to rest lightly near your shoulder, like he’s grounding himself as much as you. His lips find yours gently, no urgency, no hesitation. Just a quiet, steady press that lingers for a second longer than necessary.

It feels like exhaling.

When he pulls back, his forehead hovers close for just a moment, his breath still warm against your skin before he settles back again.

You study him for half a second, something soft tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“Do you want to hold her?” you ask.

“…I can hold her?” he asks.

There’s something almost careful in the way he says it. Like he’s asking permission for something larger than the action itself.

You let out a quiet, tired laugh, shaking your head just slightly. “Spencer.”

His brows knit faintly. “Yes?”

“She is your daughter.”

That lands.

You see it happen in real time. The shift. The realization settling into something solid and undeniable.

His expression softens immediately, something bright flickering through the awe that hasn’t left him since she arrived.

“…Right,” he says, nodding once. Then again, quicker this time, like he’s catching up to the idea. “Right, yes. I—okay.”

He moves closer, slower now. Careful in a different way than before. Not hesitant. Just… deliberate.

You guide him gently, adjusting your hold just enough, your hands steady despite the lingering exhaustion in your limbs.

“Support her head,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says quickly, then softens, “—I mean, yes. I will.”

You pass her to him.

It’s a small shift.

Barely anything, physically.

But it feels like the world tilts for a second as her weight leaves you and settles into his arms instead.

Spencer stills completely once she’s there.

Like he doesn’t trust the air to move around him too quickly.

He looks down at her, and something in his face just… opens.

All the careful structure. All the logic. All the quiet control he carries through everything else.

Gone.

Replaced with something softer. Wider. Almost disbelieving in its depth.

“…Hi, beautiful girl,” he says quietly.

She doesn’t stir.

Just sleeps there, small and warm and entirely unaware of the gravity she’s just rearranged.

Spencer lets out a slow breath, like he’s been holding it for longer than he realized.

“…Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. “Okay, I’ve got you.”

The way he says it sounds less like reassurance and more like a promise he’s already decided to keep.

“Spence,” you murmur.

He looks up immediately. Like he’s been tuned to your voice specifically.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

It lands gently.

No weight behind it. No expectation. Just truth, set down softly between everything else.

Spencer doesn’t answer right away.

Not because he doesn’t feel it. You can see that immediately in the way something shifts in his expression—something deep and bright and almost startled, like it caught him off guard even though it shouldn’t have.

His gaze flicks down to her for half a second.

Then back to you.

And he smiles.

It’s not careful or restrained. It’s warm in a way that spreads slowly, like light finding its way into every corner of him all at once.

“I love you too,” he says. Simple. Like it’s the easiest fact he’s ever known.

Your throat tightens just slightly, your lips curving into something softer, something that feels like it belongs exactly here.

Between you.

Between all of this.

Spencer shifts carefully, still holding her like she’s been entrusted to him by something far larger than either of you, and you ask him for your phone.

He reacts immediately, almost instinctively, setting the moment down gently in his mind before reaching for it. The device feels absurdly small when he places it in your hand, like it belongs to a different version of life entirely. You scroll with tired, slightly unsteady focus, fingers lingering longer than usual on names that suddenly feel louder than they should.

You start making calls.

First your parents. Then his mom.

When your parents arrive, they come in with that familiar rush of emotion that tries to stay composed but fails almost immediately at the edges. They don’t linger on words much at first. They move straight to you, then to her, like gravity reorganizing itself around something newly arrived in the world.

There are long, full embraces. The kind that don’t need explanation. The kind that carry everything already understood.

They tell you, quietly and repeatedly, that they’re proud of you. That she is beautiful. That you did well. That you are loved in a way that has no conditions or measurements attached to it.

They don’t stay long, not because they don’t want to, but because the moment is too tender to overfill. Before leaving, they each press a kiss to your forehead, then another for the baby, and step back into the hallway with lingering glances that feel like they’re trying to memorize the shape of the room.

The door opens again, softer this time. No rush behind it. No burst of voices spilling in ahead of the moment.

Just a quiet arrival.

Diana steps inside like she’s entering something sacred rather than simply walking into a room. There’s a gentleness to the way she moves, a careful awareness that seems to reach the edges of everything without disturbing it.

Her eyes find Spencer first.

They soften immediately, something deep and knowing passing through them as she takes in the sight of him—sitting there, shoulders slightly curved inward, holding his daughter like the world has narrowed to the exact span of his arms.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says, voice warm and steady, threaded with something that sounds like quiet awe.

Spencer looks up, and whatever composure he’d managed to gather loosens all over again.

“Hi, Mom.”

She doesn’t hesitate, but she doesn’t rush either. She steps in close and wraps her arms around him as best as she can, careful of the baby between them. It’s an adjusted kind of embrace—angled, mindful—but it’s full. Complete.

Spencer leans into it instinctively.

For a second, he looks very young.

Very much like someone’s son before he is anything else.

Diana’s hand comes up to cradle the back of his head briefly, her touch light but grounding, her cheek brushing his temple.

“You did so well,” she murmurs, not questioning it, not framing it as comfort. Just stating something she believes to be true.

Spencer lets out a small breath that sounds like it had been waiting for that exact sentence.

“…We did,” he says quietly.

She pulls back just enough to look at him properly, her hands lingering for a moment on his shoulders, her gaze flicking down to the baby again with something bright and almost disbelieving.

Then she turns to you.

There’s no distance in it. No formality.

She steps closer, reaching for your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Her fingers are warm when they close gently around yours.

“How are you feeling?” she asks softly.

It’s not casual. It’s not surface-level. The question lands with weight, like she’s asking about all of it at once—the exhaustion, the overwhelm, the quiet after everything loud.

You squeeze her hand faintly, your thumb brushing against her knuckles in a tired, instinctive gesture.

“Mostly tired,” you admit, voice soft but honest.

Diana smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that doesn’t try to fix anything. Just understands it.

“That makes sense,” she says gently. “You’ve done something extraordinary.”

Diana receives her like she’s done this before—not just physically, but emotionally. Like she understands the gravity of being handed something so new, so important, so entirely alive.

The baby settles against her almost immediately, still half-asleep, her tiny face tucked slightly inward, her body instinctively curling into the warmth she’s given.

Diana stills.

Completely.

Her breath catches, just slightly.

“…Hello, darling,” she whispers.

Her voice changes on the word. Softens. Opens.

Like something in her rearranged itself to make space.

Spencer watches her closely, his hands hovering for a moment after letting go, like part of him hasn’t quite accepted that the weight isn’t there anymore.

You reach over, brushing your fingers lightly against his wrist.

He looks at you.

And in his eyes, there’s something steady now. Still overwhelmed, still bright with everything this moment holds—but steadier.

Diana’s hands move with a kind of quiet knowing.

Not hurried. Not hesitant. Just… certain.

She adjusts the blanket first, tucking it more securely around the baby’s small body, smoothing the fabric with gentle, practiced strokes. Then her fingers lift to the tiny knit hat, nudging it down just slightly where it’s slipped, her touch feather-light, like she’s aware that even something this small deserves care.

There.

Perfect.

She doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s there in the way her shoulders soften, in the way her breath steadies as she looks down.

And then she just… looks.

No analysis. No commentary. No need to fill the space with anything else.

A slow, quiet smile settles across her face, something deep and full and almost reverent. Like she’s witnessing something she’s been waiting for without realizing it had a shape until now.

Spencer watches her the way you watched him earlier.

Carefully. Softly. Like this matters.

Like she matters.

Like this moment is stitching something invisible back together in real time.

“…She’s beautiful,” Diana says at last, her voice low, threaded with a kind of warmth that lingers.

“She is,” Spencer replies, just as quietly.

There’s a small pause. Not empty. Just… full.

Diana glances up then, her gaze moving between the two of you, something curious and gentle flickering behind it.

“…Have you decided on a name?” she asks.

It lands softly, but it changes the air all the same.

You glance at Spencer instinctively.

He’s already looking at you.

There’s something almost amused in it now, tucked beneath the exhaustion and awe. Like this is a problem he’s considered from seventeen different angles and still somehow wants your answer more.

“Aurora,” you say first, your voice quiet but certain. “Aurora Reid.”

Diana’s expression brightens immediately, something delighted sparking in her eyes.

“Aurora,” she repeats, like she’s testing the weight of it. “That’s beautiful.”

Spencer nods once, a small, thoughtful motion. “It means ‘dawn,’” he adds softly. “Or ‘new beginning,’ depending on the linguistic root you’re referencing.”

You glance at him. “Of course you know that,” you tease. “But we also chose it from a poem.”

“Let me guess,” Diana says, “Of Bronze and Blaze?”

Spencer’s mouth curves, small at first, then warmer, like the memory rises up and meets him halfway.

“Yeah,” he says, a soft breath of a laugh tucked into it. “Yeah, that one.”

Diana’s smile deepens, something fond and quietly luminous settling into her expression as she looks between him and the tiny girl in her arms.

“You used to carry it around with you,” she says gently. “Folded up in that little blue notebook. You wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.”

Spencer huffs under his breath, a faint, embarrassed sort of sound, but there’s no real protest in it. Just recognition.

“I liked the imagery,” he murmurs.

“You liked the idea of light coming back,” Diana corrects softly, not teasing. Just… remembering.

That lands somewhere deeper.

You see it in the way Spencer’s gaze drops again, drawn back to Aurora like gravity has claimed him fully now. Like every version of himself that came before this moment just quietly stepped aside to make room.

“Does she have a middle name?” Diana asks gently.

You glance at Spencer instinctively.

He’s already looking at Aurora, his thumb tracing absently along the edge of her blanket like he’s thinking through something he already decided a long time ago.

“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “Marguerite.”

Diana’s brows lift slightly, curious, inviting more.

Spencer glances up then, just briefly, before his gaze drops back down to her again.

“It’s French,” he adds. “It means ‘daisy.’”

There’s a softness in the way he says it. Not performative. Not explanatory. Just… placed carefully into the moment.

You huff a quiet, tired laugh, your voice warm around the edges. “She’s a morning daisy.”

That earns the smallest shift in Spencer’s expression—something almost shy, almost pleased, flickering through the quiet awe he hasn’t quite shaken yet.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “I guess she is.”

Diana’s smile deepens, something bright and quietly emotional settling into it.

Aurora shifts slightly in her arms, a small, sleepy movement, her fingers curling and uncurling against the blanket like she’s testing the shape of her own existence.

Diana looks down at her, her expression softening even further, something almost reverent settling in.

“Aurora Marguerite,” she says softly. “A dawn that blooms.”

Spencer exhales slowly, his hand finding yours again without looking, his fingers threading through yours like it’s instinct now. Like it always was.

“…It fits,” he says.

You squeeze his hand faintly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles in that same absent, grounding rhythm he used earlier. Full circle. Closed loop.

“It does,” you agree.

Diana glances up at the two of you then, something warm and knowing in her eyes. She doesn’t say anything else about it. Doesn’t need to.

Instead, she steps closer to the bed and very gently, very carefully, returns Aurora to Spencer’s arms.

He takes her like he did before. Slow. Certain. Like the world narrows to exactly the space she occupies.

Aurora settles against him without protest, her tiny face tucked in, her breath soft and even.

Spencer looks down at her for a long moment.

Then, quieter than before, like the words are meant just for her—

“Hi, Aurora.”

His thumb brushes lightly along the edge of her blanket.

“…We’ve been waiting for you.”

You watch him, something soft and full blooming in your chest all over again, like it hasn’t quite figured out how to stop yet.

You don't mind it at all.

tags:

Spencer's alarm startles you awake.

The sound is gentle—some unobtrusive instrumental piece he swears improves cognitive transition from sleep to wakefulness—but it still slices through the quiet room.

You groan into the pillow.

Beside you, Spencer shifts immediately. Not startled. Just aware. His hand fumbles for his phone on the nightstand, silencing it before the second refrain.

The room settles again.

You’re halfway back under when the mattress dips.

Warmth presses into your back.

An arm slides carefully around your waist, palm spreading over the curve of your stomach like it belongs there. His nose nudges into the space between your shoulder and neck.

He exhales, deep and content.

You blink awake a little more.

“…Did I forget to set my alarm?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

“No,” he murmurs into your shoulder. You can feel his mouth move when he talks. “It’s not six-thirty yet.”

You squint at the faint light leaking through the curtains. “Then why are we conscious?”

You feel it before you see it—the way his cheek shifts against you.

He’s smiling.

“I set mine fifteen minutes early.”

You huff a soft laugh. “Why?”

His thumb traces a slow, absent line along your side. There’s the smallest hesitation, like he’s debating whether this is ridiculous to admit.

“So I could cuddle you,” he says finally, quieter now. “Before we have to get up.”

The room is dim and warm, the world outside still gray and far away. His arm tightens almost imperceptibly, like he’s bracing for you to tease him.

You smile.

“That’s disgustingly cute,” you murmur.

He makes a soft, offended noise into your shoulder. “It was a strategic allocation of time.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you agree. “Very tactical.”

His fingers spread over your stomach again, protective without thinking about it. His chin settles against your shoulder. He breathes you in like he’s memorizing something.

“You’re warm,” he adds, like this is supporting evidence.

You shift closer on purpose, pressing back into him. “You’re a menace.”

“I am not.”

“You set an early alarm to cuddle.”

“…I don’t see the issue.”

You laugh, low and sleepy, and slide your hand over his where it rests against you. His thumb hooks instinctively between your fingers.

Outside, somewhere down the street, a car door slams. The world is starting whether you’re ready or not.

Spencer’s phone screen lights up again in warning at 6:30.

You feel him press a small, absent kiss into your shoulder. Not performative. Not even fully awake.

You grab his arm as he starts to pull away.

“Five more minutes,” you whisper.

“Four.”

You squeeze his hand. “Spence.”

He exhales, conceding. “Five.”

Five minutes pass the way they always do when you actually want them.

Too fast. Slippery. Gone.

His third alarm is less forgiving.

Spencer groans this time, which feels like a small personal victory.

You roll onto your back as he pushes himself up on one elbow, hair rumpled beyond saving, eyes still soft with sleep. For a second he just looks at you, like he’s cataloguing something important.

Then reality crashes back in.

“We have to leave in forty-three minutes,” he mutters.

“You’re very romantic.”

He leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead before sitting up fully. “Punctuality reduces occupational stress.”

You throw a pillow at his back as he shuffles toward the bathroom.

The pillow hits him square between the shoulders. He barely flinches.

“Noted,” he says, voice muffled slightly as he disappears into the bathroom, like you’ve just added something to a running list instead of assaulted him with bedding.

The door clicks shut. You stare at it for a second. Then you flop back against your mattress, staring up at the ceiling, heart doing that stupid, quiet, steady thing it’s been doing all week.

Seven days of this strange, gentle shift where nothing exploded and everything changed anyway.

Seven days of lingering touches that don’t feel accidental anymore. Of him saying your name softer. Of you not pulling away. Of conversations that almost circle the word love again but don’t need to land on it every time because it’s already there, settled between you like something known.

And now, this.

Morning light. His toothbrush in your bathroom. His alarm set early just to hold you. 

You press your palm over your face, dragging it down slowly.

God.

The bathroom door opens. Steam curls out first, followed by Spencer, in a large tee shirt and his pajama pants. His hair is still a mess, his eyes still heavy-lidded.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

It’s soft. Unthinking. The kind that just… happens.

He pauses when he catches it—mid-step, one hand still half-lifted like he forgot what he was about to do next. There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or the quiet satisfaction he doesn’t always know how to hide.

“What?” he asks, automatically suspicious.

You shake your head, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow just slightly. “That was not a nothing smile.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You’re profiling me before coffee. That feels unfair.”

“I don’t need caffeine to observe patterns,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. Just warmth. Familiarity.

You tilt your head, studying him for a second longer.

“Okay,” you admit finally, voice quieter. “You just… look nice.”

“Oh,” he says.

There’s the faintest shift in his posture, like he doesn’t quite know where to put that. Compliments have always been… complicated terrain.

You watch the way his fingers flex once at his side. The way his gaze flicks away, then back to you.

“You look nice too,” he adds after a second, like he’s returning something carefully borrowed.

You snort softly. “I’ve been awake for maybe three minutes.”

“Yes,” he says, completely serious. “But you look… rested.”

You raise a brow. “That’s the nicest possible way you could’ve said that.”

“It’s also accurate.”

You laugh again, shaking your head as you push the blankets back and swing your legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cool against your feet.

Spencer watches you for a second—just a second—before he looks away, giving you that same careful space he always does, even now.

“You should eat something before we leave,” he says. “I can cook something while you shower.”

You smile, soft and easy. Something that doesn’t need thinking anymore.

“Sure,” you say.

Simple. Normal. Like agreeing to breakfast isn’t suddenly threaded through with something warmer.

You shift your weight forward, pushing yourself fully to your feet. The room tilts for half a second—just enough to remind you you’re still carrying more than just yourself—but it settles quickly.

You take a step toward the bathroom. Then—

His fingers catch your wrist. Gentle. Not enough to stop you so much as ask.

You pause, turning back to him. Spencer looks like he surprised himself.

There’s a flicker of uncertainty in his expression, like he didn’t think far enough ahead to what happens after he reaches for you—like this part, the what now, still feels new under his hands.

You tug him down. It’s not hesitant or careful in the way everything else has been.

It’s quiet, yes—but sure. Certain in a way that feels like it’s been building for far longer than either of you have been willing to say out loud.

Your lips meet his.

For a split second, he freezes—like his brain needs to catch up to what’s happening. And then he melts, soft and immediate.

His hand lifts, hovering for the briefest moment at your waist before settling there, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of your shirt like he needs to anchor himself.

He exhales against your mouth. And then he smiles. You feel it.

A small, almost disbelieving curve of his lips, right there against yours, like he can’t quite help it.

It pulls a quiet warmth through your chest, something steady and bright.

You pull back slowly, just enough to breathe. 

“Why are you smiling?” you murmur.

His eyes flick between yours, like he’s searching for the most accurate answer instead of the safest one.

“That’s the first time we’ve kissed,” he says quietly.

“…We've kissed before,” you point out.

“Undercover,” he corrects immediately. “That was situational. Context-dependent. Not—” he hesitates, searching “—not representative of personal intent.”

You huff a soft laugh, your thumbs brushing lightly along his cheekbones. “So this is your official data point?”

“Yes,” he says, completely serious.

That pulls a smile out of you. You tilt your head slightly, studying him like he’s the one being examined now.

“And?” you ask, softer, teasing threading through it. “Was it everything you were waiting for?”

There’s no hesitation. No deflection. No overthinking.

“And more,” Spencer says, soft but certain.

Your breath catches, just for a second.

And then you smile—slow, soft, a little helpless around the edges.

“Good,” you whisper.

Your thumbs trace once more along his cheeks before your hands finally slide down, lingering for just a second at his jaw before you let them fall.

He watches you like you’ve just rewritten something fundamental. Like he’s memorizing this version of you—the one who kissed him first. The one who didn’t overthink it. The one who stayed.

“You should shower,” he says, voice quieter now, but still gently insistent. “We’re losing time.”

You laugh, breath still a little light, and take a step back.

“There he is,” you murmur. “I was wondering when you’d come back.”

“I never left,” he says.

And somehow, that doesn’t feel like a joke.

You shake your head, smiling, and turn toward the bathroom—but not before catching the way he’s still looking at you.

Soft. A little awed. Like he’s still standing in that moment.

And maybe… so are you.

You tap your fingers against your knee, then stop and start again, counting in your head, willing your pulse to slow. You’ve been trying to make yourself normal, reminding yourself of logic, of schedules, of the fact that Spencer is calm beside you—so calm it’s infuriating.

He sits with perfect posture, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes forward. His presence is measured, composed—everything you’re not.

You decide to shift your focus, letting your pulse settle into something resembling a rhythm. You look around the waiting room.

A toddler is sitting across from you with his heavily pregnant mother, dropping a plastic giraffe on the floor with alarming determination, like he’s conducting durability tests for NASA. The toy bounces and rolls across the linoleum. The boy catches your eye and grins, waving enthusiastically. You smile back, and he beams, proud of his performance.

Spencer’s gaze flicks toward the commotion. He watches the boy quietly, lips twitching as though he wants to smile but is restraining himself with all the discipline of someone about to deliver a lecture. You notice the way his hand rests lightly on his own knee, fingers flexing slightly—subtle, careful, aware.

The boy drops the giraffe again, and this time, it bounces straight toward Spencer’s side. Reflexively, he reaches down, catches it, and hands it back to the toddler with a soft, almost embarrassed smile. The mother glances up, surprised and thankful.

You can’t help the warmth that blooms in your chest, a soft, disarming tug. Spencer, the brilliant, infallible Spencer, interacting with a child as if it’s second nature, his movements gentle and precise. You glance down at your own belly, imagining that same carefulness when it belongs to your own little one.

You shift slightly in your chair, hand brushing the curve of your stomach even though it’s still barely noticeable, more a promise than a presence. Your fingers linger there, tracing imaginary outlines, imagining what it will feel like when there’s something tangible to cradle. A small bump to hold, a tiny weight pressing gently against your palm, warm and insistently real.

The door beside the reception desk clicks open, and a nurse in soft blue scrubs steps out with a clipboard held against her chest. She calls your name gently.

Your breath stutters—just enough that you feel it. Spencer stands at the exact same moment you do, like you’re tethered. You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. He’s there, already smoothing down the front of his sweater as if preparing for a dissertation.

The nurse smiles warmly. “Come on back. We’ll get you settled in.”

You follow her down a short hallway, the walls lined with pastel illustrations of smiling cartoon vegetables meant to look reassuring and instead looking vaguely haunted. Spencer walks beside you, hands behind his back, trying to appear casual and failing spectacularly.

Inside the small exam room, the lighting is soft, the table covered in crinkly white paper that immediately feels too loud. The nurse gestures for you to sit. Spencer hovers until she gives him a pointed look that clearly means there’s a chair, genius, and he finally lowers himself into it.

“All right,” she says, glancing through your chart. “Before the doctor comes in, I’m just going to go through some quick questions. Nothing unusual.”

You nod. You’ve done this before. The nerves shouldn’t be this sharp, shouldn’t scrape at the inside of your ribs—but they do.

“Any bleeding or spotting since your last visit?”

“No.”

“Any abdominal pain? Cramping?”

“Just normal stretching stuff, I think,” you say. “Nothing sharp.”

“Headaches? Dizziness?”

“Some fatigue. But that’s normal too, right?”

The nurse smiles. “Very normal.”

Spencer’s hands shift slightly where they rest—subtle, but you see it. He’s listening to every word, cataloguing symptoms, cross-referencing data mentally, probably building a probabilistic model of perinatal complications because that is who he is.

The nurse turns a page. “And there’s a hospital report here from that incident at work—when you were held by the suspect?”

You nod. “He grabbed me around the waist and lifted me. No abdominal impact, but we went to the ER afterward.”

“And they monitored you overnight, correct?”

“Yes. Everything was fine.”

Spencer glances up at that—just a flick of his eyes—but there’s something softened at the edges now, something quietly relieved. You don’t comment on it. You don’t have to.

“Any pain since then?” the nurse asks. “Bruising? Pressure? Back pain?”

“No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

She nods, writing quickly. “Good. I’ll note that everything stayed stable overnight. Thank you.”

The nurse closes the chart with a soft thwap, the sound strangely grounding. “Alright,” she says, her voice warm as chamomile. “Let’s get your vitals, and then we’ll move on to the ultrasound.”

You nod and take a slow breath—your first unforced one since you walked in.

Something in you settles, small and sure.

She starts with your blood pressure.

The cuff tightens around your arm in a familiar squeeze, and you let your shoulders ease downward, unclenching the places you didn’t know were tense. Spencer watches the monitor with a strange devotion, as though your systolic pressure has the power to personally offend him.

“It’s perfect,” the nurse announces.

Spencer’s exhale is quiet enough that anyone else would miss it.

You don’t.

The pulse-ox clip follows, cool against your fingertip. Then your weight, which she records without commentary—bless her—and your temperature, which earns a bright “All good.”

You feel… lighter. Like the room finally has oxygen in it.

The nurse scribbles a final note and smiles. “Everything looks healthy. The doctor will be happy.”

You look over at Spencer. He gives you a small nod—tight, controlled, but full of something warm and earnest. Approval. Relief. Something that tugs behind your ribs.

“I’ll let the doctor know you’re ready,” the nurse says, stepping out and closing the door gently behind her.

Silence settles over the room, soft and unthreatening. The kind of quiet that feels shared instead of empty.

You sit back against the raised exam-table cushion, fingers smoothing the edge of the crinkly paper. Spencer doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, so he folds them in his lap again—like he’s been reset to factory settings.

“Better?” he asks softly.

You blink at him. The question is simple, but the tone—god, the tone—feels like it has hands, like it settles gently against your shoulders.

“Yes,” you say. “Actually. Yeah. I think so.”

He nods, gaze flicking over you with a carefulness that is very much him. “Good.”

There’s something else in the air now—stillness with a heartbeat. Not tension. Not nerves.

Expectation.

A faint knock interrupts it.

The door opens, and your OB steps inside with a practiced, reassuring smile.

“Good to see you both again,” she says. “Everything’s in order here, I see.”

Spencer sits up a fraction straighter, which would be comical if it weren’t so endearing.

“So,” the doctor starts, wheeling over the ultrasound cart, “let’s take a look at how baby’s doing today.”

Your pulse skips—once, then steadies.

Not fear this time.

Anticipation.

You lie back, lifting your shirt just enough to expose your lower belly. The doctor snaps a paper drape over your waistband with professional efficiency.

Spencer’s chair scoots closer—quiet, subtle, but definitely on purpose.

You don’t comment.

You don’t have to.

The machine hums to life, low and soothing.

“Gel might be a little cold,” the doctor warns, and the moment it touches your skin, you gasp, then laugh at yourself.

When you glance at Spencer—he’s already looking at the monitor. Eyes wide. Breath held. Hands still.

The wand touches your abdomen.

The picture flickers. Static. Shadows.

Then—

A shape. Small. Alive.

Your baby.

Your throat tightens. Not painfully. Just full.

“There we are,” the doctor murmurs. “Everything looks right on track.”

She adjusts the probe with small, practiced movements, the gel cool and slick against your skin. The image sharpens—grainy, yes, but unmistakably something. Someone.

“Okay,” she says gently, “right here—this little flicker? That’s the heartbeat.”

Spencer inhales like someone cracked open the universe. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a soft, startled breath, the kind people take when they’re standing in front of something sacred and didn’t know they were about to be.

You look at the screen.

And there it is.

A pulse—rapid and bright—fluttering like a tiny, determined wing.

Your chest squeezes, a slow bloom of warmth that makes your eyes sting.

“That’s… fast,” you manage, because your voice is doing the opposite of cooperating.

The doctor smiles. “Completely normal at this stage. Around 160 to 170 beats per minute is typical for about ten weeks.”

Spencer whispers, just barely audible, “One-sixty-three point four.”

You blink at him. “You can… count that?”

He flushes, clearing his throat. “I can estimate. The pattern is… rhythmic.”

The doctor tries—and fails—not to smile.

She moves the wand again, angling it slightly. “And right here,” she narrates, her tone warm and steady, “this curved shape is the head. Very early development, of course—but you can see the beginnings of the cranial structure.”

You squint. “It looks like a lima bean.”

Spencer leans in a fraction. “Technically closer to a—”

“Don’t say embryo edamame,” you warn.

His mouth snaps shut, but the twitch in his cheek betrays him.

The doctor laughs softly under her breath, then continues. “And this,” she says, tracing another area on the screen with her cursor, “is where the limb buds are forming. You won’t see full arms and legs yet, but development is right on schedule.”

You stare at the tiny nubs, the faint curve of possibility. Your baby. Your future shaped into pixels and sound waves.

The doctor shifts again. “This is the crown–rump length. That’s what I’m measuring now.” She clicks the calipers on the screen, drawing a line from the top of the baby’s head to the lower curve of its body. “About 3.3 centimeters. Perfect for ten weeks, one day.”

Spencer’s breath catches again—subtle but unmistakable. He’s memorizing every number. You know him. You can practically feel him writing them on the insides of his ribs.

“And here,” the doctor adds, “this dark area is the gestational sac. Nice and round. Healthy.”

You nod, even though you’re not sure you’re absorbing half of it. Your attention is split—between the soft hum of the machine, the shape on the screen, the rhythm of your baby’s heartbeat…

…and Spencer.

Spencer, who is staring at the monitor with an expression so open you barely recognize it. Awe, quiet and unguarded. Something like joy, but too delicate to name.

You’ve seen him look at rare books like this. Nobel lectures. Once, a nebula through a high-powered telescope.

But never a person.

Never your person.

The doctor continues speaking, calm and steady. “Everything looks excellent. Strong heartbeat, good growth, consistent development. No concerns at this time.”

The words land in your chest like a warm weight, anchoring you, lifting you, unraveling every knot of fear you’ve been stitching into yourself since day one.

Relief floods you so suddenly you almost shiver.

Spencer finally looks at you.

It’s brief—a flick of his eyes from the screen to your face—but the expression is unmistakable.

He is relieved too.

He is relieved for you.

“Would you like to hear the heartbeat rather than just see it?” the doctor asks.

Your breath stutters. You nod.

She presses a button.

And suddenly the room is filled with sound—rapid, loud, echoing, impossibly alive.

Your baby’s heartbeat.

It fills every corner of the tiny exam room, a furious, steady gallop, stronger than anything so small should be.

Your eyes burn. Your throat closes. The world goes soft around the edges.

Spencer’s hand moves—just slightly—like he wants to reach for you.

He doesn’t.

But he thought about it.

“I’ll print a few photos for you,” the doctor says gently, dimming the monitor. “Let me step out and get those for you.”

She wipes the gel from your abdomen with a soft towel. Then she stands, gathering her clipboard.

“You’re both doing wonderfully,” she adds, warm and sure. “I’ll be right back.”

The door closes behind her.

Silence settles again—full this time, like the room is holding its breath right alongside you.

You lower your shirt slowly, fingers trembling just enough that you feel it.

Spencer is still staring at where the screen was, like the afterimage is burned there.

Then—quietly, reverently—he speaks.

“That was…” He stops. Swallows. Tries again. “That was them. That tiny little thing is our baby.”

You just smile.