A Wanderer, A Dreamer

"Because the last time..." 

"Yeah, Yeah, I remember." You interrupted him and ran a hand over your face and sighed. 

You were in Thailand at a property and had both gotten severely sick with food poisoning and were both hospitalized the last time you travelled together. The little curtain separating you in your hospital beds couldn't mask the unfortunate noises that came out of both of you. 

Your boss watched the interaction between his construction manager and design manager with a slight curl to his lip.

You had been the design manager on all of Fury Hotel brands for the past five years. James 'call me Bucky' Barnes was hired as the head of construction and logistics a year ago for overseeing any renovations and re-developments in the Fury portfolio. 

You and your team work with him and his team to get projects up and running and oversee progress, in addition to scoping out new and potential projects Fury can invest in. 

For this one, you were being sent to a small Caribbean island to look at a potential existing property to renovate into a boutique resort and Nick Fury decided to send his construction manager along too.

You had butted heads with the stubborn man on every single project you worked on together and this time would be no different. 

"You leave tomorrow on the private jet. Once you land, you will take another smaller plane to the island. Spend a few weeks scoping out the place, planning logistics, sourcing local suppliers, and report back." 

Your stomach lurched at the thought of the plane size. You hated flying and were ok for the most part, but small planes terrified you. 

"Right." You swallowed hard. 

"Now, get out of here and don't make me regret this." 

Your boss eyed you both then got up from the conference table and left you alone with 'Bucky' the Builder, a nickname you gave him in your head.

🛩️🏝️

You glared at Bucky who glared back. 

"I'll see you at the terminal. Make sure to be on time for once." 

"Make sure to pack a tape measure this time." You glared at him. 

He glowered at you but got up and left, heading to his office muttering something about 'it was ONE-time'. 

You sat back in the chair and closed your eyes willing the stress headache from forming. You were excited to look at a potential new project but were concerned. You were watching the weather forecast like a hawk and noticed prevailing winds and rain were forecasted for the islands when you were due to land, something you were stressing out over for the past week.

🛩️🏝️

In the morning, you made it to the charter terminal on time, seeing Bucky already sitting in the lounge with his lap top open and a paper coffee cup next to him. 

"Wow, you're doing work this early? Do you even know how to type?"

"Yes, I know how to type." He snarked back.

"I thought you would just mash your keyboard with your neanderthal sausage fingers until words form." You flopped down next to him. 

Choosing not to snarkily reply back, he flashed you a drole expression instead before he finished his emails. 

"Just going over the latest change to the Guardian Tower. Fury wants to add another floor to the top executive level and asked how much over budget it was going to cost. You're copied in on the email." He sighed, closing the laptop and placing it in his carryon bag. 

"Another level? There's already three, how many more executive levels is he planning?" 

"Who knows." Bucky shuddered. 

"I'll have to see about my sources. That wallpaper was hard to find." You saw the email on your phone and forwarded it to your assistant to handle until you landed. 

"I swear, Fury just dreams up this random shit, and we have to somehow make it all work." 

"That's usually how it is." You sighed, looking out onto the tarmac. 

Your stomach was fluttering at the anticipation of boarding. 

"Are we all set then?" An employee asked. You handed them your bags, and they walked you out to the corporate jet.

🛩️🏝️

"We should experience a little turbulence closer to the island but expect smooth skies until then." Came the captain on the speaker. 

"Great." You muttered, tightening your seatbelt. 

You're pretty sure it's cutting off your circulation to your lower half, but you didn't care. 

"Everything ok over there?" Bucky asked from the other side of the plane. 

"Fine." 

He watched you grimace as the cabin door shut. 

You taxied the runway, then took off, levelling out to your cruising altitude.

🛩️🏝️

You worked for a little bit on the plane and when it was time to start your decent, you stowed your bag away. 

"All good?" Bucky asked. 

"Just peachy." You gritted out. 

The plane started to have a bit of turbulence, but you were managing. 

"Here." You heard Bucky shuffle and then felt him sit next to you. 

"What are you doing?" 

"You're scared." He said it concerned, but you didn't want him to be. 

You felt like this was a trap he was going to use to ridicule you later. 

"I'm fine. I don't need your help." 

"Suit yourself." He ignored you and buckled himself in making sure his arm was close by in case you needed to grasp it. 

Damn his boy scout ways. 

The plane was descending through the storm clouds, making you tense and stiffen up with every drop and rock from side to side.

Your jet finally broke through the clouds, which gave you a view of the angry sea tossing and turning beneath you as you descended. You finally landed with a hard thud as the plane rolled down the runway, which caused your sweat mustache to come out in full force while you peeled your hands from the arm rest when you came to a manageable speed. 

"All good?" 

"Fine." 

You cleared your throat and ran a hand through your hair. There were dark clouds all around and the wind was strong, whipping the palm trees from side to side. You saw the small Cessna waiting at the terminal as the jet taxied towards it. 

"One more flight to go." Bucky smiled like he was happy for your misery. 

"Great." You gave him a thumbs up as the door was opened.

🛩️🏝️

"All good?" Bucky asked while you strapped yourself into the small propeller plane. 

"Just please shut up." You replied, closing your eyes as the rain pelted the plane. 

The pilot, who told you his name was Alexei, put his headset on and did his preflight checks. 

You saw your luggage being loaded and the cargo door close while the ground worker gave you the thumbs up sign followed by the sign of the cross before he ran off to the hangar making your stomach lurch. 

Just another 20 minutes, then I can be back on the ground. 

"Wind's picking up." Bucky nudged you. 

"Thanks, Captain Obvious." You grumbled.

 "Looks like a storm." He added. 

"We'll be fine. I've been flying for years; I can handle this." Alexei turned around and smiled wide; some of his teeth were missing. 

"Fuck." You muttered after he turned back around. 

The propeller started with a sputter and cloud of smoke, then you taxied on the runway for takeoff. 

"You doing ok?" Bucky asked. 

"Yup." Your reply sounded like a whimper as the little plane started its takeoff. 

You rumbled on the runway and then were airborne, immediately rocking side to side from the winds as you lifted higher. 

"I got this." Came the words of the pilot then he turned back around. 

He muttered, dorogoy Iisus (dear Jesus) as he eyed the controls.

"You better." You closed your eyes and hung onto the arm rests for dear life.

🛩️🏝️

The small plane sputtered and rocked side to side as the winds whipped you around tossing you like you were a toy in the air. Clouds seemed to empty themselves while you got further from the airport. You felt a hand sneak into your space and hold yours while the plane shimmied from side to side. 

You looked up at Bucky who was smiling like this was routine for him. A few beeps and alarms sounded from the cockpit, causing you to whip your head forward. 

"What was that?" You eyed the blinking dash in front of the pilot that was lit up in red like a Christmas tree. 

"Just some sensors flashing all bright-like, all good." The pilot assured you. 

A few moments later, more sensors sounded from the cockpit making you more alarmed while you were jostled around. 

"What's going on?" You asked again.

"Wind sheer warning and a few other things." He replied. 

He turned and mumbled words in Russian to himself. Nam luchshe ne razbit'sya (We better not crash).

You looked up at Bucky who was no longer smiling. 

"I'm going to swing over land, and descend, that should help with the wind. Okee dokey?" 

 You felt Bucky's warm hand in yours, squeezing ever so little to try to reassure you. You felt the plane dip and turn as you made your way further inland.

🛩️🏝️

The wind was not changing, in fact, you felt it was getting worse. More alarms sounded as you made your way back towards the shore. 

"Is this even our island?" 

You looked out of the windows, but you could barely see anything from the rain. 

"Who knows." 

Bucky squeezed your hand in his. 

A loud beeping and warning sensor sounded.

"Uh oh." Alexei said. 

"Uh oh? Uh oh What? What does that even mean, uh-oh?" You shrieked from your seat. 

"Hang on!" 

The plane dipped and lurched as the rain pounded you relentlessly. You turned around and headed back towards the island you came from. 

"I can't see anything." You wiped at the window next to you. 

"I've lost visual." Alexei was struggling with the controls. 

"What?!" 

Then suddenly, it was all quiet in the cockpit. 

"Oh fuck." You heard Bucky say. 

"Engine stall. I can fix." 

Alexei banged hard on the dash, but nothing happened. 

"That was your fix?" You growled. "What does that all mean?" 

"Not working." Bucky added. 

You looked over at Bucky and almost whimpered. 

"What?! We're going to crash!?" 

"Not if I can help it." 

Alexei yanked on the steering column, but it seemed to do nothing. 

"Hang on!" 

The nose of the plane dipped, and you started descending. 

"We're going down?" Bucky's hand tightened on yours. 

"It'll be like glider. gladkiy." (Smooth).

Alexei struggled with the controls. 

Your heart was hammering in your chest as the ocean and ground were getting closer. 

"Hang on!" Alexei yelled while the plane descended. 

"Fuck!" 

You hung onto Bucky's arm as the plane veered into the trees. The plane struck some palm trees as you clumsily fell from the sky, bumping into trees and foliage of the island while jostling you around. You watched the propeller shear off while the windows broke and cracked around you. 

Bucky grabbed you and shielded you with his body as you hit the treetops and skidded to a stop in the dense brush, knocking you into the seat in front of you.

🛩️🏝️

"Holy shit." You said, looking around the mangled wreck. 

"We didn't die." 

You looked over at Bucky. His eyes were closed and his head was leaning forward. 

"Bucky?" You said, shaking him. 

He didn't move. 

"Oh fuck, Bucky!" 

You quickly undid your seatbelt and turned to face him. 

He can't be dead, can he? 

You reached over and poked his cheek, trying to wake him. 

"Bucky!" You raised your voice louder. 

"Wake up!" You tapped him, shaking him awake. 

You heard him mumble something and your heart rate slowed a little. 

"Y/n?" His voice was quiet.

 "Yes, wake up." You tapped him again, placing your hand on his shoulder to jostle him a little. 

His eyes opened and he blinked a few times, looking around. 

"Are we dead?" He asked. 

"No, we survived." 

He undid his seatbelt and looked around, his eyes taking your disheveled appearance in. 

"Are you ok?" 

"I think so." 

Surprisingly, you only had a small cut on your arm but other than that, you were fine. Bucky had a cut on his bicep but seemed to be ok. 

"Umm, Alexei?" You looked at the front of the plane and saw the pilot still strapped in. 

"Hey, wake up." 

You reached in front of you. 

He groaned and from your observation, seemed to be ok with only a few gashes on him. He woke up and shook his head, reaching for a small compartment. He ripped it open, dug out a bottle of clear liquid you're certain is vodka, ripped off the cap, and drank it all down. 

The rain had stopped, but the wind was still strong.

 "What do we do now?" You asked. 

The plane was wedged in ferns and foliage and surrounded by palms and other brush. 

"Let's get out of here, in case a fire starts." 

"You think a fire is going to start with all this rain?" 

"You never know." Bucky shrugged. 

"Hey, buddy." Bucky reached out and tapped on the pilot's shoulder. 

"You're both good, yeah?" Alexei asked, seeming to be more awake. 

"Seem to be." 

"I'm going to go. See where we are. To get rescue." 

"You're leaving us?" You asked.

 "Radio broke. I can navigate islands no problem. You stay and wait." Alexei said, getting himself out of the small cockpit.

🛩️🏝️

You all stood outside of the wreck, assessing the mangled plane. 

"Holy shit." 

"We survived that." 

You started breathing heavy at the reality of the situation. 

"Neat right?" Alexei smiled wide. 

You looked over at him in shock. You clearly had a different idea on what the term 'neat' was compared to his. 

"Ok, well, I go now." 

Alexei reached into the cockpit and grabbed a backpack, dusting it from the debris. 

"I should be back tomorrow or sometime." He said, then left you standing there. 

"Or sometime? Wait!?" You called after him who happily skipped away from you further into the bush.

"What the fuck? Who leaves a plane crash like that?" 

You looked over at Bucky who stretched his back and looked around. The wind had stopped howling and there was no longer any rain like the weather was suddenly turned off with a switch. 

Figures. 

Your clothes were ripped and dirty from the crash and you were missing a shoe. You spied your cell phone in the muddy sand and grabbed it, holding it up like you were holding baby Simba. 

"What are you doing?"

 "Trying to get a signal..." 

You tapped on your screen but there was nothing. 

"Where's your phone?" 

Bucky looked at you funny. 

"I don't know Y/n, in the PLANE WRECKAGE?" He spat at you. 

"With our LUGGAGE if it even SURVIVED?" He pointed to the gash in the cargo hold that had your blue suitcase sticking out of it. 

"I'm probably in shock right now and I'm going to pretend you didn't just yell at me." 

"Oh, for the love of..." Bucky ran a hand through his short hair in frustration. 

"First, we need to get shelter."

 "Shelter?" 

"Well, Alexei left us and if the weather turns again, I don't want to be cold and wet when the sun sets and I'm sure as hell not getting back in there." Bucky pointed to the steaming, warped wreckage. 

"Oh...right..."

🛩️🏝️

"I'm tired." You pouted, flopping down hard on the sandy beach. 

In the span of a few hours, you managed to set up a small fire on the beach thanks to a lighter you found in the cockpit and gather sun-dried wood while Bucky figured out where a makeshift camp would be best. 

The temperature was heating up, and the sun was now shining bright, so the sand had mostly dried from the earlier downpour. You laid out the pieces of wood and debris you were going to burn so they could dry out faster. 

Part of the plane that sheared off in landing was flung to the side creating a lean-to along the edge of the beach, so Bucky used it to create some shelter. He sat in front of the fire and glared at you. 

"What?" 

"Stop complaining." 

"I'm not, I'm simply pointing out my thoughts." 

"Well, point them out quieter, or not at all which would be better." Bucky grumbled, looking through his bag. 

For the most part, your bags survived. You had to look for Bucky's bag since it was flung out of the cargo hold, but you eventually found it and everything was relatively unscathed.

"I'm hungry." You said, poking at the fire. 

"Let me call room service for you, doll." Bucky snorted and rolled his eyes. 

"Shut up." You grumbled back. 

"Ugh, this is so frustrating. Not only do I get to be stranded on a deserted island from a PLANE CRASH I SURVIVED mind you, but YOU'RE who I am stuck with. I couldn't have been stuck with ANYONE else, LITERALLY ANYONE else, but no. Of course it HAS to be YOU! All I want is a burger and fries, a shower, and a bed. In that order, but nope. I'm stuck here like fucking Tom Hanks and that stupid volleyball of his but instead of Wilson, I have YOU." You folded your arms across your chest and scowled at the flames. 

Bucky looked amused at your meltdown. 

"You're not even a little bit annoyed? God, you're just sitting there like this is the god damn boy scouts where you get a camping badge or some shit. You get off on wilderness survival Barnes?" 

Bucky inhaled then exhaled deeply at your rant and turned to face you. 

"If it's any consideration, I'm not impressed I'm stuck here with little miss design princess who can't even build a fucking fire if her life depended on it. No, I'm not happy I'm here, but we both survived something harrowing and we just have to wait until we are rescued by that sketchy as shit pilot. I don't like it one bit. I'm trying to make the most of it and yes, I WAS a boy scout, and I dabble with watching Bear Grylls if I can't sleep at night, but what else are we supposed to do? Look around you! We're stuck in hell and well...we just have to rely on each other for the time being, plain and simple, so could you at least TRY to put an effort in this and just shut up about wanting things?" Bucky's voice boomed over you. 

Your mouth popped open at his rambling, but you quickly closed it.

You put your head down and sighed. "Fine, I'll try." You murmured. 

"What was that?" 

"I said I'll try." 

"Good." 

Bucky took a long stick and started whittling the end of it. 

"But you have to be nicer, more patient with things, especially me." 

Bucky grumbled but sighed. "Fine. I'll try to be nicer and I'm sorry for snapping at you." 

"Thank you. I'm sorry too. Now, what are you doing?" You pointed to his hands that were holding a long stick he found earlier.

"Making a spear, to catch a fish or something. I'm hungry too so I figured I'd try doing this." 

"You don't want to go into the bush?" 

Bucky eyed the tropical brush and shook his head no. 

"I'll take my chances with the water. I'm not one for snakes or bugs, and I don't want to step in something poisonous either since we don't have medicine. We'll stick to the shoreline and a few feet into the brush, but nothing too deep, I don't think I can handle that." 

"That's what she said." You joked making Bucky run a hand over his face and groan. 

"What? Gotta get by somehow Barnes."

🛩️🏝️

A few hours later, Bucky had managed to catch some fish with his homemade spear, which he cleaned and cooked. You only squealed and gagged slightly when he ripped the guts from the first fish and quickly closed your mouth when he glared at you, but you listened to what he was telling you he was doing. 

He told you stories of when he had fished and camped with his friend Steve and his family when they were younger. You even managed to clean the last fish yourself with his guidance. That was the first time you had ever done that, and you were proud of yourself. 

From the impact of the crash, there were some coconuts that fell from the palm trees, so you managed to get some of the water and flesh of the coconut to cook over the fire. It wasn't much, but it was something.

The island got dark once the sun set. The bright blue colour faded to a dark black sparkling body of water and the waves were gently lapping at the shore. Any other time in the world, you would have marveled at the relaxing sound and the white sugar sand beach you were on, but not this time. You sighed, looking into the fading embers the fire gave off. 

"So, what time do you think it is?" You asked Bucky. 

He scrunched his nose up in thought and looked up into the sky. You could see every star in the sky twinkle as it grew darker. 

"Not sure, maybe 9 or 10?" 

You eyed your darkened phone and sighed. It felt unusual not being connected to anything. 

Many times, throughout the day, you caught yourself peeking at the screen, or reaching for it to check a message, but the screen was black. You're not even sure it works since it hasn't powered back on since the crash. 

"Well, I'm tired. I think I'll head to the shelter." 

Bucky watched you look around, then get up and make your way to the shelter. He made sure to place some fallen palm leaves around it, but there wasn't much for comfort. 

He's praying the pilot comes through and shows up tomorrow with help.

🛩️🏝️

You woke in the morning feeling hot and sticky. 

"What the?" You muttered, looking around, blinking. 

"So hot..." You whined, trying to focus. 

You had a decent sleep, for lying on the wet sand of a beach in which you crashed into. You tried moving, but you were stuck. You blinked a few times, realising you were pinned in place. 

"Huh?" 

Did a piece of the wing fall in the night? 

Your eyes focused but that wasn't the case. A large arm was flung over you, protecting you. It moved and held you closer and that's when you realised your builder was wrapped around you like an anaconda. 

You looked back and saw Bucky's face by your head, eyes closed and mouth partially open, chest moving up and down with each breath. His short hair was tousled and had sand and debris in it. 

You squirmed but was stuck. 

"Bucky..." You managed to get an arm out from under you. 

"I'm too hot..."

The humidity of the island combined with the lack of air flow in the shelter and heat of the day was practically melting you into the sand. 

"Just a little longer sweetheart." He mumbled, holding you tighter to him, his arm wrapping around you. 

You stiffened. 

Sweetheart? What the hell? 

He squeezed you further, his other hand sneaking dangerously close to the underside of your boob. 

"Oof...Bucky..."

 You tapped your hand on his arm to stop him from moving. He snatched it in his and held it close. 

"Bucky..." You whisper yelled. 

"Wake up." 

You squeezed his hand tight. 

"'M tired." He muttered. 

"It's too hot." 

"You're hot." He mumbled, stretching out. "So, fucking hot Y/n." 

WHAT. THE. HELL. 

That's when you wiggled away from his grasp.

 "Bucky!" You said more forcefully, making his eyes open. 

"What?" He said, letting go of you and looking around. 

When his eyes found you, he scowled. 

"You were holding me too tight." 

"No, I wasn't" He scoffed like you offended him. 

"You totally were." You were amused at his shocked face. 

"Whatever, you wish." He muttered, closing his eyes. 

"Ugh, I'm getting up." You wiggled away, needing to put some distance between you.

🛩️🏝️

The water was calm today, bright blue and clear as you can see. The white sand seemed to sparkle and if you squinted, it almost felt like you were in a beautiful oasis and not in some plane crash in brutal hurricane-like winds from the day before. It almost wasn't fair to be stuck on an island surrounded by such beauty you couldn't even enjoy properly. 

"I'm sure Alexei will be back today." 

"Are you?" You asked. 

Bucky sat up and looked around, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Has to be, I mean how small can this island be anyways? He should have found SOMEONE by now, right?" 

You shrugged. "I guess." You didn't have any faith in the odd pilot and were praying he would come through for you. 

"We'll see him soon, I'm sure of it." Bucky assured you.

🛩️🏝️

It had been three days since Alexei had left you, and you were starting to get snappy with each other. 

"God, put some clothes on, Y/n." Bucky grumbled from the shore. 

You stood by the shore in a bikini that didn't cover much. 

"I would, but it's hot as balls out here and I don't want to ruin any more of them." 

Bucky grumbled to himself while he used his spear in the shallow water. 

Three days of having to live close with you at his side was testing his patience. Between your sassy mouth, not enough food, snarky jokes, and lack of a wardrobe, his nerves were starting to fray. 

He had no idea what was under those boxy business suits and slacks you usually wear, and he's had a front row in discovering your body every day you've been stranded on this island. A body that is slowly starting to tan nicely under the hot sun. 

A body he sees with water droplets running all over while you emerge from the ocean. 

A body he has been craving to touch and explore further with his hands and mouth.

🛩️🏝️

You scowled at the frustrating man, but what a beautiful man he was. The sun had tanned Bucky's skin nicely while he stood out in the water with his fishing spear. You had a hard time concentrating on anything that wasn't his bare chest or thick forearms and veiny hands while he brought you fish you cleaned and ate. 

Every time he sat or got up or moved in general, you watched his ab muscles contract and move, and it did some things to your mind. How could this obnoxiously handsome jerk of a man be this good looking? 

It was a sin, and don't get your thoughts started on waking up with him each morning. His face donned a few days scruff and he looked divine with it. He held you all night like a koala to a tree and the skin-on-skin contact sends tingles throughout your body. 

Each morning you wake, he's usually wrapped around you, and you can feel ALL of him pressed against your back and thighs, you smirked to yourself, chewing a piece of fish for something else to concentrate on.

🛩️🏝️

Two days later... 

"So, what do you have planned today?" He asked making you smirk at him. 

This has been a little game between the two of you to ask each other. 

"Oh, not sure yet. Maybe head to the buffet then grab a lounger by the pool, a few beverages, and relax. You?" 

Bucky sighed, looking around. 

"That sounds nice. I think I'll head out and explore the town. Maybe check out some shops and that little café that serves those little sweet cakes." 

You snorted and finished eating a slightly overcooked piece of fish.

"So, do you think our pilot is ever coming back?" 

Bucky looked out onto the sea and leaned back onto the sand. 

"I think he died or something." 

"Bucky!" 

"What? I mean, how big is this island? He can't have gotten far. Maybe he had internal injuries and keeled over in the bush somewhere?" 

You hadn't thought of that, but it was a possibility. 

You've been trying to avoid the feeling of dread that keeps sneaking its way into your thoughts. Staying positive has been a challenge and your patience was thinning. 

"We have to have faith he's coming back with help. I mean, our plane was due to land...if we never made it back, you'd think there would be a search party started or something." 

"I wish I knew where we were compared to the island, we were supposed to land on." 

"Me too." 

You sat and watched the ocean a little longer, but you were getting too hot in the sun. 

"Going to sit in the shade for a bit." You announced and got up to head to the little shelter you had slowly been improving.

🛩️🏝️

You were resting in the shade of the plane wing when you felt Bucky sit down next to you. 

"Gotta cool off for a bit, its getting warm." 

He laid on his back and placed an arm behind his head while his other arm was across his stomach. You laid back and were lying next to him, looking at the metal wing and palm branches you stuck around you, shielding you from the shoreline. 

You turned and faced your head builder. 

"What?" Bucky asked, eyes were still closed. 

"Nothing." 

"Then stop staring at me." 

You saw the faintest smile grace his lips which made you giggle. 

His eyes opened and he turned to face you, blue eyes searching your face. 

"Do you really think we'll get off this island?" You whispered. 

"I hope so." 

"Me too." 

You were quiet when you felt him brush his knuckle against your cheek. 

"Just some sand...it's gone now." 

His touch was soft. 

"Thanks." 

His hand lingered, trailing your cheek, then jaw, then he moved to your throat, gently stroking your skin of your pulse. You were close to him, facing him when you reached out and placed your hand on his hip, pulling him closer to you. 

He smirked making you smile, and lean up into him, his lips coming dangerously close to yours. 

You're not sure who made the next move, but your lips were on his, kissing him as you held onto his side, bringing his chest against yours. A soft moan escaped you while he wrapped an arm around you. 

Your lips explored each other while your hands moved on his body, gently caressing and touching each other. You separated slightly, smiling at each other while looking at his puffy lips, before he leaned in and kissed you, this time, he sat up a little and brought his body close, so you could wrap a leg around his hips. He moved his hands over you, grabbing and squeezing your body, caressing your skin making it feel like everywhere he touched you, it was about to combust. His hands roamed your body, gently moving underneath your top, squeezing flesh and skin which only turned you on more.

You moaned slightly, which gave him the opportunity for his tongue to enter your mouth, grinding slightly against him.

You were lost in each other and didn't hear the boat approach. 

"Bucky..." You moaned while he kissed your neck, his beard was tickling your skin. 

"Don't let me interrupt you now." 

You screamed at the deep voice while Bucky startled away from you, breathing heavy while Alexei stood and faced you. He stood before you with a saucy grin on his face. 

"I got help, see?" He proudly gestured to the zodiac that was pulled ashore. A larger boat was further out. 

"Thank god!" 

You adjusted your top while Bucky sat up and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't ready to stand up just yet...

🛩️🏝️

"Where did you go?" You asked Alexei, hefting some shirts and shorts that were drying into your bag. 

Bucky's bag was next to yours and was already packed. 

"Yeah, what took you so long?" Bucky asked, eyeing the pilot up. 

"Oh, I found help a few days ago. I figured you could use the time to yourselves." He shrugged, hefting your bags into the small zodiac. 

Your mouth fell open in shock. 

"So, you could have been here sooner?" 

You placed your hands on your hips and glared at him. He only laughed and loaded Bucky's bag into the boat. 

"What? I said I was getting help, I didn't say how soon." He gestured to the larger boat. 

Bucky grumbled while he stepped in, helping you in. 

"The island we landed on..." 

"You mean crashed?" 

Alexei chuckled at your interruption. "...is close to your destination. If the plane wouldn't have stalled, we would have made it, I'm certain." 

"Uh huh..." 

"Sure..." 

You and Bucky both replied, not believing him one bit.

 Alexei brought you to the larger boat where a few paramedics were stationed. They looked you over and treated your minor scrapes and gave you water and food while the boat took you to the correct island where a doctor was waiting to look you both over. 

The boat ride lasted all of 10 minutes in which you almost felt like decking Alexei in the face. 

A 10-minute boat ride and you were at the island you were supposed to be at in the first place. 

Go figure.

🛩️🏝️

It had only been 12 hours since you had been rescued, and you were still hungry and a little tired. Your phone decided to work, and you finally got service at the resort and was able to reply to most of your messages.

 You were in your hotel room when your phone rang. 

"Hello?"

"Welcome back to the world." Fury's voice sounded on the other end. 

"Oh my god..." You huffed out. 

"You have no idea..." 

"Oh I'm aware. I already talked to Barnes. I'm sending another team there to replace you." 

"R-replace?" 

"You've been through a lot. Take a few days, then get home. I've sent you your itinerary." 

"But sir..." 

"Y/n, you were in a plane crash. While working. Please, Y/n, take the time to rest and recover or Nat in HR will be on my ass about this. Come back and in a few months, if everything checks out there, you can return and start the project." 

You huffed out a breath and flopped down on the bed, but Fury was right. You had been through a lot and needed rest, food, and a little time to recover. 

"Fine." 

"Good. I've ordered Barnes to do the same. He's booked on the same return flights as you." 

Your face flushed with that information. 

"Ok, thanks." Then the line ended, so you tossed your phone on the bed and ran a hand over your face.

A knock sounded at your door, so you got up to open it. 

"Hey." Bucky stood on the other side, looking freshly showered and beautifully tanned. Your enemy stood with his hands in his pockets rocking on his heels. 

"Fury call you?"

 You ushered him into your room, closing the door. 

"Just did." 

Bucky nodded, peeking out your window to see your view. He was in another building next to yours. 

"So." 

"So..." 

You watched him look around your room, stepping closer to you. 

"Are you hungry?" He asked. 

At the mention of possible food, your stomach grumbled making you chuckle. 

"Sure. We can head to the buffet..." 

You turned to head to your door but was stopped with Bucky lightly tugging on your wrist. "Oh!" He pulled you close to him. 

"Or...we can stay here..." He shrugged, placing his hands on your hips to steady you. 

You raised your eyebrows up at him in question. 

"Oh really?" 

You felt him shrug. 

"Figure, we can head out and eat, or finish what we started on the beach yesterday, then order room service." 

You smiled, wrapping your hands around his neck. He squeezed your hips and brought you close to him. 

"I like that plan. Let's stay here then." 

He smiled wide, leaning down and kissing you, which you melted into.

‧₊˚ ⊹ personal favorites | [!!] sexual content mdni

— bucky barnes

longfics

‧₊˚ ⊹ Already Yours ; groundskeeper!bucky in love actually - 22.8K [!!] Getting cheated on mere weeks away from the holidays has you fleeing to your parents' holiday house upstate. What you don't expect is to find and fall for the groundskeeper there who seems to know more about you than you might think.

Fears and Falling Stars ; pitch black!bucky x sandman!reader - 19.2K [!!] For years, Bucky has commanded the realm of nightmares, convinced that this was his one remaining purpose. When he learns that you are still alive, turned into a spirit destined to be his antithesis, he will stop at nothing to bring you back to him — even if it means destroying his humanity and the universe in the process. ⤷ part of "once upon a time..." (bwa fairytale collab)

Selfish Appetite ; bucky x mayor!reader - 14.8K [!!] You’ve always had one rule: never date your residents — and it’s been easy — until Bucky shows up with his steady hands and deep blue eyes, making you question everything you’ve built and everything you’ve sought to protect. ⤷ part of spring into stardew (bwa stardew collab)

Darling Mine ; 40s!bucky x reader - 13.4K [!!] Your deep-rooted feelings for Bucky Barnes — beautiful and untouchable — were never meant to surface. However, when he kindly invites you to spend Valentine's Day with him, you also don't expect yourself to hope for more.

Blurred Lines ; dbf!bucky x reader - 9.5K [!!] You've been dancing around this thing with your dad's best friend for far too long — glances that last more than a heartbeat, flirty remarks that toe the line of propriety. It was only ever a matter of time before it snapped.

‧₊˚ ⊹ Stormbound ; mob boss!bucky x ex!reader - 8.1K [!!] Bucky Barnes was your hell and heaven on earth. When he comes back five years after hanging you out to dry, you realize you've never been able to say no to him.

Strawberry Stained ; strawberry picking pwp - 7.8K [!!] Bucky should've known better than to question your request to go strawberry picking. Now, he has to deal with the consequences of his actions, which isn't so bad when he gets the sweet taste of your suffering.

We're Not Really Strangers ; playing a game - 7.5K Three levels. Two people. One night. You and Bucky learn a little bit more than anticipated about each other from a simple card game.

Control Alt Desire ; stalker!bucky - 6.4K [!!] He knows it's wrong, but he can't help it. He's in love with you. Alternatively, your IT guy watches you, then gets you to fall in love with him.

shortfics (<5K) + misc

Raw Feed ; camboy!bucky - 4.3K [!!] Consolation ; established relationship / hurt comfort - 4K Off Hours ; 40s gangbang ft. howling commandos - 4K [!!] In Time ; comics!bucky hurt/comfort, character study - 3.8K ‧₊˚ ⊹ 'Til Death Do Us Part ; married-to-be-divorced assassins - 3.2K Handful ; firefighter!bucky hurt/comfort - 3K Unrestricted View ; jerking off to you working out - 3K [!!] Paint Me (Inside Out) ; wall painting pwp - 2.9K [!!] Testing Limits ; fluff with a lil jealousy - 2.5K Fifteen Minutes ; established relationship / protective bucky - 1.8K

❀ ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS farmer!bucky barnes x teacher!reader

navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times—every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if you’re doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frightening—not when it’s held in careful hands like his.

❀ GODS, GORE & GROPING cosmic entity!bucky barnes x human!reader

your habit of talking to yourself inadvertently catches the attention of something ancient lurking in the shadows. trick or tease series

❀ THE ART OF DEVOTION [collection] bucky barnes x female!reader

an excuse to shamelessly explore different versions of bucky while indulging in my favorite dynamic: a man who falls hard and never recovers.

❀ THE PRETTIEST SKIRTS ARE WORN TO BE TAKEN OFF congressman!bucky barnes x administrative assistant!reader

bucky bends every edge of himself toward you, softening in ways no one else sees and utterly devoting his soul to the warmth you bring. until his sanity is tested at work of all places.

❀ THIRSTFACE [01/07] best friend/ghostface!clark kent x female!reader

You hop off the counter, taking your stupid drink with you because pouring it down the sink would probably look entirely suspicious.

Not that there was anything to be suspicious of.

In fact, this is what you wanted.

"What do you think?" he asks abruptly

You send him a wry look. "I don't think anything."

“We noticed,” Bucky says immediately. Like breathing. It makes your heart curl until it withers away. “What do you think about this?”

"Ask her out. Or don't. I don't care."

"You're a terrible friend."

"Devastating," you say monotonously.

Seriously, what the fuck.

Bucky locks his phone and puta it away, watching you slowly drag yourself out of the room before you say something worse.

Behind you, there’s silence for a beat before Bucky locks his phone and follows.

Bob looks back and forth between the both of you before deciding he actually wants nothing to do with any of this, contrary to his earlier belief

"You got a problem?" Bucky asks, the silence of the hallway cracking under his audacity.

"Many. Take your pick."

"Funny."

You hum, praying that the fucking elevator gets here faster.

"You don't want me to ask her out," the says, too close to you for your liking right now

"I don't even know her."

"Does that matter?"

You press the elevator button harder than necessary.

Not really. You noticed this whole thing the second it started. The texting. Him checking his phone more. Smiling at it sometimes, which was frankly irritating to witness. Something ugly lodged itself in your chest after that and never really left. Slithered it's way down to your stomach, and legs, and arms, and had just stayed there, stagnant.

You close your eyes, still turned away from him.

"You said this was nothing," he says, voice hard. "Not me."

He was right.

"it is nothing."

“Then you won’t care if I ask her to get coffee this weekend.”

The elevator dings open. You exhale shakily.

You step inside. He follows immediately.

Annoying.

You stare at the glowing floor numbers instead of him.

This was nothing. You’d repeated it enough times that eventually it stopped sounding ridiculous to yourself. You knew there was no hope for the both of you, that this was fruitless, so why waste each other's time.

At least until someone else entered the picture.

Now you feel vaguely homicidal over someone you actually really liked.

"You didn't answer."

"I already said do whatever you want."

"What do you want?"

"A bagel."

Bucky let's out a heavy exhale, like he's tired.

It feels like you're speed running the 5 stages of grief at once as you prepare for the inevitable distance you would have to put between the both of you.

You glance at all the fucking floors left to go and realise you're stuck here for longer than you want.

You can feel him looking at you. Terrible experience.

“She’s nice,” he says after a second. “Likes documentaries. Hiking.”

“Wow,” you mutter. “Soulmates.”

You’ve watched documentaries. You’ve also nearly died on several mountains.

The lift moves with the urgency of a fucking melting stick of butter down a hill.

“Tell me not to go.”

“I don’t care.”

“Bullshit.”

You finally look at him.

His brows are drawn together slightly. Tired. Irritated.

Like this is somehow your fault.

Funny.

You always assumed if this thing ended, it’d be because you eventually got your shit together and moved on.

Didn’t really account for him getting there first.

You're well aware of your hypocrisy.

“Right. I'm gonna go cry in my room about this” you mutter. “I’m gonna go journal about it.”

His expression flickers. “You journal?”

“Christ, no.”

That almost gets a smile out of him.

The elevator finally opens.

You step out immediately.

“Just be honest for once,” he says behind you.

Your jaw tightens.

You could do it.

You could tell him you thought you had more time.

That the idea of him sitting across from someone else, smiling at them the way he smiles at his phone lately, makes something sharp twist in your stomach.

You could tell him you already miss him, which is pathetic considering he’s standing ten feet away.

“Do whatever," you say. "It doesn't matter what I want."

The elevator doors start sliding shut.

The last thing you see is Bucky’s expression tightening, like he’s angry at you. Or himself.

Hard to tell with him.

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

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

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Sunlight’s good for a person.”

‘I’m looking at sunlight right now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Malibu.”

He exhales, long and deep, dragging it out.

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

“Ok, grandpa. I promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky—“

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

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

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

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

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

Until you smack the water in the deep end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But all good things must come to an end eventually.

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

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

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

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

You force yourself to take a nap anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

It pops open easily, revealing two empty frames.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” you say. “Merry Christmas.”

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

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

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

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

“It’s good.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t have a job, Bucky.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, doll,” he says cheerfully.

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

“Feel like ice skating today?”

Famous last words.

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

Bucky falls into place beside you on silent feet.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

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

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

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

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

“A dream deferred.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And not at all what you wanted.

“Happy New Year, honey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you’re good people.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thought occurs to you. A very selfish thought.

“Bucky?” you blurt out.

He turns.

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“Sweetheart.”

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

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

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

“Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unsurprisingly, you reach a breaking point.

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

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

“What the fuck?”

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

“H-hey,” you say weakly.

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

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

“N-no, I’m f-fine. Just c-c-cold.”

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

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

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

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

“I missed you, too.”

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

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

You have the grace to look guilty.

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

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

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

“I’m fine,” you repeat, sniffling.

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

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

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

“It — it’s stupid…”

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

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

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

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

“Of…losing you.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky. I did it. I got the email.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know that tone. You sit up straight.

“Bucky. What are you planning?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think?”

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

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

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

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

You laugh. “Way better than Minetta.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“Do you know what they’re serving?”

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

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

You realize that Bucky hasn’t said anything.

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

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

Don’t fucking look—

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

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

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

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

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

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

…but are you?

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

Because you sure as hell do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You reach out your hand.

Bucky takes it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s been your favorite part?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

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

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

“I need you to stay there, sweetheart.”

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

“No, you didn’t hurt me.”

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

“Please.”

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

Is he…?

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

He is.

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

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” he whispers.

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

“You too, Buck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And trouble they are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How exciting,” you manage to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do not gag do not gag do not gag—

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

God, you might make yourself vomit—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That vest really does wonders for you.”

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

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

Your patience is wearing thin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He did.”

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

His eyebrow lifts.

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

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

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

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

“Are you?”

You pause. “Am I what?”

“Living the dream.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He watches you for a moment, thoughtful.

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

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

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

“Sounds like an art,” he says.

“Artists don’t use spreadsheets.”

“I think it still counts.”

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

“Most people are missing out.”

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

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

“In data?”

“In you.”

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

“O’Malley.”

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

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

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

“Part of the reason?” he repeats.

“It’s a long story.”

He looks at you, eyes bright but calm.

“I have time.”

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

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

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

With a sigh, you start.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” he says.

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

“It’s…thank you.”

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

“She refused to give up. She was a badass, but I also think that was just her being a mom. She didn’t want to leave me on my own in the world. So we used up every cent we had flying across the country, meeting with the best doctors out there and trying treatment after treatment. We spent a stint at the Mayo in Rochester, and for a moment, things were starting to look up. But she took a sudden turn for the worse, so we came back here. We came home.”

You rest your chin in your palm, eyes following his finger as it taps against his glass. You can feel him watching you closely.

“I tried to make her as comfortable as I could. Took the rest of my savings and poured it into her care. She hated that I did that, but there was no point arguing. Not when we only had weeks left. She passed last spring.”

James’ free hand twitches in your direction. You pretend not to notice.

“After the funeral, I looked around and realized I had mountains of medical bills to pay, a mortgage suddenly in my name, and a future full of student loans.” You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, untitled in emotion. “Despite everything, my mom made me enroll in classes as soon as we got home — she wanted me to have something waiting for me on the other side of it all. I thought she was crazy at first because I couldn’t think about anything but her, but now that she’s gone, I’m glad she made me do it.”

The silence after you finish is surprisingly light. It doesn’t feel tense or heavy like it usually does, when your audience isn’t sure how to reconcile all of that grief in one person’s lifetime. James sits beside you easily, absorbing your story with careful consideration and space.

“For what it’s worth, I think your mom would be really proud of where you are today” he murmurs.

The corner of your mouth lifts.

“Don’t speak too soon. I sold the house, but it barely made a dent in the medical bills. Whoever invented interest can suck my dick.”

James coughs and takes a large sip of his drink.

“Truthfully, I’m — I’m drowning,” you laugh breathlessly. “I can’t study because I’m constantly worried about having enough money to keep the lights on, and then that makes me worry that I’ll get kicked out of the program and lose my chance at a job that pays enough to make these bills go away. So I got a job here in the meantime because — well, everything’s outrageously priced and that means you get outrageous tips, which is literally the only way to keep my head above water.”

Your voice has raised in volume, pitch and speed, but you plow on, too late to bottle it up now.

“I ran the numbers a hundred times, set them against average incomes of thousands of jobs in the city, calculated inflation and costs, and it came down to either this or stripping. Which I don’t have anything against! But I can’t move like that, I can barely do a push up — so tips would be beyond sad for me, if I get any, and then I’d be back to where I started. So between that and The Alpine, I thought why not save myself the embarrassment and—”

You cut yourself off with a wince. You did it again.

You shoot a furtive glance his way. He’s turned completely in his seat to face you, jaw tight and eyes unreadable. Like this, you get the full force of him, the piercing blue of his eyes, the sharp features of his face; it’s unnerving, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like electricity’s dancing down your limbs. A brief look reveals a brush of chest hair peeking out from under his white button down, and your subconscious decides it would like to see the rest of it someday.

He appears to be considering something, mulling it over carefully in his head. He hasn’t looked away from you since you stopped talking, but you don’t find it creepy. Yet.

“Sounds like you have a lot on your plate,” James mutters.

“Yeah,” you say faintly, “sorry to unload all of that on you.”

He shakes his head quickly, throwing back the last of his drink in one large gulp. His lips press into a thin line. You’re kicking yourself mentally, thinking you’ve finally traumatized the poor guy with your unfiltered stream of consciousness, when he sets the glass down with a sharp klink.

“I could help,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Oh, you don’t — you don’t need to do that. I promise I wasn’t using my sob story to get you to kick me a bigger tip or anything—“

“Just listen, please.”

Your mouth shuts with a snap. The air hums with a level of anticipation that wasn’t there before. His eyes hold steadily onto yours.

“I’ll only say this once, and if it’s not for you, I won’t say another word about it ever again.” He tilts his head. “I believe two people can come together in an uncomplicated and beneficial way, like friends do, to help each other out. I’d like to make your life easier so you can focus on what actually matters to you. I’d be someone you can rely on, who values your time and wants to see you succeed…while also helping you with any roadblocks in your way. I could take some of the pressure off — financially — so that you can focus on your future instead of struggling to make things work today. And in return, I get your company. I’ve had a better time talking to you for the last twenty minutes than I’ve had with that group of guys for years. You’re sharp, you’re funny, you’re grounded…your time and your attention is all I would want.”

He lets that sit between you with a short pause. Meanwhile, the air has left your lungs.

“This requires trust. Discretion. Maturity. It’s not about rescuing anyone or buying affection. It’s more…intentional than that. Mutual.”

He pauses again, longer, as if he’s waiting for his words to sink in with you. They certainly have.

“Being my friend will never require you to be out of your comfort zone,” he continues softly. “It’s about making you comfortable. You’ll get support without strings, without owing anything, and without judgment. It’s not complicated, and it’s not about control. It’s about being a friend. I’d like to be your friend.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not a whisper of a sound. The corners of his mouth twitch up as he searches your face — you suspect you’re not doing a very good job at concealing your emotions.

“You don’t need to give me an answer now,” James murmurs, leaning back against the booth; his voice has dipped into a lower octave, and the sound of it sends vibrations up your spine. “All I’m asking is that you consider it.”

You’re silent as you turn his words over in your mind, your heart thrumming beneath your chest.

“We don’t even know each other,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies, “but I’d like to know you. This is a way for me to do that.”

You bite your lip. “If you’re saying all of this because of my mom, or — or ‘cause you feel bad—“

“No,” he says calmly, hand resting on the table near yours. “This isn’t because I feel bad.”

“Then why?” you ask.

“Because you’re beautiful, and I enjoy the sides of you that you’ve shown me tonight. And selfishly, I’d like to be your friend that makes things easier for you.”

Your gut swoops low. He called you beautiful. But there was an innocence behind it, like he was stating a fact rather than making a move. This settles over you like a warm blanket after a long day.

James watches you for another moment before reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a card. He offers it to you.

“Take some time. Think it over. If you have questions, call me. If you never want to hear from me again, say the word and I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re interested in what this could be, let me know.”

You take the card without a word, absentmindedly pocketing it while you get to your feet. Your body has overridden your brain, moving you through the motions. James rises after you, and his frame towers over yours as you finally stand next to him. His bright eyes scan your face, assessing every detail. You swallow hard, his eyes track that as well.

“I hope to hear from you soon,” he murmurs, dipping his head down to your eye level. You nod breathlessly.

With a pointed look, he nudges the receipt book closer to you, where it had been abandoned on the table after he asked for another drink.

“It’s—it’s on me,” you say weakly. He raises his eyebrows, hands shoved into his pockets; you wave vaguely in front of you. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you,” James says politely, and with a small dip of his chin, he turns away for the door. You watch as he crosses the room at a relaxed pace, dark hair bouncing gracefully, suit swishing perfectly. He doesn’t look back as the door is opened for him like a king and he exits the room.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Holy shit.

Later that evening, when you stumble home with ruptured blisters, smelling of stale sweat and cleaning products, you collapse onto your couch and pull out the card.

James B. Barnes, Chairman of the Board

Barnes Group, Inc.

The last name should have given it away, but to be fair, you were blindsided by the smooth talking and how good he looked. Barnes Group, Inc. is a quiet but major asset management firm that dominates the Financial District. They hold their weight against the big ones despite being around for less than twenty years. They’re well-respected and popular, from what you’ve heard around The Alpine. Your instincts proved correct once again — he really does have real money.

Your mind whirls. How cliche is it for one of the wealthiest men in the city to offer an arrangement like this to a younger woman? Very — there’s no beating around that bush.

But the way he framed it had broken through your initial judgment, hitting you in a place that was dark and dusty and unused for ages. Friendship.

You couldn’t remember the last time you spoke to someone you could call a friend. All of them had slowly disappeared after you buried your mother, and for valid reasons; you made it impossible to keep in touch, dodging phone calls and ignoring texts like it was your job. But you’re still human — even if you push everyone away, that doesn’t mean you’re immune to loneliness. And with hardly any family left, that doesn’t leave you with many options for human companionship.

His words had shined a spotlight on that gaping hole in your life, intentional or not. Maybe he could see that on top of flirting with poverty, you’re lonely.

Maybe he’s lonely, too.

You rub your eyes viscously with your knuckles, willing the day to seep from your bones. Your cat, Lucky, hops onto the couch and curls up beside you.

You can’t believe it, but you think you need to consider this. While several true crime documentaries could show you the downfall of trusting the wrong person, you can’t help but take James’ words as they are. Perhaps that ity, bity, tiny sliver of hope you allow to live on inside you has taken charge of your decision making. It would explain your sudden deviation from enormous dislike for the rich.

You sigh, stroking Lucky’s back. “If this is real, I’d be an idiot not to,” you say to him, like you have no other choice. Lucky yawns his affirmation.

So you think on it. A lot. A lot a lot. Pretty much every minute of the next three days, you’re thinking about James. His words replay over and over in your head until it’s an automatic loop of noise.

I’d like to be your friend.

It’s distracting, thinking about him and his offer. Which means you’re distracted at work, you’re distracted on the subway, you’re distracted folding laundry. You even answer a debt collector by accident because your mind is in two places. You’ll never do that again.

…He could make sure you never do that again.

It comes to a head when you’re taking your break during your shift. The August night is hot and humid, the sky bragging of potential thunderstorms. The cigarette in your hand shakes as you inhale greedily.

The same two things circle your brain: how long would you let this go on for? And what would your mom think?

Both questions hold great weight, yet both are unanswerable to you — at least for now. Just when you start going down that road, your brain screeches to a halt in some sort of self-preservation tactic, distracting you by throwing mental memories of James’ soft smile, his quiet empathy, or — even worse — his chest hair.

It makes it a lot easier to pull out your phone than you think. The card is slightly crumpled from taking it out and holding it so often, but the numbers read clearly as you punch them in.

He’s offering you a way out of this mess you call your life. Just because he wants to. And all he asks is for you to smile and thank him for it over dinner every now and then. Either he’s dealing with a lot of guilt over having money, or he truly wants to see your life get easier because of him. Maybe it’s both. Either way, it’ll change your life.

For the better. Right?

The line rings three times before he answers. “James Barnes.”

“James,” you croak, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “It’s me. From The Alpine. Hi.”

Something shifts in the background, like he’s sitting up straighter or moving something around. It sounds like sheets against skin. “Hi,” he says back, neutral. You glance at the time on your phone.

“Shit,” you mutter, “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about how late it is. I can call you back—?”

“No,” he cuts in. “Now’s fine. How are you?”

You chew on your lip. “I’m good. Busy, but…I’ve been— uh, I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, soft and loose like it’s a knee-jerk response. Your gut swoops low.

“About what you said,” you choke out. “About being…friends. I…I have some questions.”

“I have some answers.”

“I was wondering if we could meet. Soon. So I can ask you the questions. And learn a little more about…what this will be like.”

There’s a pause on the other end, not even a rustle of fabric or a brush of his breathing against the receiver to be heard. Then he clears his throat.

“How about tomorrow night? 8 o’clock at Pepper’s.”

“Yeah— uh, yes. That works,” you breathe. There’s a moment of silence where all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart.

“Would it be presumptive of me to bring a few documents? Unless you’d like to have a lawyer look over them—”

Your mouth goes dry. “No. That’s okay,” you say. “You can bring them.”

He makes a soft noise, something pleased. “I’m glad you called,” he says, voice low and warm. “I was starting to think I wouldn’t hear from you.”

The hand holding your cellphone spasms. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He shushes you quietly. “It’s okay. I’m glad you took your time. You seem like the type of person who wants to know exactly what she gets herself into. I admire that.”

You hum, because words are elusive as ever right now.

“Are you working?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“It’s almost midnight. Isn’t The Alpine closed by now?”

“Yeah, well…side work’s a bitch. I’ll probably be here until one.”

He grunts. “Let me send a car to get you home.”

“James, I—“

“Please. It’ll let me sleep tonight. Worrying about you walking around New York at one in the morning in the rain will do the opposite.”

Your foot taps restlessly. “Okay,” you breathe.

“Okay, doll.”

A flush runs through your body, from the crown of your head to the tip fo your toes. It leaves behind a wave of tingles that tickle your skin.

“Yeah, uh. I’ll let you— uh, I’ll let you get back to it then. I’ll see you tomorrow, James.”

“Tomorrow,” he vows. And the line goes dead.

You adjust the straps of your dress again, pulling them further back on your shoulders so that they frame your chest just right. It’s your favorite dress — or, more accurately, your only dress — and your one item of clothing that’s acceptable enough for the five star restaurant you’re meeting James at.

He’s sending another car — he texted you this time, brokering no argument over it, just a time and the driver’s name. You’d be put off if the ride last night hadn’t cut your usual hour-long hike home down to ten minutes and saved you from a torrential downpour. Private cars have their benefits, apparently.

The driver, Bob, picks you up at half past seven. He weaves in and out of traffic flawlessly, leaving you with very little time to fix your makeup and call on every shred of courage you have.

When he pulls up to the curb, he hops out of the car and opens the door for you, helping you to balance on your heels that don’t entirely cover the bandaids on the back of your ankles. You thank him for the ride as he ushers you into the restaurant.

James waits at the table tucked into a secluded corner at the back of the room, hair parted perfectly, scruff a little longer than before, and dressed in a suit of midnight black. His shirt is a shade lighter, the top three buttons undone and exposing even more chest hair than the last time. You take a deep breath as you approach.

He stands immediately when he spots you, eyes appraising you gently, like his favorite person in the world just showed up.

“Hello,” he says, coming around to hold out your chair for you.

“Hi,” you mumble, blushing as you sit. He holds eye contact as he resettles into his own seat, a small smile on his face.

“You look breathtaking,” he admits, a twinge in his voice that could pass for pained, like the way you look is so devastatingly beautiful, it hurts.

“Thank you. You look very nice, too.”

His smile grows. “I’m glad you could meet me tonight. I have to say I’ve been a bit restless since our talk last night.”

“Oh?” is your dumb response. Your pulse flutters as his smile grows crooked.

“I guess you could say I’m eager to hear your questions.”

“Oh, um…yes. I have a few…”

He gestures to the table. “Do your worst.”

You were prepared for this, but it still makes you feel light-headed as you pull out the small slip of paper from your purse. He watches you carefully as you unfold it, pieces of the ripped edges fluttering to the floor. Maybe you were expecting a bit of small talk, but what’s there to talk about when you hardly know each other? You can appreciate cutting to the chase, even if it makes your mouth dry.

“First, I…I just want to say thank you,” you begin quietly, shyly meeting his gaze. “For listening to me. And for not making it a big deal. It was the first time I’ve told that story that I didn’t feel like a tragedy after, and you made me feel that way.”

His shoulders seem to relax a little, his expression gentle. “You’re welcome.”

“That being said,” you continue shakily, unable to meet his eyes any longer. “I’m wondering what kind of help you want to give, and if there are things I can say no to.”

He nods, his face becoming serious. “Of course. I want to help, not intrude. If there are things you don’t want me to touch, then I won’t. You get the say in that.”

“So, if I say I don’t want any help with my student loans…”

“Then that’s that. I won’t push you about it either.”

You nod, fingering the edge of the paper nervously. The silence stretches.

“Would it be useful to give you a summary of what I will and won’t help with?” he asks, leaning back in his seat. You nod again, motioning for him to continue. He settles into his seat, clearing his throat. “To start, I won’t help with the circumstances of friends or relatives, unless they’re direct dependents of yours, which it doesn’t sound like you have anyway. This arrangement is for us, so it stays between us. And I won’t help with any legal troubles either. If you end up in jail, I won’t pay for bail, I won’t pay fines, and I won’t pay for legal counsel. If you’re charged with anything, this arrangement is void.”

His voice is level, almost monotonous, like he’s said this a few times. You gulp.

“But I will pay for everything else, if you’ll let me,” he remarks, growing softer. “You’ll get my card for the day-to-day things. Groceries, coffee, transit, take out. Anything you do when you’re not at work. I also want to pay for the things you couldn’t do before. Expect appointments booked for the spa, massages, hair, nails — whatever you decide. My assistant will help with that.”

“Okay,” you breathe, feeling just a little dizzy. God, when was the last time you got your nails done?

“I’ll also pay for your rent. Or, if you want to move, I’ll buy you a new place. Apartment. Condo. Brownstone. Up to you. I want you feeling comfortable and safe when you’re not with me.”

Your mouth falls open to protest. Buy a brownstone? For you? The girl he just met? You crumples the paper in a reflex reaction, but he holds up a hand before you can speak.

“You don’t have to, I’m just giving you the option. Remember, you’ll never have to go out of your comfort zone with me.”

He scans your face — you’re sure you’re a shade paler than before.

“Where do you live now?” he asks gently.

“Queens.” He smiles.

“Then I’d at least argue for you to use my driver.”

“Makes sense,” you murmur distractedly.

The server comes over then, placing a whiskey in front of James and asking what you’d like to drink. You order a white wine, cringing when he asks if you have a preferred bottle, but James answers for you, naming a brand you’ve never heard of, his eyes on you the entire time. The waiter returns a minute later with your glass, and you take a greedy sip as soon as it hits the table.

“I also like to give gifts,” James says, picking up where he left off. “That could mean jewelry, bags, cars, vacations—“ you choke on your wine, he politely ignores it. “Whatever I’m feeling that day.”

“Oh, is that all?” you say weakly. He chuckles, genuine and soft.

“It may change, depending on what I think you’d like. And what you tell me you like.”

“I’m picky,” you attempt to joke.

“I like a challenge.”

The air shifts subtly, you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. He crosses his legs effortlessly at the knee, looking every bit composed while you’re pinching yourself to keep from hyperventilating.

“Ideally, you’d quit your job,” he begins slowly. “Not for me, but because you won’t need to work anymore. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you’re in school, and it’s clear you love it. I want you to be comfortable enough to focus on that. Put your time into studying. Not dealing with men like Walker.”

You huff a soft laugh because you aren’t sure what else to say. Quitting your job hadn’t even crossed your mind through all of this, but now that the seed’s been planted, it takes root quickly, despite the voice in your head telling you not to let it.

James must be a mind reader, because he leans forward, making sure you meet his eyes.

“I’d like to spoil you, because I think you deserve it. Not because of what’s happened to you, but because of what you’ve done since it happened,” he says, voice pulling you in with the husky lilt to it. “I think you’ve earned the right to feel taken care of. It can be on your terms, of course, but trust me when I say there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t help with. Including the medical bills and the debt. Including the loans. But I will respect whatever you wish to keep separate from this.”

For a moment, you’re not sure what to say, but you end up on, “Thank you, James. I…I’ll think about it.”

He nods, businesslike. ”What other questions do you have?”

You blink, looking down at your list. “Well, you answered a couple of them, actually…um, I guess my next question is—“ You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. “When you say friendship, what does that…include, exactly?”

He leans back in his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink.

“I meant what I said about being friends,” he offers, “and I meant it in the traditional sense. This isn’t a “friends with benefits” situation. Holding hands, a light hug, or sitting close together are all reasonable to me. But touch isn’t required by you — you’re welcome to do whatever you’re comfortable with, and I won’t withhold anything from you if you aren’t comfortable with it. And I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but I will say I’m hoping to earn that right eventually.”

Something loosens in your chest, an unnamed tension releasing.

“I understand,” you say slowly. “I think those are reasonable, too.” His eyes flicker across your face for a moment. “I appreciate you clarifying that for me. It was on my mind a lot over the last few days.”

“That’s why we’re here,” he answers calmly. “Any more questions?”

“Yes, um. How does this…start?”

The smile returns to James’ face, sweet and relaxed. He waves two fingers in the air, and a server comes hurrying over with an official-looking envelope, setting it before him. James pulls out a small stack of documents and finds a pen in his suit jacket.

“It starts with a couple signatures. These are NDAs stating you won’t talk or publish anything about our time together, and the same goes for me. I’m held to the same principles you are. If I say a word about us to anyone without your permission, you have every right to sue me for all I’m worth. I hope it tells you how serious I am about this.”

It actually says a hell of a lot more than just how serious it is, but he’s already shuffling the papers aside, picking up the one on the bottom.

“This is an agreement on what I’m allowed to pay for. Like the rent — I’ll need to know where to pay to. There’s also a place for your bank account information, in the case of moving large sums of money. I’d like it wired safely and securely.”

You must show signs of panic, because he quickly tucks it away and says, “You don’t have to decide on anything today. You can add whatever you want to this as time goes on.”

Your breathing evens. He taps the pen against the stack of NDAs.

“Anything else?” he asks quietly. Your pinching grows stronger.

“Are you…friends…with anyone else right now? Or is it just me?”

His lips quirk like he was expecting this question. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and holds your gaze steadily.

“Just you. And I can promise that I won’t need any other friends as long as I have you.”

Oh.

“But you’ve…had other friends before. In the past.”

His eyes go blank for a moment. “Yes, I’ve had other friends before. A few.”

“They’re not still your friends, though?” you ask.

“No,” he answers. “There came a point when it was time for them to explore other…friendships. Start different lives. It always ended amicably.”

You hesitate. “So, if one day I decide I want to…stop being friends, that would be okay with you?”

“Of course. I’m here as long as you’ll have me. Or until we both decide it’s time.”

“Okay,” you whisper, meeting his gaze. There’s a roaring sound in your ears, like the ocean on a stormy night, but your hands are surprisingly steady as you reach out your hand toward him. “Okay. Can I borrow your pen?”

James smiles, the biggest smile you’ve seen from him yet. He offers you the pen and the first document, pointing out where to sign and initial. You do so quickly, conscious of your climbing blood pressure, but the adrenaline leaves a sweet aftertaste as you write your name with a flourish. Or maybe it’s him, beaming at you while you sign up for this new chapter of life with him.

Once the documents are signed, he proposes a toast. “To friendships,” he says. You clink your glass to his. “And, by the way, call me Bucky.”

“Bucky?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

“It’s what my friends call me.”

It starts immediately.

The next morning, you’re greeted with a jungle of flowers waiting outside your apartment door. Flowers of all shapes and colors, some tropical, some simple, and all of them make you smile. You’re placing the last of them on the counter when there’s a knock on your door — a dozen freshly-made croissants from the Parisian cafe in Midtown. Impossible to get into, impossible to order out from, yet here’s a box full of their best-selling pastries, still warm from the oven. You indulge in one too many, but it’s worth it.

Throughout the day, Bucky texts you. It’s something he mentioned off-handedly, probably meant to give you a choice, but he likes to talk during the day. A lot. He likes check ins, he likes updates; he wants to hear about anything and everything.

At first, it’s odd having someone to talk to so consistently again — the last person you spoke to like this was your mom.

But Bucky keeps it unforced, easing the conversation along with the right questions and dry comments that actually have you smiling at your phone. When you get to work that night, he wishes you a good shift. No mention of you quitting. You appreciate this so much that you have half a mind to quit anyway.

Not today, you tell yourself. You need to wait to see if Bucky actually puts his money where his mouth is first.

It isn’t long before he does.

Less than a week after you signed the papers, he asks you to join him for dinner on your night off. He makes the reservation early because he knows you have an exam in two days that you’re stressed over, leaving you with the rest of the evening to study. You’re grateful for his mindfulness, but equally grateful for the distraction he’s providing. He’s waiting outside the restaurant when Bob pulls up, offering his hand to help you out of the car.

“You look beautiful,” he states plainly, like only an idiot would argue with him. Your answering smile is wide and uninhibited.

Inside, the two of you are seated at a booth mostly concealed from the other diners. He sits beside you, much like he did that first night, close but with enough space for you to breathe easily. He asks you about your day, he encourages you to try something strange on the menu, he compliments you again and again and again.

Your whole body is flushed from the wine and his attention by the time the desert arrives. You’re licking chocolate syrup off the spoon, regaling a work story involving your meathead manager and another server.

“He just chooses to ignore anything that makes us seem human to him. No emotions allowed. No personal problems allowed. You show up for your shift, you do your job, and that’s it. Leave your life at the door, God help you if you don’t.”

You sigh, your spoon clattering loudly onto the plate. Bucky fidgets with his own spoon, eyes on the corner of your mouth. He shakes his head a little, like he thought better of something, then points to the corner of his own mouth, smiling. You blush, taking the hint, and wipe a dab of chocolate away from your skin. Bucky’s still smiling as he takes another sip of his drink.

“Might be because he lacks his own personal life,” he muses. “People are always going to project what hurts them.”

You consider this. “Now that you say it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take a day off.”

“That can do some fucked up things to a person.”

“Tell me about it,” you whine. “I haven’t taken a day off in months.”

His eyes slide lazily to you, glass held loosely in his hand. He smiles wryly, and you understand what he means before he says a word.

“I know, I know. I just…” You take a breath. “I need to know this is real first. Before I start cutting ties.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Tomorrow’s the first of the month,” he says. “Have you thought more about allowing me to help with your rent?”

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper. He hums, eyes sparkling with something bright and ambiguous.

“And what have you decided?”

“I think…it would be a show of good faith…if you helped me out.”

“Good faith,” he laughs. “Sweetheart, I’ll buy you the moon if it means you’ll believe me when I say I’ll take care of you.”

The next morning, you get the email at 9 a.m. — your rent has been paid, utilities as well. Your stomach had been in knots when you wrote down the information for him, but seeing the confirmation makes you feel like you’re floating.

It only takes you another week until you’re calling your manager and quitting. To celebrate, Bucky rents out the Met for the night, and you explore and observe and admire to your heart’s content as he stands quietly and steadily by your side. He knows an impressive amount about art, surprisingly, but then he starts making things up when a specific piece stumps him, and the rest of the unguided tour is spent inventing made-up artists and their tragic backstories. By the end of the night, you can’t resist anymore. You quickly lean in and wrap your arms around his waist.

It’s clear he’s shocked, that you’ve caught him off guard. But he recovers quickly, mirroring your grip and resting his cheek on top of your head. It’s strange, it’s new, but it’s…comforting.

Quitting your job means a lot more free time, but Bucky is adamant about you dedicating much of that time for school. So to keep a balance between time spent studying and time spent with him, Bucky proposes you come by his office between classes. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes to take a break, sometimes to set up camp on his leather couch, nose to your laptop screen as you research data sets and monitor the market while he quietly works at his desk.

It’s calming and oddly motivating — he’s the perfect person to work next to.

When you’re not studying, Bucky’s supplying you with appointments that fill up your calendar. You have a new contact saved in your phone — Inga, Bucky’s very Dutch, very cheerful assistant — because she calls you at least twice a day, arranging your schedule and finding time you didn’t know existed to fill.

A certain Thursday brings a yoga class from 7:45 to 9, then a massage from 10 to 11:30. After that is lunch with Bucky at his office (take out sushi from a place you’ve only ever dreamed of going to), followed up by a nail appointment from 2 to 3 and a virtual meeting from 3:30 to 4:30 with your old therapist that you had to abandon when money got tight.

Once you get past the catch up, your therapist says you seem a lot better than you were the last time you saw her. Crazy concept, to agree with a therapist, but you actually do.

You’re about a month into the arrangement when Bucky clears his throat at dinner, making you pause while twirling your pasta on your fork. You’ve slowly graduated to sitting closer, and his arm rests on the back of the booth behind you, its presence warm and obvious around your shoulders. You look up at him, waiting.

“I’ve got this thing tomorrow night,” he begins, voice a little on the gruff side. You’re shocked to realize he’s being shy, and poorly hiding it. “It’s a gala. The black tie kind. It’s for charity — Children’s, I think. If you’re up for it, I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

You smile slowly. “I’d love to. Just need something to wear.”

A stack of hundred dollar bills is on the table in seconds. Inga accompanies you the following morning to ten different stores, all designer, all with prices that make you feel faint, but she is quick to shoo you away from the price tags and push you to try on the dresses that make you sigh dreamily. Maybe that’s the reason Bucky wanted her with you.

You pick something bold, something you’d never see yourself in unless you had it on your body. It fits like a glove and reminds you that you’re a woman, not just a cog in the wheel of the working class. You only panic a little when you hand over the entire wad of cash Bucky gave you.

After that, you’re dropped off at the salon, where a facial and a blowout get you glowing like the sun. Bob picks you up and brings you to your apartment where your dress is waiting for you, courtesy of Inga. At 9 o’clock, Bucky’s waiting for you outside. The late September breeze ruffles his hair and swishes your dress as you come face-to-face.

He takes in every inch of you, from your painted toe nails to your shiny hair, and he sighs.

“You look…unbelievable.”

Later, when you’re buried deep into a crowd of people you don’t know, Bucky’s anchoring you to him with a hand on the small of your back, thumb brushing the skin there. He leans in, nose nudging your temple, and whispers, “I’m very lucky to have you here with me.”

Just like that, something inside of you breaks. Not in a sad way, but in a revolutionary way. Like a floodgate’s been cracked open, and what’s been locked inside is beginning to trickle out.

When he pulls back, your eyes linger on him. He flashes a movie star smile for the people that approach, but when he meets your gaze again, he gives you his crooked grin. Meant only for you. His warm hand pulls you closer into his side.

And that’s when it begins, right there at that gala. Your appreciation for Bucky has opened up into something larger, still undefinable, but growing in magnitude.

You find yourself sweating under the lights of the ballroom, not from the heat, but from the unknown shift. It shapes itself a little more when Bucky runs into a colleague and introduces you as his friend. He’s been doing it all night, but this time, it doesn’t feel right. It feels…off. Generalized. Misplaced.

Not that you’d ever tell him. Bucky was clear about your arrangement being a friendship — to question what he calls you would be to question where you stand, and you don’t want to make it seem like you can’t hold up your end of the bargain as his friend.

So you smile through it, focusing on the feel of his hand on your skin, and push it down. For now.

You’re a couple months into the arrangement when Bucky opens his home to you. It’s a penthouse suite hundreds of feet in the sky, offering breathtaking views of the city sprawled below. The apartment is big and modern, with plenty of low lighting and soft colors. You find out right away that he’s messy, which you think is more endearing than it is a nuisance, even if that means throwing sweatshirts and belts and books off the couch just to find a place to sit.

He apologizes constantly, but it never gets better each time you come over. You don’t mind.

With classes gearing up for finals, your time is more limited than before, leaving you with just a few windows of opportunity a week to be with each other. Most of these fall late at night, past 10 p.m., or early in the morning before he leaves for work.

So you start staying over.

It happens accidentally the first time. He picks you up and takes you back to his place for Chinese take out and binge watching trashy reality TV (of which he is a secret super fan), but you end up passing out minutes after he turns the show on.

The next morning, you wake in a soft bed, surrounded by oversized pillows and silk sheets. Bleary eyed, you stumble into the kitchen to find him dressed for work, sipping a coffee at the kitchen island and scrolling on his phone. He sets both of them down when he sees you, standing as you shuffle over.

“Morning,” he says, stretching out a hand to catch your sweatshirt clad waist.

This is par for the course these days — soft, grounding touches that don’t linger for too long, cuddles on the couch that don’t get too pretzel-like, barely-there kisses against the forehead when you say something that makes him smile a little too hard. All friendly, all innocent.

“Did I — did I crash?” you ask, suppressing a yawn. He chuckles, offering you his coffee.

“Didn’t even make it to the elimination. Steve R. went home.”

“Fuck, I liked him.”

“Me too.”

You look up at him, suddenly shy. “I’m sorry. Thanks for carrying me to bed.”

“Only threw out my back for it. No worries.”

You slap away his hand on your waist, but it’s teasing, playful. He withdraws, taking a seat again so you’re eye level with him. A look takes over his face, something caught between serious and hopeful.

“You know, that room can be yours, if you’d like.”

You pause mid sip of coffee. “What?”

“The room. It’s yours. For when you want to crash. Or just don’t want to go home.”

“Really.” It’s not a question.

“Really,” he repeats. “Don’t ever feel like you have to stay, I’ll take you home any time of night. But if you do want to stay, it’s there for you.”

“That’s…really sweet of you.”

He smiles a little. “Not too much?” You shake your head. “Good. ‘Cause I like knowing you’re close. Think I slept better. And I like waking up with you here.”

The feeling from the gala returns with renewed force. It almost drowns you, leaving you reeling in its tidal wave of emotion. It defines itself a little more as you picture sharing mornings with him, pouring travel mugs of coffee and shoving pieces of toast in his mouth as he races out the door.

But he’s watching you closely, expecting an answer, so you beat the feelings down until you’re numb. Sending him a smile over the mug, you say, “Okay.”

And that’s that.

The first time you sleep over intentionally, Bucky’s not in a great mood. Which is a rare occasion in and of itself. You know he’s only human, but you’ve barely seen him annoyed, let alone upset.

He makes an effort to hide it from you, greeting you with a soft kiss to the top of your head when you step out of the private elevator that opens to his floor. He all but forces you to relax on the couch while he cooks dinner, so you do, cracking open your textbook and stretching out lazily while he cooks. But even from the living room, you can feel the negative energy radiating from him.

He throws pans into the sink with a little too much force. He answers a call with a sharp bark of “what now?” He mutters to himself like a cranky old man.

His face is drawn and stony when he hands you a plate and joins you on the couch — pasta with red sauce, simple, and a family recipe, he claims. But the way he eats it, you’d think he hates it.

“Bucky,” you say after watching him stab his food with homicidal intent. He grunts. “Bucky,” you try again.

“What?” he snaps, sneering. Immediately, his eyes go round with guilt before you even have the chance to react. “Oh, God — I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—“ He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply; when he opens his eyes again, his expression is calmer, more open. “Jesus. You didn’t deserve that. Forgive me.”

“Always,” you say like it’s second nature. “What’s going on?”

He sighs, setting down his plate. “Work,” he mutters, “is killing me. Someone fucked up a deal with a really, really important client. They aren’t happy, so I had to step in to clean up the mess. But now they’re playing hard to get, so all day I had to suck their dicks and call them pretty just to get a reply.”

You giggle. He tilts his head at you.

“You think that’s funny?”

“A little. But I can’t imagine anyone not getting on their knees for you immediately.”

Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, something darker that doesn’t fit the conversation topic. It’s quick, brief, but you see it. He smiles before you can think twice about it.

“Not these guys. They like to test me. And I don’t like being tested.”

“I can tell,” you comment. “Want me to help?”

He side-eyes you. “How?”

“You can take all your anger out by…rubbing my feet?” Your smile is saccharine as you slide your legs into his lap. He laughs, one loud sound, but takes your left foot in his hands anyway.

“How sweet of you,” he coos. “How’d you know this is exactly what I needed?”

His mood improves for the most part, although his phone buzzes a few times and sets his jaw ticking. But whether it’s to keep him sane or to keep the easy vibe of the night going, he ignores it. Reality TV is watched, cookies are eaten (he has five), and you’re feeling satisfied for having turned his night around just as you start to yawn.

He notices it immediately.

“Alright, doll. You’re tired. I’m taking you home.”

“I might stay here tonight, if that’s okay with you.”

He freezes as he reaches for his keys. Slowly, his arm lowers, and there’s a slightly dazed look in his eye.

“Sure, yeah. Whatever you want,” he breathes.

He sets you up with a tooth brush and towels, an old shirt of his and boxers. While you’re brushing your teeth, you wander over to his bathroom and find him doing the same. You stand beside him, laughing through the toothpaste as he gets his all over his mouth and chin. Unintentionally, though he’ll deny it.

He walks you to your room like he’s dropping you off at the end of date. You try not to think too much about that.

“Sleep tight,” he says softly, leaning against the doorway, smiling at the too-big shirt and boxers. You smile back, sleepy and content.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He’s gone before you wake up the next morning, but the note on the counter thanks you for being there with him last night. It makes your heart flutter much too fast for having just started your day.

When you get back to your own apartment, your phone alerts you to a new email. The name on it makes your stomach sink: the debt collectors. They’ve been quiet for a while since you’ve been able to offer them bigger scraps of money, so what do they want now?

Thank you for your payment. Your bills have been reconciled and your current balance is at $0.00.

The room tilts. Your breathing stops. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills, gone overnight.

Bucky.

It was only a week ago that you had shyly asked to amend the document on what he could help pay for. You weren’t even sure that he looked at it yet.

Well, now you know he has. And in one fell swoop, he banned the debt collectors from ever bothering you again. Your mind can hardly wrap around it, can hardly wrap around Bucky, and his generosity, and his promises, and his follow through. All of it is a murky, muddy emotional mess inside of you. For the first time in months, you break down and cry.

Later that night, when the tears have finally dried and you’re sitting next to him at your favorite little Italian spot, you place a hand over his and just squeeze. You meant to say words, but they’ve disappeared on you.

But Bucky doesn’t need the words. He knows everything that you’re saying with the simple touch. He squeezes back, smile soft, posture relaxed as he nudges your shoulder with his.

The floodgate inside of you swings open wider.

sammy speaks again: wowowowowow ok that’s a wrap on part one. part two coming almost immediately! I tried to fit it all into one but tumblr doesn’t like 30k word posts I guess :/ don’t forget to let me know what you think, I appreciate all of you for making it this far 🤍

“I can already smell the weed from here. It’s only eleven, for fuck’s sake.” Sarah grimaces as she gets out of the driver’s seat of her Nissan Versa. 

“It’s a college party, were you expecting tea and cookies?” Nicole sighs, bent over as she reties the straps of her shoes for the umpteenth time. 

The huge mansion sits among the bare trees like a sore thumb. Strings of fake cobwebs dangle from the balconies in tangled clumps, lazily swaying in the cold October breeze. The projectors wash the building in a ghostly glow and pumpkins with bizarre carved faces line the porch, their flickering candles warping the jagged smiles into something unsettling.

The front steps are already crowded with masked people smoking, drinking and laughing too loudly. Sarah snorts out loud as one of the few latecomers nearly trips over a fake gravestone planted in the lawn beside a massive steaming cauldron that reeks faintly of dry ice.

“At least this year Ethan and his minions put some effort into decorating. Do you remember last Halloween?” Nicole turns towards the house with Sarah beside her, but then glances back to find you still standing by the car window, adjusting the corset of your costume.

“Jesus,” Sarah huffs exasperated, planting a hand on her hip. “Stop fussing, you look good!” 

“Just a sec…” You mumble absently, turning sideways to check your back.

This year, the three of you agreed to not pick a group costume. Last Halloween had been a disaster from start to finish, mainly because Nicole wanted to go as Cher, Tai and Dionne from Clueless, while you suggested Sam, Clover and Alex from Totally Spies. Sarah was too busy with her now ex-boyfriend to care either way, and a few days before the party she ditched both of you to dress up as Princess Peach and Super Mario with him. 

Naturally, you and Nicole still managed to clash over something as simple as matching outfits: she pushed for Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, but you barely knew who they were, so you argued for Daphne and Velma instead. Long story short, neither of you had time to buy decent costumes and ended up throwing together the easiest thing possible: a devil and an angel.

Just like at least thirty other girls at the party. 

That same night, Sarah caught her dear Super Mario kissing Princess Daisy—her cousin—in one of the upstairs bathrooms of this exact mansion, and from that moment on, she swore off group costumes forever.

One year later, in front of the Nissan, a Kim Possible looks pretty much done with life, while a Cher from Clueless sits on the curb smoking her first cigarette of the night. And you, a bunny in a very revealing outfit, tap your lips to even out the glittery gloss.

You thought the ears were a little too big when you bought them, but now, paired with the sheer corset and the short skirt, they look perfect.

“Okay,” you tug the skirt down out of instinct, though the snug fabric barely moves against your thighs. “I’m ready!”

“Fucking finally.” Nicole mumbles, lifting herself from the sidewalk with a groan.

“Hey—” 

Sarah’s warning comes too late. Your body is already colliding with something solid, hard as steel. A startled yelp escapes you as a large hand instantly clamps around your bare arm to keep you from stumbling backward. You realize your eyes have squeezed shut reflexively only when they flutter open at once, landing directly on a broad chest covered by what looks like a black tactical vest. Your gaze slowly drifts up, along a strong neck, until it catches on a pair of blue eyes staring down at you. The lower half of the stranger’s face is hidden behind a black mask, yet you are instantly fascinated.

“Oh, hi!” You beam, tilting your head slightly, fully aware of how much guys usually love it when you do that.

The bulky stranger simply looks at you, expression barely changing. There’s a faint furrow between his brows that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s assessing you or debating scolding you for nearly knocking yourself flat against him.

A beat of silence passes between you, in which you let your curious eyes roam shamelessly on his face, before dropping to his impossibly large shoulders. Heat tingles low in your stomach, before a hint of embarrassment curls through you at how obvious you must look beneath his unwavering stare.

Someone clears their throat behind you, but you can’t look away. You don’t want to.

“Honey, let the gentleman go, c’mon.” Sarah grabs your wrist while wrapping her other arm around your waist to gently steer you away.

The long fingers around your forearm jump back as if your skin burned him.

“Nice costume, man. Looks expensive.” Nicole nods at the strange guy, still standing rigidly in the same spot. Only his eyes move, tracking you carefully as your friends lead you toward the entrance at an unhurried pace.

Something about him feels off and Sarah has no interest in provoking some potentially dangerous individual. After all, nights like these are full of creeps looking to take advantage of crowded parties and drunk girls.

Still, you glance back twice.

Each time, you catch him still looking at you.

Before fully crossing the threshold and navigating the sea of intoxicated students, your head turns one last time. The stranger is now facing the house with his shoulders squared beneath his dark clothes, and a stupid little thrill runs through your veins at the thought that maybe he might be here for the party as well.

Years without being touched by anything except harsh hands and cold medical equipment, and what unravels the Winter Soldier is a sweet-looking girl wearing bunny ears and clothes so tight he could almost trace the shape of her nipples. 

He can’t remember the last time he felt such a delicate thing brush against him.

Because you are soft. Too soft. Too pretty. He could snap your bones with one twist of his wrist, yet you looked at him like you wanted to be swallowed whole.

His heartbeat has not slowed down since the moment his hand closed around your arm. And as much as he wanted to glare at your friend the moment she took you away from him, he had taken the chance to study your body properly: from the luscious curve of your hips straining against that pathetic excuse for a skirt, to the way your tits threatened to spill from the indecent corset that looked almost painted onto your torso. The fishnet stockings bit into your flesh with every step you took, the tiny bows stitched along the hems probably meant to make the costume cute, but to the Soldier, they only made it filthier.

But the thing that truly made him swallow thickly was the puffy, white cotton tail sewn to the back of your skirt, right at the top of your ass.

Fake.

Such a shame.

He could picture it so clearly: grabbing it between his fingers and tugging until you made that sweet little sound again for him.

It makes his jaw clench beneath the mask.

With a sharp shake of his head, the Soldier forces the intrusive thoughts away.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Nobody was.

The orders had been clear: break in, eliminate everyone inside, then wait at the nearest safe house for extraction. 

No witnesses.

The target is a former HYDRA scientist who’d escaped over a decade ago. He’d covered his tracks well, moving states almost yearly, changing names often enough to become little more than smoke in old files. The Soldier vaguely wonders if the man had worked on the Winter Soldier project at some point, even if there would be no way to know. The face in the mission folder had looked painfully ordinary. Like all the others.

The wife and son were to be eliminated too, if present.

HYDRA had enforced the no witness rule brutally during his earlier missions. Back when he still hesitated. Back when stray civilians had managed to survive because he’d been too uncertain.

He can almost feel the scars across his back throb faintly at the memory—a lesson carved into flesh.

However, this situation is entirely new for the Asset.

For starters, the black SUV belonging to the scientist is missing from its usual spot in the driveway. And considering the mansion now resembles a nightclub overflowing with sweaty college students in cheap costumes, the target is clearly elsewhere.

He can’t proceed with the mission.

HYDRA hasn’t contacted him with further instructions either, which means he’s expected to wait at the designated safe house until retrieval. That could mean tomorrow. Or next week.

The Soldier looks back at the house spilling laughter and obnoxious music into the cold night air, then glances down at his gloved hand, slowly flexing his fingers.

Your warmth still seems trapped against his palm.

With a quiet exhale, barely audible beneath the pounding bass, he starts walking toward the door.

Inside, it’s pure chaos.

The bass from the speakers had already been rattling the lawn outside, but in here it practically punches through your rib cage. You roll your eyes at the umpteenth awful EDM remix of some new pop song you don’t even know the lyrics to. Personally, you’d rather dance to early 2000s hits—preferably ones not butchered by a DJ with a SoundCloud account and too much confidence.

People spill through every hallway of the mansion. The improvised dance floor is packed shoulder to shoulder with students clumsily grinding against each other beneath flashing purple lights, while smaller groups cling to the walls, shouting over the music with red cups clenched in their hands.

The smell hits the second you step inside: a mix of cheap perfume, spilled beer soaked into hardwood floors, and sweat that makes your nose wrinkle—all layered beneath the sickeningly sweet scent of vape smoke. Laughter ricochets off the high ceilings, blending with shrill screams every time the DJ blasts the fog machine over the crowd.

A staggering vampire bumps hard into your shoulder, nearly sending you wobbling off your pumps, but Sarah promptly catches your elbow before you can stumble. She immediately sends his back a glare, before shooting a look of utter disgust toward a group of visibly wasted frat boys gathered around the kitchen island.

“I hate college.” She gags dramatically, scowling as they loudly dare each other to shotgun whatever neon-colored concoction the host is pouring into their plastic cups.  

You grin at her because, honestly, Sarah would rather be home wrapped in a blanket watching some obscure slasher movie marathon. But after the stunt she pulled last Halloween, you and Nicole practically dragged her here by force. Ever since her cheating ex, she’d shut men out entirely, and a small part of you hopes tonight might finally loosen her up enough to flirt with some attractive masked stranger for a few hours.

Your attention drifts toward the windows lining the far wall. Beyond the glass, the quiet street stretches through the chilly night, washed in pale streetlights.

The strange man is nowhere to be seen.

Almost immediately, your eyes flick toward the front door, scanning person after person as they wander in and out. Vampires. Cheerleaders. Devils. Witches. Cowboys.

No sign of the hot, tall man in black tactical gear.

Disappointment settles strangely heavy in your chest. With a small, dejected sigh, you turn back toward your friends, who are currently debating whether it’s worth risking the kitchen—where there’s at least a seventy percent chance of walking in on some couple making out—for drinks, or staying in the living room to dance instead.

Adjusting your bunny ears with a small smile, you vote for alcohol.

“Hey, Nic!”

All three of you turn at the sound of a familiar voice.

Jacob, captain of the basketball team, jogs toward your group, stopping directly in front of Nicole with an easy grin plastered across his face.

“Hey, girls. Nice costumes.” He grins, wiggling his fingers at you and Sarah in greeting. She gives him a flat nod in return.

“Hi, Jacob! You too!” You smile politely, before leaning closer to your friend. “Is that a... basketball uniform?” You mumble into her ear.

“Of course.” She raises both eyebrows, pressing her lips together as she fights a chuckle at the sight of your college team’s uniform.

Jacob isn’t a bad guy. Just a little painfully self-absorbed. And maybe slightly too obsessed with basketball—to the point where being team captain has somehow become his entire personality. Nicole went on one date with him last semester and came back with a migraine after listening to him talk about playoff rankings for nearly two hours straight.

She’d tried letting him down gently afterward, but he insisted on staying friends. Now he trails after her like an overgrown golden retriever.

“Which player did he dress up as?” You ask quietly.

Sarah’s face goes completely blank. She stares at you for a full second, mouth opening and closing once before she gives up entirely and decides eavesdropping on their conversation is more worthwhile.

“I need a teammate for beer pong,” he mentions offhandedly, pointing toward the long folding table at the far end of the living room, where rows of red cups are already set up beneath flashing lights.

Nicole grimaces slightly. “I don’t know. Maybe later? I’m with my friends right now.”

“Don’t worry about us, Nic.” You interrupt immediately, grabbing Sarah’s arm before she can object. “We’re getting drinks, then we’ll come find you, right?”

Sarah smirks at Jacob’s instantly hopeful expression and nods once.

“See?” He spreads his arms dramatically. “C’mon, we’re gonna crush them. Don’t you remember? You’ve got a winning streak to defend.”

Nicole laughs—a sharp, bright sound that somehow cuts through the pounding music.

“Okay, fine.” She sighs, sending you a half-smile.

As she steps beside him, someone near the table suddenly shouts her name. Then another voice joins in. Within seconds, half the group is chanting Nicole! loud enough to rival a halftime show.

Throwing her arms into the air, she pumps her fists along with the cheers like she’s entering a stadium instead of a living room.

Sarah shakes her head before nudging you toward the kitchen. “C’mon, Lola Bunny. Let’s get a drink.”

If his handlers found out about this, he isn’t sure he would get away with something as mild as hair pulling and a few lashes on his back.

“Cool outfit, dude!”

A guy dressed up as a banana—only his face visible through the costume—shouts after him. The Soldier glances at him briefly, expression unreadable, before continuing to run a silent scan of the room, re-evaluating the night’s target. His enhanced senses catch everything at once, unfortunately: from the humid press of bodies, to the sour-sweet spill of rum beside the DJ booth. Sweat and perfume and alcohol mingle into something thick and suffocating.

“Shit, man. That’s a nice costume you got there.” Someone slurs behind him. “Looks like real metal—” Before the hand can even reach his wrist, instincts detonate and his fingers clutch the guy’s forearm.

Hard.

“Ow ow ow—sorry sorry! Y—You’re crushing my bones, dude!”

The man wearing a cheap Jack Sparrow costume goes pale beneath the eyeliner, features twisting in pain as the Asset looms over him, a silent threat carved into posture alone.

At some point, he registers a small cluster of students turning towards them, whispering with curiosity blooming into something sharper.

Exhaling, the Soldier ultimately decides to release his grip. The pirate stumbles back into his friend, who immediately starts scolding him about consent and personal space.

Satisfied with the clear warning, the Soldier turns around, moving again through the crowd.

He raises an eyebrow, scanning the sea of people with his keen eyes. Finally, he catches a familiar pair of bunny ears excitedly turning left and right.

He walks to a dark corner of the living room with deliberate ease, folding his arms across his chest and leisurely resting back against the wall.

And he waits.

Nicole’s yellow and navy-blue plaid jacket is neatly draped across Sarah’s arm as she rolls up the sleeves of her shirt, a cocky grin spreading across her face. 

“Watch and learn, losers.” She snaps, reaching for a ping-pong ball.

From the sidelines, Sarah offers a shout of encouragement, her voice already a little hoarse from all the previous screaming as Nicole sank those balls one right after the other in the rival team’s cups with brutal consistency. You lean into her slightly, eyes tracking the table from one end to the other as a red cup still full of peach vodka sits loosely in your hand, mostly forgotten as you watch the game unfold.

Nicole lines up her shot with practiced ease, wrist flicking at just the right angle. The ball arcs, drops, and sinks cleanly into the last cup with a satisfying splash.

The crowd erupts, chants of her name break out from multiple directions as you and Sarah cheer, briefly pulling Nicole into a tight, celebratory hug. Jacob throws himself at her, and she shrieks as his muscled arms lift her body from the ground, parading your friend around like he would do with the player scoring at the last minute of an important game. Nicole blows a kiss at the losing team, and once her feet touch the floor again, she bows before the intoxicated crowd surrounding the table. 

You dart forward to hug her again, while Sarah claps behind you, still laughing. 

“God, you were amazing. That was a really Tour de France!” You beam excitedly, but Nicole just stares at you deadpan for a second, before bursting out laughing, too tipsy to deal with your clueless ass.

“Thank you, bunny.”

“Also, Jacob is still very much smitten with you.” Your eyebrows wriggle up and down and Nicole is already sighing half-amused, lips parting to say something, but Sarah’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Her expression tightens, focus snapping in place as she leans closer to you and Nicole, lowering her voice.

“Tactical guy is here.”

“Who?”

“The weird guy you bumped into outside. Black gear and blue eyes. Tactical guy.” She explains as if her choice of the nickname should be obvious.

He’s easy to spot because he doesn’t belong here—not in movement, not in stillness, not in anything about the way he stands. He towers above the crowd in matte black, posture too controlled and a judging frown permanently etched on his features.

The people around him are too inebriated to notice him, yet he doesn’t even spare a mere glance to anyone who isn’t you, not even the girl in a lingerie-level costume strutting up and down the room, hoping to catch the attention of his icy eyes. 

She doesn’t know he’s busy admiring a much better view that is making his pants tighter and tighter the more he studies it.

“Holy shit,” Nicole gasps. “He’s staring at you.”

Your stomach does a weird flip at her confirmation. At least you aren’t imagining it. 

“Yeah, and it’s creepy as hell. He hasn’t blinked once in the past five minutes.” Sarah frowns, goosebumps running up and down her arms. Nicole just smirks, eyes flicking between him and your parted lips. 

“Go talk to him!”

“What? No way!” Sarah retorts, her head snapping towards the other. “He looks like he eats people like her for breakfast.”

“Duh, that’s exactly her type!” Nicole chuckles, nudging you forward as she gently takes the cup of vodka from your hand. “C’mon, put on that pretty smile of yours and he’ll be asking you to go upstairs before the next song starts.”

Across the room, his steady gaze still hasn’t moved.

Sarah grabs your right arm again. “Seriously, something’s off about him.”

“Boring!” Nicole says in a singsong voice, rolling her eyes to the sky. “We’re literally right here if anything happens.” She touches your left elbow, subtly pushing you forward.

If this were a cartoon, they’d be the angel and devil arguing over your shoulders.

You grin as usual, even if your heart is pounding so fast you are sure it’s going to come out of your chest any moment now.

With a small nod, you leave your two bickering friends behind and slowly make your way through the bodies swaying to the beat of Candy Shop. Your heels click against the sticky floor, until they stop short in front of the brooding man. 

“Hey.” You smile, shouting over the music. “You look kinda lonely. It’s okay if you don’t know anyone, first parties are totally the worst. At my first college party, I ended up throwing up on my crush’s shoes after kissing him.” He doesn’t answer, but a deep line forms between his eyebrows.

“You’re very quiet, but that’s fine. My friend Sarah says I talk enough for two people. Or a whole group, depends on how much caffeine I’ve had.” You shrug.

Still nothing. 

“So, um… what’s your name?” You tilt your head, this time expecting at least a reluctant answer, but the guy just keeps staring down at you with an unreadable expression.

“You’re the silent type, hm?” You muse, your amused chuckle soft. “That’s okay. You’re like those spy movie protagonists who never smile until the very end, and then make everyone swoon the second they do.”

He blinks once. Slowly. Maybe a little confused?

“Anyway,” your manicured fingers adjust your bunny headband as you introduce yourself. “I don’t know if you remember but I actually ran into you earlier outside. Sorry again about that. I’m a little clumsy.” You clear your throat, taking a step forward.

“You really are a good listener, by the way!” You sigh dreamily. “Most guys just check their phones halfway through our conversation.”

“So,” You lean closer, slightly standing on the tip of your toes. “Do you want to dance? You look like you need to loosen up a little.” Your eyes immediately fall down to his torso, following the sculpted muscles hidden under those heavy clothes. It’s honestly a miracle slick doesn’t start running down your thighs the moment you realize he could literally pin you to the ground and have his wicked way with you right here in the middle of the party.

Well, you spoke too fast. 

The flimsy pair of panties you chose tonight to avoid the outline to be seen through the fit skirt, is getting damper. The thought of this beefy man fucking you until you pass out tickles the back of your brain for a second too long, and suddenly your thighs are clenching against each other in a way you are certain went unnoticed.

It didn’t. But you couldn’t know that the man in front of you is an enhanced individual who could probably track you from a single sniff of your pussy.

The pungent scent of something inherently you teases his nostrils even through the thick black mask. Yet he hesitates, as though he’s trying to determine whether ignoring you would make this conversation end faster. The problem is, he isn’t entirely sure he wants it to end. On one hand, he doubts he can keep himself together much longer if you continue speaking to him in that sweet voice, especially while standing this close to his starved body.

On the other… he doesn’t want to leave you.

But then you slip your hand into his left one, and his body stiffens.

“Wow, your hands are freezing!” You mention casually, squeezing his palm once. It’s indeed cold and weirdly smooth. Before his brain can fully process the alarming ease with which you’ve intertwined your fingers with the most dangerous weapon he possesses, you are unknowingly leading the fucking Winter Soldier straight onto a dance floor packed with sweaty college students—him silent and tense behind you, you practically glowing with excitement.

Yet, he doesn’t dare to stop you. 

Why would he do that? A gorgeous girl with soft hands and even softer eyes has been watching him like he embodies all her prohibited wet fantasies. He would be a cruel bastard to deny this pretty thing anything.

The dance floor is a chaos of flashing lights and flailing arms that makes the Soldier’s breath hitch, but you don’t give up, and lead him right into the middle of it. 

“Okay!” You yell over the music—far too close—and raise a finger. “Rule number one: just move! Don’t think too much about it or you’ll get self-conscious. I’m talking from experience.” Then raise a second one. “Rule number two: have fun!”

He just stands there—stiff as a marble statue—blue eyes darting back and forth, as if he can’t decide whether to scan the crowd like he’s on guard duty or watch the angel swaying her sinful hips right in front of him.

“See? It’s easy! Just let the music guide you.”

You smile anyway at his lack of response, peering up at him through your eyelashes. “You know, you look so cool. You’ve got this very brooding bodyguard vibe going on, like I’m some rich, dangerous man’s daughter and you’re protecting me from his enemies trying to harm me.”

Another confused blink. 

“Maybe I read too many fanfics.” You ponder under your breath, before you reprise your little tantalizing moves, giggling as your fingers barely wrap around both of his wrists to coax him to move with you.

Somewhere at the edge of the improvised dance floor, Nicole is whooping, bouncing on her feet like an overexcited puppy as she takes a sip of your drink. Beside her, Sarah observes the scene appalled.

“Shit.” She mutters, tiredly dragging a hand down her face.

“I like your company. You don’t talk much, but that’s okay. Also, you’re kind of scary—but like, in a cute way.” You chuckle, twirling once and nearly bumping into him again.

That’s when it happens.

A slow, careful shift of his shoulders, but it still is something. His movements are stiff, precise, like his body is negotiating with itself about whether it’s allowed to respond at all. But it’s enough to make you smile satisfied.

The heavy bass pulses hard through your bones, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget he isn’t even really dancing, yet his presence feels like gravity: solid, unshakable, dragging attention toward him without trying.

You turn once again, this time giving him your back. His hand accidentally brushes your hip, causing you to shiver at the faintest twitch of his fingers. They jump back at his side, flexing once like he’s fighting the urge to touch you.

You tilt your head up at him, eyelashes lowered just enough to make it feel deliberate. “Are you having fun, big guy?”

You don’t expect an answer, obviously, but the way his gaze sharpens, intensely following the movement of your lips, is enough for you. It’s not unsettling. On the contrary, it feels… focused. And you already love being the centre of his undivided attention. 

The music slows into a deeper beat, couples around you melting closer together, so you get bolder. Initially it’s your back simply brushing against his chest. And then, you unexpectedly find yourself gasping as his right arm circles your waist, keeping you firmly to his front. His jaw locks as you rub yourself against his solid body, your ass inevitably grinding against his bulge. For a second, you really think he might actually say something. Instead, his chest moves behind you with a slow exhale.

“You are so beautiful.” He murmurs against your neck, almost too quiet to hear. As a matter of fact, you don’t catch that, the words being swallowed by the loud song and the thick mask.

“Not so bad, right?” You bite your bottom lip, turning your face back enough to glance at him.

But your lips accidentally brush his mask and the last thread keeping his brain anchored to sanity rips in half.

“Oh!” A loud squeal erupts from your lips as the man spins you around and takes you into his arms. Suddenly, the world is hanging upside down.

Well, no. You are.

He throws your squirming body on his shoulder with an ease that should scare you, yet your stomach twists in excitement as you are kept completely still into his strong arms. You can feel several eyes burn through you as he struts towards the front door, an abrupt gust of cold wind sending a shiver down your spine as you realize he’s taking you somewhere outside.

“Oh my Gosh!” You giggle, feeling the urge to kick your legs like a teenage girl gushing about her crush. 

He’s taking you to the woods. This is really happening!

Inside, Nicole freezes mid-sip. “What the—is he taking her away?”

“I told you! Fuck, Nicole! I told you!” Sarah shrieks, running to the door with her friend in tow. They both stop on the porch, eyes frantically searching into the darkness, until they see you waving at them from his shoulder, grinning ear to ear. 

“Don’t wait up!” Nicole bursts out laughing, astonished.

“Holy shit, look at her, she’s loving it!”

Sarah groans in response, pressing a hand to her forehead, her chest heaving with quick, short breaths. “She’s giggling. She’s actually giggling. Why is she giggling?”

Nicole simply shrugs. “If a quiet, huge masked man with those gorgeous eyes picked me up like that to fuck me in the woods, I’d giggle too.”

They observe in silence as you get smaller and smaller, until you completely disappear amongst the dense trees. Nicole sighs, placing her hands on her hips.

“Well, you heard her, don’t need to wait up.” She claps once, skipping down the front steps.

“Where the fuck are you going? Of course we’re gonna wait for her to come back.” Nicole stops at the bottom of the stoop, throwing Sarah a deadpan look.

“You really think she’s coming back here? They will probably go at it like bunnies—pun not intended—all night, and then he’s going to take her home tomorrow morning.” She climbs two steps, grasping her friend’s wrist. “Like any adult having fun on Halloween.” She tugs at it, until Sarah reluctantly complies, hesitatingly following her to the Nissan.

“I don’t know, Nic. There’s something wrong about him—” 

“So what if the guy is quiet? Maybe he just wants to stay in character.” She huffs, raising both her eyebrows expectantly. 

“Mmh... that makes sense.” Sarah mutters, frowning at the trees. “Where are we going, by the way?”

“Home. And we are watching the new The Conjuring. You look miserable here.”

“Well thanks, you asshole.”

“You still haven’t told me your name.” You breathe out, yet to be released. After a few seconds of silence, you huff out a laugh. “You really don’t talk much, do you? By the way, that exit was so dramatic. I loved it!” He grunts in reply, shaking his head. It’s a deep sound that makes your legs shake a little, and you hope you’ll hear it again when he pounds you against a tree.

The walk feels endless as you dangle upside down, forced to watch the ground without anyone to talk to. Finally, he stops in a rather secluded place, and from the looks of it, you must be quite far from Ethan’s house.

Good. You don’t need some wandering drunk couple ruining your night.

As soon as your heels touch the crouching leaves scattered on the damp land, you shriek in surprise, finding yourself pinned to a tree as the man’s hands eagerly explore the sides of your body.

“O—oh! That—that feels nice.” You gasp when his palms squeeze your tits, his thumbs roughly stroking your nipples. The Asset’s eyes don’t know where to focus, torn between your hazy eyes staring up at him pleadingly and the outline of your turgid nubs pressing insistently against the fabric of your top.

“I need to kiss you.” He mumbles, the tip of your nose brushing against his mask. The hoarseness in his voice makes you flinch. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in a while... A long while.

“I don’t understand you.” You complain, clinging onto his vest to keep him close. He sighs, abruptly leaving your chest to cradle your face with a certain rudeness that twists your insides with arousal.

“Kiss. But you close… eyes…” He utters tentatively, staring right into your sparkling eyes. “Don’t look.” 

The implications of seeing his face are several and dire. First and foremost, he doesn’t even remember the last time he saw his reflection, and his heart wouldn’t bear a potential rejection. What HYDRA forces him to do is repulsive, but of course you don’t know who he is—and you don’t need to. His face could reflect that repulsiveness though, and be in the worst conditions known to mankind. At that point, why would someone as lovely as you allow him to taint your body with his touch? 

Plus, recognizing him would mean putting a target as large as a skyscraper on your back. If anyone were to ever find out about this, you would be in serious danger with both legal and illegal organizations. 

The less you know, the better.

Your eager nod momentarily sets his worries, your hands immediately shooting up to cover your face. The Soldier’s mouth twists into what should be a small smile, but probably looks more like a grimace after years of his features knowing only pain and anger. His trembling fingers reach for the side of the mask, stopping there briefly to take you in. He waits, just enough to make sure you are actually following his order. Then, the device is tossed to the side with an uncaring flick of his hand, falling on the ground with a dull thud.

His fingers shake as they wrap around each of your wrists, waiting. 

“Kiss, but… don’t look.” He repeats, his voice coming out in a rough, agitated whisper.

“My eyes are closed.” You swear, giving him a resolute nod. The Soldier lowers your hands with great care, until he can see your pinched expression as you keep your eyes squeezed shut. 

And then, your lips finally meet. From the way he was treating you a second ago, you would think he was going to kiss you just as softly, like a doll made of glass.

Wrong.

The kiss is feral. His teeth clash against yours, biting and tasting you as if he has been waiting for you his whole life, his tongue frantically searching yours as his hands keep your jaw firmly open, allowing him to do whatever he wants with you. 

And you can’t help a needy whimper from clawing out of your throat.

The Soldier pulls you closer to his chest, his metal arm now wrapping around your waist as the other hand traces a slow path down your body, from the side of your breast to your exposed thigh, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. 

He knows he just crossed an inviolable line he won’t easily come back from. He was ruined the moment he decided to look for you inside that chaotic mansion instead of following HYDRA’s orders. Yet, that stinging guilt rapidly crumbles the more he kisses this sweet creature.

He has yearned for something warm for so long. Something soft, and pretty, and nice. Something that is completely and utterly his. And now, it is time to finally collect what he is owed.

The sloppy kiss is met with eagerness from your part, your hands urgently tugging at his vest to keep him pressed against your squirming form. You need more. You need to feel him too. 

He reaches for the corset first, pulling both cups down until your breasts spill free from their confines. Once his lips leave yours to focus on your neck, you let out a gasp at how dizzy you feel—your head has been spinning all along because of the intensity radiating off him.

Your moans are still pretty restrained, and the Asset doesn’t like that at all. He wants to hear you whimper for him, beg him to paint your insides white, scream his name over and over again in that sweet voice of yours.

His name. 

He doesn’t own a name.

Maybe you could give him one. You sound like a creative girl, with all your silly little anecdotes.

When his mouth finally reaches the swell of your chest, the sight of your soft, bare tits makes him grunt appreciatively. His lips immediately latch onto one of your nipples, while his capable fingers flick and tug at the other. Your whimpers echo through the small clearing as he uses his teeth to lightly pull at your sensitive nub, moaning as he feels it hardening in his mouth. The way he kneads and sucks at your soft skin reminds you of a starving man being offered food after a week without eating.

The Soldier has never seen a more beautiful pair of breasts in his entire life. Well, he doesn’t remember ever looking at a woman’s chest before, but if he did, he is sure it wouldn’t even get close to yours. 

The hickeys that now mark the tender skin of your tits are burning, causing you to flinch each time the Soldier’s tongue worships them softly. 

“What—oh shit—what’s your name?” You utter between your own wanton noises, eyes still closed as your head falls back against the bark of the tree. Your bare back keeps brushing against it as your body jerks in time with his tongue stroking your nipples. They are so sore, tingling whenever he leaves one exposed to the chilly October air to give the other some love. Still, the scratches on your back are already burning as the coarse surface cruelly scrapes your skin, and you’re certain they are going to hurt so bad in the following days.

The Asset momentarily leaves your nub with a wet pop, frowning up at your parted lips. He grips your jaw with one hand, keeping your mouth open while rising to his full height. He gathers a bit of saliva, before letting it fall gently onto your tongue. Your breath hitches at the unexpected, lewd act.

“Swallow.” His cock twitches at the way you obey at once.

“Soldat.” His voice is authoritative, leaving no space for questions and doubts, before going back to lavish your nipples. Your eyebrows momentarily knit in confusion, not understanding what it means.

Is it a video game character? Is that why he’s all geared up like some sort of spy?

Your brain doesn’t have the time to elaborate a sensible question, as a twist of your poor, abused peaks draws a loud cry out of your throat. 

The scent coming from between your legs is now too much for his straining cock. He needs to taste all of you: your mouth is sweet, your breasts are sweet... but the Soldier is certain your pussy is even sweeter.

With an annoyed huff at the realization he has to leave your tits, he makes quick work of removing his tactical vest, tossing it on the ground. You squeal as you are once again lifted in the air; still, you keep your eyes firmly shut and that makes his expression soften a little. 

“You’re such a good girl for me, sweetheart.” With a small peck, he takes you away from the poor tree that has already witnessed enough for one night, manhandling you down on your knees and guiding your hands on the ground to make you understand he wants you on all four.

“Stay.” The order growled right into your ear, along with his hands squeezing your hips, makes you whimper and nod quickly as a reflex.

Now that he’s behind you, you deem the situation safe enough for you to slowly open your eyes. Black spots soon materialize out of nowhere, yet you notice immediately the rough fabric underneath you. 

“Oh,” you blink at it. “Thank you, Soldat.” 

There might be a feral beast clawing at his chest, challenging him to take you right there right now, over and over again, but he doesn’t want the rough ground to scratch your knees and palms. The softness in your voice makes him tense up, enough to feel an unfamiliar sting behind his eyes. His name—his title—said with so much gentleness stokes the flames in his lower belly until he feels a damn blaze licking at his insides.

You barely catch the black glove being discarded to the side as his calloused hands grope your hips, pushing you back against his crotch. You gasp at the ferocity he puts into his thrusts as he starts rutting your ass, grunting and panting with the effort of not coming in his pants like a fucking virgin seeing a pretty girl half-naked for the first time.

“This is what you’ve done to me.” He groans under his breath.

“Soldat…” You hum, one arm reaching behind to caress a strong thigh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to come like this, humping me like an animal.” The little airy giggle you let out makes him swallow, a shiver running down his back at those mocking words that should make him recoil. Instead, the fire grows, and before he can regain control of his body, his hips stop abruptly. 

His nimble fingers don’t waste any more time, lifting the hem of your skirt until your ass is completely at his mercy.

“Yes, yes!” You encourage him, gently rocking back. The heady scent is stronger now, but it’s still not enough. The flimsy panties leave you with a sad ripping noise and a feral growl rumbling in his chest. A gasp falls from your lips at the sudden bareness of your core, giggling when you hear him inhale deeply. Is he smelling your underwear? Fuck, you want to turn around so bad and enjoy the show.

The Soldier almost drools when your scent clings to his nose, along with your slick soiling the delicate fabric. He clumsily stuffs your panties into his pocket, shifting around until he’s lying right beneath the lower half of your body.

“C’mere, bunny.” His digits sink into the skin of your thighs, forcing you down until you are fully sitting on his face. “It’s time to eat.”

“Wait! Oh, fuck!” Your lips part pathetically around a breathy moan as his tongue looks for your clit, pulling your knees apart until you’re completely spread open for him. Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your hips uncontrollably buckle down, clawing at the vest when the tip of his tongue leisurely flicks your throbbing nub.

A loud moan escapes your lips when he finally breaches your hole, eating and sucking as if he’s savoring the most exquisite delicacy he’s ever had the chance to taste. Your body squirms at the unforgiving stimulation, still, you’re covering his face like a fucking oxygen mask and you’re far too worried he’s not breathing at all. 

“S—Soldat, wait! You can’t brea—AH!” A smacking sound echoes through the air as his palm leaves his mark on your asscheek. “Fuck, please! Do it again.” You beg, hips grinding down without restraint as slick shamelessly falls into his waiting mouth.

Finally.

The Asset internally preens at your enthusiastic reaction to something he did so spontaneously. Unprompted. Human.

Because you are not treating him like a ruthless weapon. A lethal killer that acts in the shadow. An ugly experiment with no dignity left. 

But like a man.

So he does it again. And again. 

“Taste so good, my pretty bunny.” He rasps out, returning to your clit, two of his fingers curling inside you in the meantime. You yelp, the knot in your belly getting closer and closer to snapping. Your asscheeks are burning, yet you don’t stop his punishing palm, instead arching up into his hand every time it comes down on your tender skin. 

“I’m gonna come.” You mumble deliriously, sobbing when in response his metal palm smacks your ass before meanly grabbing the tender flesh, and a third finger joins the other two, pounding against that sweet spot of yours before your orgasm hits you out of nowhere.

“Fuck fuck—Soldat!”

He wonders what he’s going to do from now on when he hears that word. It would be impossible to not get hard as your delightful whines resound through his mind. 

Your hole clenches desperately as he nurses on your throbbing clit one last time, panting heavily once he lifts your shaky thighs up. 

“Holy shit.” He whispers surprised, licking his lips clean. His lower face is completely damp with your arousal, and in that moment he decides he’s not going to wash his face until the scent disappears on its own. 

The Soldier takes a good, long look at your trembling body, now back on his knees behind you. His palms gently caress your raw skin, pulling a shiver out of you as one of his two palms is colder than the other, yet the sensation is soothing against your burning cheeks. 

He would really love to kiss the sensitive spots until you fall asleep, but he can’t stop now, not when his cock is painfully craving to be inside you, his imposing bulge pushing forcefully against his pants.

The rustling sounds behind you are loud but you can’t find it in yourself to focus, still dizzy after the violent orgasm Soldat drew out of you mercilessly. You are not inexperienced by any means, yet you’ve never come this hard and fast in your life. You wonder if it’s the whole situation influencing you—being half-naked in the woods while a feral, beefy stranger eats your pussy as if it’s his last day on Earth—or if he’s just that good.

Maybe it’s a mix of both, maybe it’s something else. You don’t care. You just want him to rearrange your insides. Now.

You seem to share the same sentiment as your eyes widen at his cock obstinate at your wet folds. Your gasp soon morphs into a startled moan when the tip slides inside. The way he feeds you his length is far from careful, and without warning, your hole is tightening around all of him.

The Soldier needs to take a deep breath, the muscles in his abdomen clenching to prevent himself from disappointing you by spilling his cum at once.

When was the last time he was intimate with someone? When was the last time he felt something other than fear? 

He doesn’t hold back, gradually pulling back, before lust takes over him and your trembling arms give up under you. You fall forward with a whimper, resting your cheek on his vest as his grip on your hips becomes brutal, and barely catching the foreign words being muttered under his breath.

You are delirious with pleasure, the stretch of his thick girth burning so good you can’t breath—for a second you truly fear your hole is going to tear apart.

It’s almost humiliating how it takes only a big cock and a pair of broad shoulders to reduce you to a shaky mess of moans and whimpers. 

“Beautiful, sweet creature... you’re so lovely.” The obscene, sloppy noises of your pussy swallowing every inch of him drives him insane. You’re like heaven incarnate wrapped around him, and he refuses to leave, his hips barely pulling back as he clumsily humps you from behind. 

“Mine, mine, mine.” You whisper the name he gave you, lying helpless with your eyes rolled into oblivion and drool soaking the dark fabric under you. It’s a miracle how the bunny headband still survives on your head as his harsh thrusts push your body back and forth, your fingers weakly holding onto the same ruined vest that your nipples brush against, now rubbed raw and sensitive.

“That’s a good girl. She’s squeezing me so tight, baby. I can’t let you go now that I found you, need to keep you forever here around my cock.” He grits out, head falling back as he feels his orgasm dangerously close, yet he’s ready to deny himself over and over again until he can feel you come around him again.

“Bet you’d like that... be my little cumdump until you are too full it starts spilling down your thighs. But I’ll just fuck more into you and then everyone will know you are fucking mine.” That’s when, with his mind clouded by pure pleasure, he reaches between your wet thighs, experimentally spanking your clit.

“Fuck!” Your squeal pulls a smirk on his lips, prompting him to do that again, his thrusts still frantic and erratic. 

“Take it, my sweet little bunny. That’s it.”

Your nub throbs as the man fucking you like an animal smacks it repeatedly, and you’re certain he’s enjoying himself so much watching you jolt each time, panting like a dog the louder you whimper. His tip relentlessly taps your sweet spot, and it’s just a matter of time before you let out a delirious moan, walls tightening as your second climax washes over you—this time leaving you stiff and crying as wave after wave of bliss settle deep in your bones. 

 “Got… you.” The Asset grits out breathless as he buries his cock deep into you with a hard, final thrust, succumbing to the overwhelming sensation of your hole squeezing him. He falls over the edge with a guttural groan. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your insides at once—there’s so much of it you almost choke at the unfamiliar yet pleasant sensation of being stuffed full.

You shiver under him, exhausted but sated, yet the Soldier doesn’t seem to want to budge, still hugging you tight as his thighs shakes at every little twitch of his cock. 

It feels too much.

His dick snug inside your tight heat, your body held with care by the same hands soiled with innocents’ blood, the sudden emptiness in his chest after such a heavenly experience... Should he cry? He feels like crying. He’s almost certain of it, though he doesn’t understand why. He just had the best night of his entire life with the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. 

Still, the weird sensation sits somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar, pressing against ribs that only know obedience and survival.

He knows he’ll have to move eventually, reality catching up to him the moment he steps too far from this strange warmth you keep offering so freely.

But he doesn’t want to let you go yet.

Honestly, he isn’t sure he can.

“Soldat, my back hurts.” Your voice is feeble yet tinted with amusement. Still, he scrambles on his knees, pulling out carefully in fear of hurting you. You wheeze softly at the sudden loss, your weak arms barely moving at your sides as you try to get yourself into an upright position, but the man behind you has other plans. You find yourself facing him at once, gently led down until your back is touching the vest.

With your mind too foggy with exhaustion, it is hard to remember the only rule he gave you. And shock flashes across your face the moment you can finally see Soldat’s handsome features clearly.

Your lips part, a compliment already rising to the surface, but it never makes it out. His hands come up instead, cradling your face with surprising tenderness before guiding you into a slow, lingering kiss. There’s no urgency in his actions this time, no hunger sharpened by desperation. Just some deep and achingly careful adoration that makes your heart clench painfully all the same. The kind of kiss that feels dangerously close to a goodbye. Like he’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.

He kisses you until your lungs are begging for oxygen, and when he finally pulls away, neither of you can move. His blue eyes simply observe you, urgently tracing your features with a spark of veneration glinting in his gaze.

You look like the personification of debauchery with your smudged mascara and lips swollen from kissing and biting, the poor bunny ears hanging crookedly from your hair after being fucked so crudely.

Yet, the Winter Soldier thinks he has never seen anything prettier.

“I looked at you.” You whisper softly, your dazed eyes dancing over his face with sleepy fascination, utterly devoid of remorse.

His right thumb lovingly strokes your cheek, and somewhere beneath the Soldier, beneath HYDRA’s cruelty, something human finally smiles back at you.

The sun hasn't cleared the horizon when you step onto the porch, coffee mug in hand. The ranch is already awake. You can hear the low murmur of cattle in the distance, the sharp whistle of someone calling the dogs, the creak of the barn doors and machinery coming to life. This was your ranch. Your responsibility. Your pride.

You'd grown up with dirt under your fingernails and hay in your hair, your father's shadow stretching long over every fence post and pasture. He'd raised you to run this place since you were little. Mainly, because you were his only child, but also because he knew you would take care of the land accordingly.

Now the shadow is yours and you wear it well.

"Morning, wildfire."

The voice comes from near the equipment barn. You don't have to look to know who it is—you'd recognize that low rasp anywhere, the way he says that nickname with practiced ease.

Bucky Barnes leans against the fence, one boot propped on the lower rail, his work shirt already dusty though the day's barely started. His dark hair is combed back, a few strands escaping to frame his face, and his blue eyes track you as you descend the porch steps.

"Morning," you say, keeping your voice level professional. "Crew's here?"

"Most of 'em. Sanchez is running late—truck trouble. I sent Pete to pick him up." He straightens, falling into step beside you as you head toward the barn. "We're rotating the herd to the north pasture today. Fencing's solid, checked it myself yesterday."

"Good." You pause at the barn entrance, turning to face him. "What about the irrigation system? Johnson said there was a blockage in sector three."

"Already working on it, it should be cleared by noon."

You nod, taking a sip of your coffee. This is how it always goes—Bucky anticipating problems before you have to ask, handling details before they become emergencies. Your father had hired his dad twenty years ago, and when the old man got sick, Bucky stepped into the role like he'd be born for it.

Which in a way, he had been.

"You're thinking too hard," Bucky says, his mouth quirking. "I can see those gears turning."

"Well, I'm always thinking. Kind of part of my job."

"Yeah, well." He shifts his weight and for a moment, something flickers across his face, something soft and unguarded… you blink and it's gone. "Try to not hurt yourself."

You shoot him a look that would wilt lesser man. He just grins and tips an imaginary hat before heading toward the equipment barn, leaving you with your coffee and the creeping warmth in your chest that you refuse to name.

By midday, you're elbow-deep in the business of running the ranch, fielding calls from suppliers, reviewing feed costs, checking the schedule for the county livestock show next month. Your office is a converted tack room in the main barn, all exposed beams and the faint smell of leather and hay. You liked it here. It feels real in a way that glass and steel never could.

You're on the phone with the feed supplier, arguing about bulk pricing, when Bucky appears in the doorway. He doesn't interrupt, just leans against the frame and waits, and you're hyper-aware of his presence in a way that's become second nature over the past— how long has it been? Ten months since that first kiss in the summer heat, all sweat and impulse and that kid of chemistry that burns.

Ten months of this thing between you that has no name, no rules, no promises.

You finish the call—a victory, 10% discount— and set the phone down. "What's up?"

"Got a situation with the new colt. He's favoring his left foreleg, might be nothing, but I want you to take a look before I call the vet."

You're already standing. "Show me."

The colt is in the training pen, a gorgeous chestnut with a white blaze and too much attitude for his own good. You'd purchased him at auction three months ago, saw the potential in his bloodline and the fire in his eyes. Now he's limping, and your stomach tightens.

Bucky's already in the pen, speaking low and calm as he approaches the colt. The animal sidesteps, nervous, but Bucky doesn't rush. Just keeps talking, that steady murmur that works in horses and people alike, until the colt allows him close enough to run a hand down his neck.

"Easy, buddy."

You slip through the fence rails and approach from the other side, moving slow. The colt's ears flick toward you, but he doesn't spook. Between you and Bucky, he's boxed in by a kind of trust, and after a moment he settles.

"I've got his head," Bucky says. "Check the leg."

You crouch, running your hands carefully down the colt's foreleg, feeling for heat, for swelling, for anything out of place. The colt shifts but doesn't pull away, and you can feel Bucky's presence above you, solid and grounding.

"There," you murmur, fingers finding a tender spot just above the fetlock. "Minor strain, I think… it's not serious, but he needs rest."

"Figured." Bucky's voice is close—closer than you expected. You glance up and find him watching you with an expression you can't quite read. "You want me to call Doc Johnson anyway?"

"Yeah, better be safe than sorry." You straighten, brushing dirt from your jeans. "Good catch."

"Just doing my job."

"You do it well."

Something passes between you— a look, a breath, the weight of words unsaid. The colt stamps impatiently, breaking the moment, and you step back.

"I'll handle the rest of the rotations," Bucky says, his tone careful and neutral. "You've got that conference call at two, right?"

You'd forgotten. "Shit, yeah. Thanks."

"Anytime, wildfire."

There it is again. That nickname. The way he says it—affectionate and just a little bit awed, like you're something bright and untamed and worth admiring from a careful distance.

You walk away before you can do something stupid like ask him what it means, why he started calling you that. If it means what you think it might.

That evenings you stop by Miller's feed store in town to pick up supplements. Bucky's with you—he'd been checking on a part for the tractor at the hardware store next door.

Old Miller's behind the counter, and his eyes light up when he sees you.

"Well if it isn't the lady rancher herself," he says warmly. "How's business?"

"Good, been busy lately." You hand him your list. "Need these loaded up when you get a chance."

"You got it," he glances at Bucky. "And how's your foreman treating you" Working you too hard?"

It's a joke, everyone knows you're the one who sets the pace, but you see Bucky's jaw tighten slightly.

"Bucky runs a tight ship," you say. "Couldn't do it without him."

"That's good, that's good. 'Course your daddy always said the Barnes men were the best workers in the county." Miller starts pulling items from shelves. "You keeping busy, Bucky? Staying out of trouble?"

"Yes, sir" Bucky says evenly.

"Good man," Miller chuckles. "Though I gotta say, at your age, figured you'd have your own spread by now. Following in your old man's footsteps is fine work, but eventually a man wants something of his own, you know? Something to build on."

The words are casual, friendly even, but you see Bucky's shoulders stiffen.

"I'm exactly where I want to be," Bucky says, but there's an edge to it.

You pay quickly and get out of there, but the damage is done. Bucky's quiet on the drive back, staring out the window with that same look from earlier.

"Miller's an old gossip," you say. "Don't listen to him."

"He's not wrong though." Bucky's voice is carefully neutral. "I'm thirty-two and I don't own anything but a truck and a cabin on someone else's land."

"You own half the knowledge that keeps this ranch running," you counter. "That's worth more than—"

"It's not the same," he cuts you off gently. "And you know it."

You don't know what to say to that. Because in the world you both live in—where land equals legacy and property equals status— maybe he has a point.

But it doesn't make it right.

By the time the crew clocks out, the sky is bruising purple and gold, the heat of the day giving way to the cool promise of night. You make your rounds, checking that everything's secured, the animals settled, the equipment stored. It's a ritual, this final sweep and you always find peace in it.

You're in the main barn, running through inventory counts one last time, when you hear footsteps behind you.

You don't turn around. "Thought you left already."

"Had some things to finish." Bucky's voice is low in a way that sends heat curling through your belly. "Saw your truck was still here, figured you were doing your obsessive end-of-day check."

"It's not obsessive, it's thorough."

"Right." He's closer now, close enough that you can smell him—sweat and hay and something uniquely Bucky that makes you want to turn around and close the distance, and— "You done?" he asks and there's an edge to his voice that makes your pulse quicken.

You set down the clipboard and turn to face him.

He's still in his work clothes, shirt untucked and streaked with dust, hair falling loose from its tie. There's smudge of grease on his jaw and his eyes are dark in the dim light of the barn, and you know this look. Know what comes next.

"Yeah," you say, your voice already dropping to something lower. "I'm done."

The space between you evaporates. You don't know who moves first—maybe it doesn't matter. His hands find your hips, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to make you gasp, and your fingers curl into his shirt, yanking him closer. Then his mouth is on yours, hot and demanding, and you open for him immediately.

God, you'll never get tired of kissing him. The way he tastes like coffee and the mint he chews when he's working, the way his stubble scrapes against your skin, the way he kisses like he's starving for you.

His tongue slides against yours and you moan into his mouth, pressing closer, needing more. His hands slide from your hips to your ass, squeezing, lifting, and suddenly your feet aren't touching the ground anymore. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the hard length of him pressed against your core even through layers of denim, and the friction makes you both groan.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, walking you backward "You feel—"

"Don't talk," you manage, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss. "Just—"

Your back hits the wall of the tack room and he pins you there with his hips, grinding against you making your head fall back and desperate sounds tear from your throat. His mouth moves to your neck, teeth and tongue and the kind of rough attention that you crave. Your hands are already fumbling with his belt, impatient, needing him out of these fucking clothes.

"Wildfire," he murmurs against your throat, and the nickname sounds different now. "Let me—"

He sets you down just long enough to yank your shirt over your head, his flannel following seconds later. Then his hands are on your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric of your bra, and the sensation shoots straight between your legs.

"Off," you demand, reaching behind yourself to unhook it, and he helps, tossing it aside before his mouth replaces his hands.

The first pull of his lips around your nipple makes your knees buckle, makes you grab his hair to stay upright. He works you with his mouth—sucking, biting, soothing with his tongue—while his hands work open the button of your jeans. You're already shoving them down your hips, kicking off your boots in a graceless rush, and then you're standing there in nothing but your underwear, while he's still mostly dressed.

"Not fair," you gasp and he pulls back just enough to flash you a wicked grin before dropping to his knees. Oh. "Bucky—"

"Let me," he says again, and this time it's not a question. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs tracing the edge of your underwear, and when he leans forward and presses his mouth against you through the fabric, you nearly come apart right there.

"Jesus Christ," you manage, fingers tightening in his hair as he mouths at you, the friction not nearly enough. "Stop teasing."

He hooks his fingers into the waistband and drags your underwear down, helping you step out of them, and then he's right there, face level with your cunt, looking up at you like you're something sacred.

"You're so fucking wet already," he murmurs and then his tongue is on you and coherent thought becomes impossible.

He eats you out like it's his religion—long, slow strokes of his tongue followed by focused attention on your clit that makes you shake. Your fingers are fisted in his hair, hips rocking against his face, and he takes it all, groaning like your pleasure is his, like this is what he needs.

When he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you cry out his name.

"That's it," he encourages, voice muffled against you. "Let me hear you, wildfire. Let me—"

The orgasm hits you like a lightning strike, sudden and devastating, and you come with his name on your lips and your legs shaking and his fingers still working inside you, drawing it out until you're oversensitive and trembling.

He pulls back, mouth glistening, and the look on his face is pure hunger.

"I need you," you manage, still catching your breath. "Now."

He's on his feet in seconds, shedding his jeans and boxer in quick, efficient movements, and then he's sitting on the old wooden bench and you're straddling him, lining him up, sinking down onto him in one smooth motion that makes you both groan.

He feels so good, thick and hard and perfectly filling, the stretch of him always just on the edge of too much in the best possible way.

"Christ," Bucky grits out, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "You're fucking perfect."

You start to move, rolling your hips, finding the rhythm that works, and his head falls back against the wall, throat exposed, jaw clenched. You lean forward and bite the tendon in his neck, and his hips buck up involuntarily.

"Harder," you demand against his skin. "Don't hold back."

His hands tighten on your hips and he starts to thrust up into you, meeting your movements, and the angle is perfect—hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You brace your hands on his shoulders and ride him harder, chasing the pleasure building in your core, and he watches you with dark, hungry eyes.

"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, one hand leaving your hip to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. "You look so beautiful like this, taking what you need from me—"

"Bucky," you gasp, rhythm faltering as the pleasure builds. "I'm—"

"I know, wildfire, I can feel that pretty cunt of you squeezing me so tight…" His other hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you cry out. "There you go, come for me wildfire. Wanna feel you come on my cock."

His touch and relentless thrust sends you over the edge and the orgasm crashes through you, walls clenching around him. You can hear him curse as he follows you over, spilling inside you with your name broken on his lips.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You just lay down breathing, tangled together in the half-dark of the barn, the smell of hay and sex and the summer breeze in the air, your bodies still joined, hearts pounding against each other.

Then—and this is different, this is new—Bucky doesn't pull away immediately.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest, and your head finds the curve of his shoulder like it was made to rest there. His hand slides up yous spine, tracing patterns on your bare back, and you feel him press a kiss to your temple.

That wasn't part of your routine. The sex? Yes. The intensity? Definitely. But this tenderness, this soft aftermath… that was new territory.

"Hey," you say quietly, not moving from where you're tucked against him.

"Mm?"

"You okay?"

He's quiet for a moment, then his hand finds your hair, fingers threading through the stray strands absentmindedly.

"Yeah," he says, but his voice sounds strange. "Yeah, I'm just… catching my breath."

You pull back just enough to look at him, and what you see in his face makes your chest tighten. There's something unguarded there, something raw and almost frightened, like he's said too much, shown to much.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and for a second you think he's going to say something important, something that will change the shape of this thing between you.

But then he blinks and the moment fractures.

He lifts you gently, helping you off him, and you both reach for your clothes in a silence that feels heavier than before. You watch him dress—jeans first, then his shirt, fingers working the buttons with a focus that seems excessive for such a simple task. He doesn't glance at you once.

"Same time tomorrow?" You ask, trying to sound casual, trying to rebuild the easy rhythm that's kept this simple for ten months.

He stills, shirt half-buttoned, and for a long moment he doesn't answer.

When he finally looks at you, there's something in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. Something that looks like longing and resignation all tangled together.

"Yeah, sure."

Not "same time, wildfire" with that hint of warmth. Just "yeah, sure". Like you're asking him to check the fences, not meet you here tomorrow night.

He finishes dressing in silence, and you pull on your own clothes, hyper-aware of every movement, every breath. When you're both decent again, he moves toward the door. Just before he reaches it, he pauses. Doesn't turn around.

"You know Miller's not wrong," he says quietly. "About… a man wanting something of his own."

Your stomach drops. "Bucky—"

"I'm just the foreman," he continues, still not looking at you. "Always will be. That's—" He shakes his head. "That's just how it is."

"That's not—you're more than—"

"Goodnight, wildfire."

The nickname sounds wrong in his mouth now. Distant like he's already pulling away.

Then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and you're left in the tack room, fully dressed now but somehow feeling more exposed than when you were naked.

You sink onto the bench, hand drifting to where his thumb had traced patterns on your back, and Miller's words echo in your head.

Eventually a man wants something of his own.

And Bucky's response: I'm just a foreman, always will be.

Like that's all he'll ever be. Like that's all he thinks he's worth. Like loving you—if that's what this is— means settling for scraps instead of building something real.

The thought settles in your chest like a stone, and you realize with creeping dread that something's changed. And if Bucky's convinced himself he's not good enough, that he can't give you what you deserve because he doesn't own land or have money or status… you don't know how to fight that. Or if he'll even let you.

The first sign that something's wrong comes three days after that night in the tack room. You're going over breeding schedules when Bucky comes in to report on the north pasture rotation. He's all business, standing near the door instead of leaning against the frame like usual, keeps his eyes on the clipboard in his hand.

"Rotation's complete," he says. "Moved the last of the herd this morning without issues."

"Good," you wait for more—the usual back and forth, the easy conversation that filled spaces between work tasks, but he just nods.

"Need anything else?" He asks instead.

You, you want to say. I need you to look at me like you did three nights ago. I need you to stop acting like a stranger.

"No," you say instead. "That's all."

He's gone before you can figure out how to ask what's wrong.

Within the days, things get worse.

Bucky starts sending Pete or Sanchez to give you reports instead of coming himself. When you do see him, he's never alone; he's always with the crew, always busy, always with a reason he can't try for long. The nickname disappears entirely. Now he calls you by your name, said in a tone so professional it feels like a reprimand.

Meals with the crew become exercises in studied avoidance. He sits at the opposite end of the table, talks to everyone but you and leaves as soon as he's done eating.

The nights are the worst. You wait in the barn like always, telling yourself you're just finishing paperwork, but he doesn't come. Not that night,not the next, not the one after that.

On the fifth night, you stop waiting.

On the sixth day, you corner him in the equipment barn.

"We need to talk," you say, closing the door behind you.

He doesn't look up from the harness he's mending. "Kind of busy."

"Bucky, what the hell is going on?"

"Nothing's going on, just work."

"That's bullshit," you move closer and he shifts away and the retreat stings. "You've been avoiding me for almost a week, you won't look at me, won't talk to me—"

"I talk to you every day, about work."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

His jaw tightens. "Don't know what else you expect from me."

"I want you to tell me what changed!" Your voice rises despite yourself. "I want you to tell me why you're acting like—like we're nothing to each other."

"We're not nothing." He finally looks at you, and his eyes are so carefully blank it makes your chest ache. "You're my boss, I'm your foreman, that's what we are."

"That's not— we're more than that. You know we are."

"Are we?" He sets down the harness, standing up. "Or was it just convenient? You scratch an itch, I scratch an itch, nobody has to call it anything more?"

The words hit like a slap.

"You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" His voice is even, controlled, and somehow makes it worse than if he was yelling. "Been thinking about it, about what this is, and maybe Miller was right, maybe it's time I figure out what I want instead of just—" He gestures vaguely. "Instead of this."

"Instead of me, you mean."

Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe— but it's gone too fast to be sure.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." You're trying to keep your voice steady and failing. "If you want to end this, Bucky, just say it. Don't make up excuses about figuring out what you want."

"I'm to making excuses." His hands clench at his sides. "You're running a multi-million dollar operation, you're smart, successful and I'm just—"

"Stop." You know where this is going and you can't stand to hear it. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

"I'm the hired help," he says anyway. "That's the reality, and maybe it;s time we both stopped pretending it's anything else."

You laugh, but it's an ugly sound. "Is that really what you think you are to me? After everything we—"

"After everything, that's still what I am." His voice is flat. "That's all I'll ever be."

You stare at him, at this man you've known for years, loved for months even if you haven't said it out loud… and you don't recognize the stranger looking back at you.

"You're a coward," you say quietly.

He flinches. "Maybe I am."

"This isn't about what you are, this is about you being too scared to—"

"I need to finish this repair," he cuts you off, turning back to the harness. "Was there something work-related that you needed?"

The dismissal is clear and absolute.

You leave before he can see you cry.

The Hillside County Livestock Show is your least favorite event of the year, and that's saying something considering you spend most of your life covered in dust and dealing with literal bullshit. But there's something about the forced socializing, the political maneuvering disguised as friendly conversation, the way everyone sizes up everyone else's cattle like they're comparing dick sizes—it grates.

Still, you go. Because your ranch has a reputation to maintain, and because your breeding program produces some of the best cattle in three counties, and because your father never missed a year and neither will you.

You're standing near the action ring, catalog in hand, watching a decent Angus heifer go for more than she's worth, when you feel someone approach from your left.

"Impressive animal," a voice says. Deep, smooth, with the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no. "Though I'd say she's overvalued by at least fifteen percent, maybe is some sentimental bidding."

You glance over. The man beside you is older, mid forties probably, with silver threading through dark hair and a smile that has probably charmed plenty of people. Expensive boots, custom shirt, a watch that costs more than most people's trucks. Everything about him screams money.

"Sentimental bidding keeps the market interesting," you reply neutrally, turning back to the ring. "Besides, she's got excellent bloodlines, she'll be worth the premium to the right buyer."

"Spoken like someone who knows her stock," he extends a hand. "My name is Clayton Sheridan, I just purchased the Meadow brook Ranch, east of your property."

So this was your new neighbor. You'd heard someone bought old man Peterson's spread after he retired to Arizona, but you hadn't paid much attention to the details.

You shake his hand briefly. "Welcome to the area."

"Thank you, I've heard impressive things about your operation, fastest-growing herd in the county, certification for quality genetics…" His hand lingers a moment too long before you pull away. "It's rare to see a woman running a ranch this size… and running it so well."

There it is. There it's the compliment wrapped in condescension, the implication you're an exception rather than simply capable.

"My father raised me for it," you say, voice cool. "Gender doesn't have much to do with whether you can read a market or manage a land."

"Of course, of course." His smile doesn't falter. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise, just… admiration. It must keep you very busy, handling everything by yourself."

"I have an excellent crew."

"Ah yes, your foreman Barnes, isn't it? Son of your father's foreman?" Something in his tone makes your jaw tighten. "Lucky to have someone who knows the place so well, family legacy and all that."

You're trying to formulate a response that's polite but firm when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky, standing near the equipment displays about thirty feet away, his attention locked on you and Clayton with an expression you can't quite read.

Even from there, you can see the tension in his shoulders.

"Excuse me," you say to Clayton, not waiting for a response before you start walking toward Bucky.

But by the time you navigate through the crowd, he's already gone.

You get home from the show late, exhausted and frustrated. The house is dark and empty, and you should go to bed, but instead you find yourself walking to the stables.

Copper's in his usual stall, the big bay gelding lifting his head when you approach. Twenty-two now, long retired, but still your father's horse.

"Hey, old man," you murmur, letting yourself in. He presses his nose into your palm, warm and familiar, and you lean your forehead against his neck. "Long day."

He huffs softly, patient like always.

You're running your hand down his shoulder when you hear footsteps.

"Thought I saw the lights on."

Bucky's in the stable entrance, hands in his pockets.

"Couldn't sleep," you say.

"Yeah, me neither." He shifts his weight. "How's old Copper doing?"

"Good, little stiff in the mornings." You stroke the horse's neck. "I should take him out to pasture more."

"I can do it tomorrow if you want," Bucky offers quietly. "Give him a good walk, let him stretch his legs."

Something in your chest aches at the offer. Even with all this distance between you, he's still thinking about what you need.

"You don't have to."

"I know," he takes a step closer. "But Copper's important to you."

"My dad's horse," you say quietly. "He was the first horse I rode."

"I know," his voice is gentle. "I remember."

For a moment, the walls between you feel thinner. Like maybe you could reach across this space, say what needs saying. Then Copper shifts, and Bucky clears his throat.

"I should let you finish up. Just wanted to check you were okay."

"I'm fine."

It's obviously a lie, but he doesn't call you on it.

"Goodnight, wildfire," he says softly, and then he's gone.

"He still cares," you tell the horse. "He wouldn't check on me if he didn't, right?"

Copper just snorts and goes back to his hay.

You stay a while longer, taking comfort in the familiar routine of checking water, running your hands over Copper's legs to make sure he's sound, whispering all the things you can't say to Buck into the horse's patient ear.

When you finally head back to the house, you see Bucky's cabin light is still on.

Neither of you is sleeping tonight.

Clayton Sheridan doesn't understand the concept of boundaries, as you discover the next two weeks.

The flowers arrive first, expensive arrangements delivered to your door with cards that are just on the edge of appropriate.

Looking forward to being neighbors.

Thinking of you.

You throw most of them away.

Then, he starts showing up: at the feed store when you're picking up supplies, at the diner where you grab Saturday breakfast, at the county planning meeting where you're discussing water management.

"What a coincidence," he says every time, with that practiced smile.

It's not a coincidence and you both know it, but he keeps playing his game.

The gifts escalate: wine, a leather portfolio with your ranch name embossed, an invitation to some charity gala in the city, hand-delivered.

"I think we'd make quite an impression together," Clayton says when he drops off the invitation. "Power couple of the ranching community."

You haven't even said yes to coffee.

"I'll think about it," you answer, because outright rejection seems to make him more persistent.

Through it all, Bucky gets quieter, more distant. Like he's disappearing piece by piece.

You catch him watching sometimes— watching Clayton talk to you, watching the gifts arrive, watching you navigate the attention with gritted-teeth politeness. And every time, his expression is the same: resigned, like he's watching something inevitable play out.

Like he's already decided how this story ends.

Three weeks into Clayton's courtship, you're in the barn doing evening checks when Bucky appears in the doorway. Your heart jumps at the sight of him. This is the first time he's sought you out in almost a month.

"Hey," you say carefully.

"Hey." He shifts his weight, not quite meeting your eyes. "Wanted to let you know… the mare's showing signs, probably foaling tonight or tomorrow."

"Okay, you need help monitoring?"

"No, I got it." He starts to turn away, then pauses. "Your neighbor came by today. Sheridan, he was looking for you."

Your stomach sinks. "What did he want?"

"Didn't say, just asked where you were, when you'd be back." Bucky's jaw tightens. "Seemed pretty comfortable helping himself to the property."

"I'll talk to him."

"Sure." Another pause. "He seems… interested."

"Bucky—"

"Just an observation." His voice is carefully neutral. "A guy like that— successful, established. Probably looking to settle down with the right person."

"I don't care what he's looking for."

"Maybe you should." Bucky finally looks at you and there's something in his eyes that makes your breath catch. "Opportunities like this don't come around often."

"Opportunity?" You stare at him. "He's a stranger who won't take a hint, that's not an opportunity, that's a problem."

"Is it?" Bucky's voice is soft, almost sad. "Or is it exactly what someone in your position should be looking for?"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Means he can give you things, things I—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching again. "Just think about it."

He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in the barn with a sick feeling in your stomach.

Clayton makes his move the following week. You're at Miller's feed store, alone for once, when he corners near the grain.

"I was hoping to run into you," he says, blocking your path to the checkout. "Saved me a trip to your property."

"I'm kind of in a hurry—"

"It'll just take a moment." He steps closer, and you resist the urge to step back. "I've been patient, I think. Given you time to get to know me. And I'd like to think we've developed a… bond."

"Clayton—"

"Let me take you to dinner." It's phrased like a request, but it feels like a demand. "A real dinner, not as neighbors, not as business associates… a date."

"I appreciate the offer, but—"

"I know I can give you what you need," he continues, like you haven't spoken. "Partnership, stability. A merger of our operations could be incredibly beneficial for both of us. I know you're a smart woman, you have to see the potential."

There it is, the assumption that this is about business, about strategy, like you're an asset to be acquired.

"I'm not interested," you say clearly. "In dinner, in partnership, in any of it. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but—"

"The wrong impression?" He interrupts you again, his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You've been accepting my gifts, letting me court you."

"I've been polite, there's a difference."

"Is there?" He is closer now, close enough that you can smell his cologne. "Or are you just playing hard to get? Because I have to tell you, it's getting old."

"I'm not playing anything," your voice goes cold. "I said no. That's final."

Something flickers across his face—surprise, then anger, quickly masked.

"You're making a mistake," he says quietly.

"That's my choice to make."

"Is it?" He glances toward the window, where your truck is parked. "Or does your foreman make your choices for you?"

Your blood runs cold. "That's none of your business."

"In a town this size, everything is everyone's business." His smile turns cruel. "You're fucking the help, everyone knows it. So stop acting high and mighty with me when you're spreading your legs for some ranch hand who'll never be able to give you what a real man could—"

"That's enough." The voice comes from behind you. Miller is standing at the end of the aisle with a bag of feed in his arms and steel in his eyes. "Mr. Sheridan, I think it's time for you to leave my store."

Clayton's expression smooths back into charm "We're just having a conversation—"

"I heard what kind of conversation you were having." Miller sets the feed down with a heavy thump. "And I won't have you speaking to a lady like that in my establishment. Time to go."

"This is ridiculous—"

"Now." Miller's voice is firm. "Before I call sheriff Morrison and have you removed for harassment."

Clayton looks between you and Miller, jaw tight with barely contained rage. Then, he smooths his expression into something coldly polite.

"Of course, my apologies if I caused any… discomfort." But his eyes hold a dark promise when they land on you. "We'll continue this conversation another time."

He's gone before you can tell him there won't be another time. Miller waits until the door closes before turning to you with concern.

"You alright, honey?"

You nod, but your hands are shaking. "Thank you for stepping in."

"That man's got a mean streak under all that polish," Miller says. "My wife had a cousin who dated a man like that once, all charm until you say no, then…" He shakes his head. "You be careful. Men like that don't handle rejection well."

"I will."

"And for what it's worth?" Miller's voice gentles. "Whatever that jackass said about you and Bucky? That's your business and nobody else's. Young Barnes is a good man, his father was good people and he is too. Don't let anyone tell you different."

The kindness breaks something in you and your eyes sting. "Thank you, Mr. Miller."

"Call me if you need anything. And tell Bucky to keep an eye on that one, Clayton Sheridan strikes me as the type to hold a grudge."

You pay for your supplies in a daze and load them into your truck with shaking hands. You should go home, go straight to your bed. Instead, you park near the stables.

Copper's in his stall, and he lifts his head when you approach, nickering softly.

"Hey, old man," you manage, voice cracking.

You let yourself into the stall and he immediately presses his nose to your chest, and that's when you break.

You cry into Copper's neck—from anger, from humiliation, from the way Clayton looked at you like you were something he could buy or break. From the fear that maybe he's right, that everyone is talking about you and Bucky, judging you, seeing something shameful in what feels sacred.

"He doesn't know anything," you whisper into Copper's mane. "He doesn't know us, doesn't know what we—"

But even as you say it, Clayton's words echo: Fucking the help.

Is that what people see? Not two people who care about each other, but something tawdry and wrong?

You're still crying when you hear footsteps.

"Wildfire?"

You straighten quickly, wiping at your eyes, but it's too late. Bucky's standing at the stall entrance, and even in the dim light, you notice he's been drinking. Not drunk yet, but there's a flush on his cheeks, a looseness to his shoulders that means he's had a few. And his eyes look sad, pained.

"You heard," you say flatly.

"Whole town's heard by now," his voice is rough. "Was at the diner grabbing lunch and Pete and Sanchez were with me. Table next to us was talking about how Sheridan got turned down by the ice queen rancher who's too busy fucking her foreman to see a real opportunity."

You flinch at his words.

"They didn't know we were there," Bucky continues, stepping into the stall. "Didn't know Pete and Sanchez were ready to flip the table. I had to practically drag them out before they started throwing punches."

"Bucky—"

"Then I heard the rest of it, how you rejected him at Miller's, how he got nasty about it, how old Miller had to throw him out." His jaw clenches. "And I wasn't there, I was checking fence posts while he cornered you and I wasn't fucking there."

"You couldn't have known—"

"I should've been there!" The words burst out of him. "I should've been the one telling him to back off, to leave alone, to—" He stops, hands clenching into fists. "But I can't, can I? Can't defend you publicly without everyone knowing exactly what we are to each other. Can't step in without proving every goddamn thing they're saying about us. Can't stand next to you in town and tell assholes like Clayton Sheridan that you're mine."

"I don't need you to—"

"Well maybe you should." His voice drops. "Maybe you should have someone who can do all that, someone who can take you out without counting cents."

"Stop," you cut him off, voice shaking.

"Why? He's right about one thing, wildfire. I can't give you what someone like him could. Can't give you respectability, or stability, I can't give—"

You cross the stall in two strides and kiss him hard. He freezes for half a second, then he's kissing you back something that feels like desperation… and fear.

His hands fist in your hair and you grab his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to erase Clayton's words, the town's gossip, the shame trying to creep into something that's never felt shameful before.

"I don't want respectable," you gasp against his mouth. "I don't want public dinners, or whatever the hell you think I need. I want you."

"You're upset."

"I'm fucking furious," you correct. "At Clayton for being an entitled asshole, furious at this stupid town for their gossip, furious for you thinking any of it matters—"

He kisses you again, harder this time, walking you backward until your back hits the stall wall. His body presses against yours and you can feel how much he wants this despite all his protests about what you deserve.

"We shouldn't," he breathes against your neck. "You're upset, I've been drinking, this is—"

"I don't care," your hands work at his belt. "I need this, I need you, please Bucky—"

Something breaks in him. He lifts you and you wrap your legs around his waist, and then you're fumbling with clothes, desperate and graceless. When he pushes inside you, you both groan like it's a homecoming and a goodbye all at once.

The sex is different this time. Rougher, more desperate. Like you're both trying to prove or forget something. Or like you're trying to hold onto something that feels like it's slipping away.

When you come, it's with his name on your lips and tears on your cheeks. He follows moments later, your name broken and his forehead against your shoulder. For a moment, you stay like that, connected, breathing hard, coexisting in the same space. Then he sets you down carefully and reality crashes back in.

You both fix your clothes in silence. The air feels heavy, charged with everything still unsaid.

"I'm sorry," Bucky says finally. "For drinking, for not being there when Clayton—"

"Stop apologizing." Your voice comes out sharper than intended. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Didn't I?" He won't look at you. "Miller threw him out, Miller defended you. And where was I?Where the fuck was I?"

"You were working, doing your job."

"My job." He laughs, but it's bitter. "Right, because that's what I am. The foreman, the employee, not the—"

"Not the what?" You push. "Say it."

"Not the boyfriend," he says quietly. "I heard what he said about you, about us. And I wanted to kill him, wanted to drive straight to his ranch and—"

"But you didn't."

"Because what would that accomplish? Everyone would know then, would see exactly what we are and—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Maybe they're right to gossip, maybe we are—"

"Would you please stop?" You grab his arm, forcing him to look at you. "Don't let him do this, don't let their gossip make this into something shameful."

"It's not shameful," he says. "But it's not right either. You deserve better than barn hookups and secrets, you deserve someone who can stand next to you proudly, take you to dinner, court you the way you should be courted—"

"I don't wanna be courted by anyone else!"

"Well maybe you should! Maybe you should want someone who can give you a normal relationship, someone who's—" He swallows hard. "Someone who's your equal."

"You think you're not my equal," you say slowly.

"I know I'm not." His voice is flat. "I'm the foreman, you're the owner. And no matter what we feel, that's the reality, that's what everyone sees when they look at us."

"I don't care what they see—"

"Well, maybe I do." He's breathing hard. "Maybe I care that I can't defend you without it looking like the hired help overstepping. Maybe I care that men like Clayton can say whatever they want about you and I have to just— just take it because what am I? What right do I have?"

"The right of someone who loves me," you say, and watch his face go white.

"Don't," he whispers.

"Why not? It's true, isn't it?" You step closer. "You love me, and I—"

"Don't say it," he backs away, hands up like he's warding off a blow. "Please don't say it."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't change anything!" His voice breaks. "It doesn't change that I can't give you what you deserve. It doesn't change that I will never be enough. I'll never be enough for you, wildfire. And the sooner we both accept that, the—"

He doesn't finish, just turns and walks out of the stall, leaving you standing there with Copper and the ruins of your heart. You sink down onto the bench and Copper nuzzles your shoulder gently.

"He's wrong," you tell the horse. "He's so wrong."

But the words feel hollow even as you say them. Because how do you fight someone who's convinced themselves they're not worth fighting for?

You threw yourself into work because work didn't require you to think about the way Bucky's jaw had tightened when you'd said the word "love".

Work was spreadsheets and feed orders and the county extension agent calling about soil testing. Work was quantifiable, solvable, something you could actually control… unlike the man who was currently avoiding you like you carried some contagious disease.

It had been two weeks since the stable. Two weeks of Bucky sending Pete or Sanchez to deliver reports that he used to give himself, two weeks of catching glimpses of him across the property—always busy, always moving, always just out of reach. When you did cross paths, his eyes would slide past you like you were part of the landscape, something to navigate around rather than toward.

"Boss?" Pete stood in your office doorway, hat in hand. "Bucky wanted me to tell you the irrigation system's back online, no more issues in sector three."

Bucky wanted me to tell you. Not "Bucky said", or "Bucky asked", like even the mention of his name in connection with you required careful phrasing.

"Thanks, Pete." You kept your voice level. "Anything else?"

"No, ma'am, that's all." He hesitated. "Though uh… if you need anything else, I can—"

"I'm fine," the lie came easily now. "Tell the crew I'll do the evening walk-through myself tonight."

After Pete left, you sat back in your chair and let your eyes drift to the window. You could see the training pen from here, the fence where you and Bucky had worked with the colt just weeks ago, where his hands had been steady on the animal's neck, his voice low and soothing, and the three of you—you, him, the skittish colt— were the only things that mattered in the world.

Your mind drifted before you could stop it, reaching back to a different summer. You'd been sixteen, and Bucky had been nineteen, home from community college for the summer to help his dad with the heavy work.

Your father had sent you both to check the fence line at the north property border, and you'd spent the whole afternoon trying not to stare at the way Bucky's shirt stuck to his back in the heat, the flex of his forearms as he drove new posts into the hard ground. He'd caught you looking once and grinned—that easy, boyish grin that always made your stomach flip—and you'd turned away so fast you nearly tripped over the wire spool.

Later, sitting in the shade of the truck bed sharing a canteen of water, he'd looked at you differently. Not like his boss' daughter, not like the kid who used to chase him around the barn.

"You've got dirt on your face," he'd said.

"Where?"

Instead of answering, he'd reached out and brushed his thumb across your cheekbone, so gentle it barely counted as touch. Your breath had caught, and then… so quick you almost thought you'd imagined it, he'd leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

Just a peck, soft and sweet and over in a heartbeat.

He'd pulled back immediately, eyes wide. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's okay," you'd whispered.

But he was already climbing out of the truck bed, putting distance between you, and the rest of the drive back had been silent. Neither of you mentioned it again, not that summer, not the next. By the time he came back to work full-time after his dad got sick, you'd both learned how to pretend it never happened.

Except you've never forgotten.

And now, seventeen years later, he was looking at you the same way: like you were something he wanted but couldn't let himself have. Only this time it wasn't because you were too young, or because he was overstepping with the boss' daughter. This time he'd convinced himself you were too good for him.

You pressed your palms against your eyes, willing yourself not to cry in your office in the middle of the workday.

Your phone buzzed, another text from Clayton Sheridan that you immediately deleted without reading. He'd been trying to "apologize" for a week now, messages that sounded sincere until you read between the lines and saw the entitlement still lurking here.

The afternoon sun slanted through the window, dust motes dancing in the golden light, and you forced yourself back to the feed cost analysis spreadsheet on your screen. Work didn't ask questions you couldn't answer, work didn't look at you with resignation and longing tangled together… work was safe.

So you buried yourself in it and pretended you couldn't feel the Bucky-shaped hole in your chest getting wider every day.

Bucky sat at his kitchen table with his laptop open and a beer he hadn't touched going warm beside him. The numbers on the screen hadn't changed in the last hour, no matter how many times he refreshed the page or recalculated his math.

$58,000 in savings. Fifteen years of hard work, of living cheap and saving steady, and that's what he had to show for it.

He pulled up another tab showing land listings in the county. The cheapest viable spread was listed at $425,000. The nicer properties started at $650,000 and went up from there.

He took a long pull from the beer, grimacing at the taste. The smart move would be to look further out, maybe two counties over where land was cheaper, but that would mean leaving the ranch, leaving you, and what was fucking point of building something if you weren't part of it?

His phone sat face-down on the table. He'd been staring at it for twenty minutes, trying to decide if he should call his cousin Hugh. He had made something of himself, built a successful business in Denver, bought a house. Hugh would probably tell him to forget the ranch work, come to the city, learn a trade that paid better..

But Bucky wasn't Hugh. He didn't want an office or a crew of subcontractors or a house in the suburbs. He wanted land, cattle and horses and the kind of legacy his father had helped build for someone else's family. He wanted to be able to stand next to you and not feel like he was taking something he hadn't earned.

His father's voice echoed in his head, rough from years of cigarettes and dust: A man provides for his family, son. You work hard, build something and give your wife and kids a life worth living.

His old man worked himself into an early grave trying to live up to that standard, died at sixty-two with nothing but a paid off truck and a pension that barely covered his medical bills. Bucky's mother had held it together with grit and his father's life insurance, but she's had to move into town and had to make herself smaller to fit into what was left.

Bucky had sworn he'd never put a woman in that position, that he'd build something solid before thinking about settling down… and then you'd kissed him in the barn last summer with dirt on your jeans and challenge in your eyes, and every promise he'd made to himself had evaporated.

Ten months of telling himself it was just physical, just chemistry, just two people scratching an itch. Ten months of lying to himself and to you and pretending it wouldn't end in exactly this kind of pain,

He opened a new tab for job listings this time. Foreman positions at other ranches—most paid about what he was making now, maybe five thousand more if he was lucky. Manager positions required degrees he didn't have. The oil and gas jobs paid better but required months away at a time, and what good was money if he couldn't be near you?

He closed the laptop harder than necessary.

This was about building something with you, about not being that guy who moved into your house, worked your land, lived off your success. He'd seen it before: men who married into ranching families and became permanent accessories, useful but ultimately replaceable.

His pride wouldn't let him become that.

But how the hell was he supposed to close a $400,00 gap? Even if he worked himself into the ground, saved every penny, made all the right moves he'd still be forty before he had enough to buy anything worth having.

And you'd be what? Waiting around for him to get his shit together? Turning down men like Clayton Sheridan who could give you everything right now? The thought of you with Sheridan made him want to put his fist through the wall, made him want to drive to that bastard's ranch and make it crystal clear that he'd never speak to you like that again.

But he hadn't, because what right did he have? He wasn't your boyfriend or your husband. He was just an employee, the man who was too proud to be with you on your terms and too poor to offer his own.

His phone buzzed, it was a text from Pete:

Boss asked me to tell you she's doing the evening rounds herself tonight, thought you should know.

Bucky's chest tightened. You were avoiding the crew now, doing the work yourself rather than risk running into him. Or maybe you didn't trust him to do his job anymore.

He typed back: Thanks, I'll check the north pasture, make sure everything's locked down.

It was cowardice, making sure he'd be on the opposite end of the property when you made your rounds. But he wasn't strong enough yet to see you and not break, he wasn't ready to look into your eyes and see the hurt he'd put there.

Not until he had a plan and could offer you something more than apologies and empty promises.

Bucky drained the flat beer and got back to work on the numbers. Somewhere in these spreadsheets, in these listings, in the careful mathematics of sacrifice and saving, there had to be an answer, there had to be a way to become the man you deserved… he just had to find it.

You found him in the equipment barn three days later, and this time you didn't let him walk away. You were done avoiding him.

He was replacing the hydraulic line on one of the tractors, his shirt off in the afternoon heat, and for a moment you just watched him work, watched the flex of his shoulders, the concentration on his face, the competent sureness of his hands. This was the Bucky you'd grown up with, the one who could fix anything, who moved through the wold with quiet capability.

The one you'd loved since you were sixteen years old.

"We need to talk," you said.

His hands stilled on the wrench, but he didn't look up. "Kind of in the middle of something."

"I don't care." You stepped into the barn, letting the door swing shut behind you. "You've been avoiding me for three weeks, I'm done pretending this isn't happening."

"Nothing's happening," his voice was carefully flat. "I'm working, you're working, that's all there is."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

He finally looked at you, and the exhaustion in his eyes made your chest ache. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to stop running," you move closer. "I want you to stop deciding what's best for me without asking me what I actually want."

"I know what you want."

"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you've built this whole story in your head about what I need and what you can't give me."

His jaw tightened. "You deserve someone who can give you a real future."

"I deserve someone who loves me," you countered. "Everything else is just details."

"They're not just details!" His voice rose, frustration finally breaking through. "They're the difference between being your partner and your charity case. I don't want to just be the guy who lives in your mansion, works your land and gets to be with you because you're generous enough not to care that he's got nothing to offer."

"That's not—"

"It is, though." He set down the wrench, finally giving you his full attention. "You're telling me the money doesn't matter, that the land doesn't matter, that I don't need to be able to provide anything because you've already got it all covered. You're telling me to just… accept the fact that I'll never contribute equally to this relationship, that I'll always be the hired help who got lucky enough to fuck the boss."

The crudeness of it made you flinch. "Don't talk about us like that."

"Why not? That's what everyone else is saying." His laugh was bitter. "And maybe they're right. Maybe that's exactly what this is—you slumming it with the help because it's convenient and exciting, and me being too stupid to see that I'm just a phase before you settle down with someone appropriate."

The accusation stung like a slap. "You think you're just a phase to me?"

"I don't know what I am to you!" His voice cracked. "Because you keep saying it doesn't matter, that we'll figure it out,that love is enough, but it's not! Not when I lie awake every night doing math that doesn't add up, not when I have to watch men like Clayton Sheridan circle you like sharks because I can't protect you… not when I know that staying with me means you'll never have a man who can stand beside you on his own as an equal—"

"You're my equal—"

"I'm your foreman! I earn in one year what you make in one month! We're not equals, no matter how much you want to pretend we are."

"Money doesn't make someone more or less valuable, Bucky. We—"

"It's not about value!" He ran both hands through his hair, pulling slightly like he wanted to tear something out. "It's about being able to build something together, about me being able to contribute more than just labor and good intentions… about not feeling like a kept man every time you solve a problem I can't afford to fix."

"So what do you want from me?" Your voice shook. "You want me to pretend I don't have money? Want me to apologize for inheriting this ranch? To make myself smaller so you can feel more like a man?"

"No! Christ, no, it's completely the opposite. I want—" He stopped, his jaw working. "I want to be worthy of you, I want to look at you without feeling like I'm stealing something that should belong to someone better. But I can't do that with fifty-eight thousand dollars in savings and a truck I've had since college."

Fifty-eight thousand dollars. That number hit you like a gut punch. He'd been counting, calculating, measuring himself against some impossible standard and finding himself lacking.

"Bucky," you said softly, stepping toward him. "I don't care how much money you have, or if you own land or if you live in that cabin for the rest of your life. I care about you because I love—"

"Don't," he backed away, hands up. "Please don't say that again."

"Why not? It is the truth."

"Because it doesn't change anything!" His voice was ragged. "You saying you love me doesn't change the fact that I can't give you what you deserve, doesn't change that I wake up every morning knowing I'm not enough or that I want to be the kind of man who can take care of you."

"I don't need you to take care of me, I can take care of myself, I just… I just need you to be here, to stop running from our love, to—"

"That's exactly the problem." His voice went quiet, deadly calm. "You don't need me, not really. You need a good foreman and a warm body in your bed, and I can be both of these things but that's not what I want to be. I want to be necessary, I want to provide for you. I want to build you a life instead of just existing in the one you already have. And you telling me none of that matters, that I should just be grateful that you want me anyway…"

He laughed, but it sounded like something breaking.

"I don't need your pity, ma'am."

The formality hit like a physical blow. Not wildfire, not your name, not even a cold distant boss. Just ma'am, with all the professional distance that implied, with all the class and power differential laid bare.

Your throat closed. "That's not— I'm not pitying you, Bucky, I'm trying to tell you that I love you—"

"And I'm trying to tell you that's not enough. Not when loving you means giving up every shred of pride and self-respect I have left."

"So what?" Your voice broke. "You'd rather have your pride than have me?"

"I'd rather become someone worthy of having you." He picked up his shirt, pulling it on with sharp, angry movements. "And I won't let you settle for less than you deserve just because you think you love me."

"I don't think I love you, I know I love you, I've been in love with you since I was sixteen years old." He froze, shirt half buttoned. "That kiss by the north fence, you think I forgot about it? You think I didn't spend the last decade wondering what would've happened if you hadn't pulled away?"

"Stop," the world was barely a whisper. "Don't do this."

"Don't tell me what I feel, Bucky, don't tell me I'm wrong about loving you, and don't you dare walk away just because you've convinced yourself matters more than—"

"Don't you understand? It's not about the money!" He shouted, and you'd never heard him yell like that, not in twenty years. "It's about what the money represents, about being able to look my father's ghost and say I built something… it's about not being the guy who couldn't make it on his own, so he shacked up with the rich girl who felt sorry for him. It's about not being enough, and I'm not, not yet. I have to at least try to become someone who can stand next to you without shame."

You stared at him, this stubborn, proud, heartbroken man and realized you were fighting a ghost. Not just his father's expectations, but generations of them… every man in his family who'd worked someone else's land and dreamed of their own. Every lesson about what it meant to be a provider, the man of the house.

"And what if you never have enough?" You asked. "If the math never adds up and the land prices keep rising and you're still chasing this impossible standard in ten years? What then?"

His silence was answer enough.

"You're going to let this destroy us," you said. "You're going to choose pride over love, over happiness, over us, because you can't accept that maybe your father's way isn't the only way. That maybe I don't need you to own land to prove you're worthy of me."

"It's not about what you need," he said quietly. "It's about what I need. And I need to be able to respect myself when I look in the mirror, which I can't do right now."

He moved past you toward the door, and you didn't stop him this time. At the threshold, he paused, but didn't turn around.

"I'm sorry, wildfire," he said and the nickname sounded like a goodbye. "I'm sorry I'm not the man you think I am."

Then he was gone, and you were alone in the equipment barn with the smell of motor oil and the wreckage of your heart scattered across the concrete floor. You sank down onto the workbench, pressing your palms against your eyes and let yourself finally break.

Because he was right about one thing: love wasn't enough. Not when one person had already decided they weren't worthy of it.

You were in your office when you heard a truck. The engine was too loud, too aggressive, not the familiar sounds of Pete, Sanchez or Bucky's trucks. Something was wrong.

You looked up as footsteps approached, uneven and heavy on the gravel outside, and Clayton Sheridan appeared on your doorway. The smell of whiskey hit you before his expression did.

"There you are," his words spurred slightly at the edges. "Been looking for you."

Your hand moved toward your phone on the desk, but he saw the movement and stepped fully into the small office, blocking the only exit. The space suddenly felt suffocatingly small.

"Clayton, you need to leave." Your voice came out steady, but without its usual steel. You were so tired lately, tired of fighting, of hurting, tired of everything. "You're drunk, this isn't—“

"This isn't what?" He moved closer, and you stood up instinctively, chair scraping back. "Isn't appropriate? Since when do you care about appropriate? You've been fucking your foreman for months, don't talk to me about appropriate."

"Get out of my office."

"Or what?" He was close enough that you could see the anger in his bloodshot eyes, the mean set of his jaw. "You gonna call your cowboy to come save you? Oh, wait. I heard you two had a falling out, guess even he figured out you're not worth the trouble."

The words hit hard, landing right on the wound Bucky had left bleeding. Your breath caught, and Clayton saw the flinch, the way you'd gone still.

"That's it, isn't it?" His voice dropped, almost soothing, which made it worse. "He finally wised up, left you all alone in this big ranch, and now you're realizing what a mistake you made by turning down a real man for some hired hand who couldn't even stick around."

You should tell him to leave again, move past him, get out of this small room, get your phone, do something. But you felt frozen, hollowed out, like all the fight had been burned out of you in that equipment barn when Bucky had called you ma'am and walked away.

Clayton took another step, you backed up until your hip hit the desk.

"I'm trying to be reasonable here," he was so close, invading your space, using his size to intimidate. "Trying to give you another chance, because despite you embarrassing me, rejecting me and making me look like a fool, I'm still willing to overlook it. Still willing to offer you a real partnership."

"I don't want—" Your voice came smaller than intended, and you hated how weak you sounded. But you were so empty, so worn down by weeks of heartbreak and loneliness and loving someone who'd convinced himself he wasn't worthy of being loved back.

"Don't want what?" Clayton's hand came up, palm flat against the wall beside your head, caging you in. "Don't want stability? Success? A man who can actually provide for you instead of living off your charity?"

You turned your head away, trying to duck under his arm, but he shifted and suddenly you were truly cornered, desk behind you, Clayton in front, his other hand coming up to block your escape route.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," his voice had gone hard. "I've been patient, I've been courteous. I've given you space and time and you've thrown it back in my face over and over, and I'm done being nice.

"Let me go," you tried to put command in it, but it came out defeated.

"Not until you listen and understand what you're throwing away by being stubborn about some ridiculous idea of love with a man who has already given up on you. He doesn't want you enough to fight for you, but I do. So you're going to stop being difficult and—"

"Get your fucking hands off her."

The voice came from the doorway, low and lethal, and you'd never heard Bucky sound like that. Clayton turned, hands dropping, and you could see him trying to recalibrate, trying to pull on charm or authority, but he didn't get the chance. Bucky had already crossed the small office and his fist connected with Clayton's jaw with a sickening crack.

Clayton staggered backward and hit the wall. "What the hell—"

"You don't fucking touch her." Bucky hit him again, this time in the ribs and Clayton doubled over with a wheeze. "You don't corner her, or come to her property drunk and put your hands near her talking like she's something you can intimidate into—"

He grabbed Clayton by the shirt and hauled him toward the door. Clayton tried to swing back, caught Bucky's cheek with a glancing blow, but Bucky barely seemed to notice. He shoved Clayton out into the barn aisle, following him out.

You stood frozen in the office, watching through the doorway as Bucky grabbed Clayton again and drove his fist into his stomach. Clayton crumpled, coughing and Bucky dragged him upright.

"You ever come near her again," Bucky's voice was shaking with barely controlled rage, "and I will fucking end you. I don't care about consequences, or going to jail, you don't get to scare her and make her feel small. Are we clear?"

"You're insane—" Clayton choked out.

Bucky shoved him toward the barn entrance. "Get the hell out."

He punctuated it with a kick to Clayton's ass that sent him stumbling forward. Clayton caught himself, turned back like he might try to fight, but whatever he saw in Bucky's face made him think better of it. He spat blood onto the barn floor and shot you a look full of venom before limping toward the exit.

"This isn't over," Clayton said.

"Yeah, it is." Bucky's voice was flat. "You're done. Now get the fuck off this property before I make you."

Clayton left, and you could hear his truck start up moments later, tires spitting gravel as he sped away.

Silence filled the barn. You were still standing in the office doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, shaking. Not from fear but from shock, from the crash of adrenaline, from everything finally being too much. Bucky turned to look at you, and his expression crumpled.

"Did he hurt you?" He stayed where he was, like he was afraid to get closer. "Did he touch you?"

You shook your head, the words wouldn't come.

"Jesus Christ," he ran both hands through his hair, pulling hard. "I was just walking back from the equipment barn, heard his voice and— If I hadn't been walking by, if I hadn't heard him say that shit about you, if he'd—"

He couldn't finish, his hands were shaking, knuckles already swelling and split.

"Bucky—" You managed, but your voice sounded wrong and distant, like it belonged to someone else.

"Boss!" Pete appeared in the barn entrance, Sanchez right behind him. They must've seen or heard the commotion. Pete took in the scene: you trembling in the office doorway, Bucky with blood on his knuckles, the tension still cracking in the air. "What happened?"

"Sheridan," Bucky's jaw was tight. "Showed up drunk, cornered her in the office. I handled it."

"Handled it?" Sanchez was looking at Bucky's hands. "Jesus, man."

"Is he gone?" Pete asked.

"Yeah," Bucky's eyes hadn't left you. "He's gone."

Pete moved toward you carefully, like you might spook. "Boss? You okay?"

You nodded, but it was a lie and everyone knew it. You weren't okay, hadn't been for weeks, and this had just broken something that was already cracked.

"Why don't you come with me?" Peter said gently. "Maria's at home, she can make you some tea, you can get away from here for a bit."

"I'm fine," but your voice shook on the words. "I don't need—"

"I insist," Pete said. "Just for a few hours, let us make sure Sheridan doesn't try to come back, let yourself breathe."

You wanted to argue, stay here and deal with this yourself, prove you didn't need protecting, but you were so tired of fighting, so tired of being strong. And the thought of Pete's warm, comfortable house, of his wife Maria's kind presence, of being somewhere that felt safe for just a little while…

"Okay," you whispered.

Bucky's face did something complicated. "I can stay here, keep watch—"

"No." Pete's voice was firm. "You need to clean up and cool down. Sanchez and I will handle security, you go home."

For a moment you thought Bucky would argue, but then he just nodded. His eyes met yours one more time, and the guilt and longing and helplessness in them made your chest ache. But he didn't say anything, he walked away, disappearing into the darkness beyond the barn, and you felt the distance between you like a physical wound.

Pete's house was warm and lived-in, smelling like the chicken Maria had roasted for dinner and the vanilla candles she loved. She met you at the door with soft hands and softer eyes, asked no questions, just guided you to the kitchen table where a chamomile tea was already waiting for you.

"Pete called ahead," she said settling into the chair across from you. "Said you had a rough evening."

"You could say that," your hands wrapped around the mug, seeking warmth even though you weren't cold. You were shaking again, small tremors you couldn't control.

Maria reached across the table and covered your hand with hers. "You're safe here, mija. Whatever happened, you're safe now."

You nodded, throat tight. Through the window, you could see Pete outside, on the phone—probably coordinating with Sanchez, making sure your property was secure. Making sure Clayton wouldn't come back.

The simple care of it broke something loose in your chest.

"Pete's a good man."

"The best," Maria's smile was soft, full of easy affection. "Drives me crazy sometimes, leaves his boots in the middle of the floor and falls asleep during every movie, but he's good all the way through"

You watched Pete through the window, the way he moved with easy confidence, the way he glanced back at the house, checking on his wife to make sure she was okay. There was something so simple about it, so uncomplicated.

"How do you make it look so easy?" The words came out before you could stop them. "Being together."

Maria tilted her head, studying you. "It's not always easy. We've had our share of hard times—money troubles, my mother getting sick, that year Pete threw his back out and couldn't wait for three months. But we're partners, you know? We figure it out together."

Partners. That word sat heavily on your chest.

"What if one person thinks they're not good enough?" You stared into your tea. "What if two people love each other but one of them is convinced… they don't have enough to offer?"

Maria was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentle. "This is about Bucky, isn't it?" You looked up, startled. She smiled sadly. "Honey, everyone knows you two have been circling each other for months, and everyone can see you're both miserable right now. Whatever he thinks he doesn't have… does it matter to you?"

"No," the answer came immediately. "It doesn't matter at all, I don't care about money or land or any of it. I just want him."

"Have you told him that?"

"Yes, multiple times, but he won't listen. He's convinced that loving me means being able to provide for me the way his father provided for his mother, the way—" Your voice broke. "The way Pete provides for you, and he can't. At least not in the way he thinks he should, so… he'd rather let me go than accept that maybe I don't need what he's supposed to give me."

Maria's eyes were sad. "Men and their pride, especially the good ones. They get these ideas in their heads about what it means to be a man, what they owe the women they love, and sometimes those ideas do more harm than good."

"So what do I do?" You hated how desperate you sounded. "How do I fight someone who's already decided he's not enough?"

"I don't know if you can, mija." She said it kindly, but it still hurt. "Sometimes people have to figure things out for themselves, have to learn that love isn't about what you can provide in dollars and cents.It's about showing up, being present, building a life together even when it's hard… But you can't force someone to believe they're worthy of love, that's something they have to find on their own."

You felt tears prick your eyes. "What if he never does?"

"Then that's his loss. Because from where I'm sitting, he's throwing away something real and good because he's too stubborn to see that you already chose him, that you'd choose him every day if he'd let you."

The tears spilled over then, you tried to wipe them away, embarrassed, but Maria just moved her chair closer and pulled you into a hug. You let yourself cry against her shoulder—for Bucky, for the relationship that was dying before it ever really lived, for the loneliness that had become your constant companion.

"I love him," you whispered into her shoulder. "I've been in love with him since I was sixteen years old and I don't know how to stop."

"Oh, sweetheart." Maria rubbed your back. "Maybe you're not supposed to stop, maybe you just have to love him from a distance while he figures things out. And maybe he'll figure it out on time… but you can't sacrifice yourself while you wait. Can't make yourself smaller or quieter just to make him comfortable with loving you."

You pulled back, wiping your eyes. "I don't know how to do this."

"None of us do," she smiled sadly. "We're all just making it up as we go."

Pete came back inside then, took in your tear-stained face and his wife's protective posture, and his expression softened.

"Everything's secure, Sanchez is doing perimeter checks, but the property's locked down tight." He hesitated. "You're welcome to stay here tonight, the guest room is ready."

You shook your head. "I appreciate the offer, but I should go home. I can't let Clayton chase me out of my own house."

"You sure?" Maria asked.

"Yeah," you stood, steadier now. "I'm sure."

They walked you to your truck, Pete insisting on following you back to make sure you got inside safely. The drive was short, and when you pulled up to your dark house, Pete waited until you unlocked the door and turned on the lights before giving you a wave and heading back to his own home.

You stood in your empty living room and felt the silence press in. You've always loved this house and all the memories that it contained, but lately it felt too big and lonely. Tonight it was just you and the weight of everything that happened.

You should eat something, shower or try to sleep.

Instead, you sank onto the couch and let yourself feel everything you'd been holding back—the fear from Clayton's visit, the heartbreak from Bucky's rejection, the bone-deep exhaustion of loving someone who wouldn't let himself be loved.

Eventually you dragged yourself upstairs, changed into sleep clothes and crawled into bed. The house settled around you with familiar creaks and sighs, and slowly, finally, you drifted into an uneasy sleep.

The smell woke you first. Acrid, wrong, burning.

You sat up in bed, disoriented. The clock read 2:17 AM. For a moment you thought you were dreaming, but then you heard it— the panicked whinnying of horses, the sharp crack of wood giving way. Fire.

You were out of bed and running before conscious though kicked in, flying down the stairs in your sleep clothes, your slippers hitting the porch steps, and then you saw it: the stables lit up against the night sky, flames already consuming the east side of the building, spreading fast through the old dry wood.

The horses.

Copper.

You didn't think or stop to call for help or consider the danger. You just ran.

The heat hit you when you reached the stable doors, but you ripped your shirt up over your nose and mouth and plunged inside anyway. The smoke was thick, black, choking, but you knew this building like you knew your own heartbeat, knew exactly where each stall was, which horses were where.

"I'm coming!" You shouted, voice muffled through the fabric. "I'm coming, it's okay!"

The first stall was Daisy's, the chestnut mare. You fumbled with the latch, hands shaking,a nod shoved the door open. She reared back, eyes rolling white with terror, but you grabbed her halter and dragged her toward the entrance. "Go, go, go!"

She bolted past you into the night, and you were already moving to the next stall. Juniper, the bay mare heavy with foal. She was screaming, hooves striking the stall door, and you got it open just as part of the roof above groaned ominously.

"Out!" You slapped her hindquarters and she ran, coat slick with sweat and far.

The smoke was getting thicker. You couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you, couldn't breathe without coughing, but you kept moving. Duke and Ranger in the double stall, the two yearling colts next, skittish and terrified but moving when you shouted at them.

Your lungs were burning. Each breath felt like inhaling glass, and your eyes streamed tears from the smoke, but you pushed deeper into the stable. Eight horses out. Copper was the only one missing.

His stall was in the back, farthest from the entrance, and the fire was spreading fast. You could feel the heat on your skin, could hear the ceiling beams cracking and shifting. You should leave, get out while you still could, but Copper was your father's horse. Your first horse. The only living reminder of him, and you wouldn't leave him.

"I'm coming, old man!" You choked on smoke, stumbled, caught yourself against a stall door. "I'm coming!"

You found his stall by memory more than sight. The smoke was too thick now, the world reduced to burning shapes. Your fingers found the latch and you yanked it open. "Copper! Come on, baby, we gotta go—"

He was pressed into the back corner, wild-eyed, making sounds you'd never heard from him before. You grabbed his halter, pulled, but he wouldn't move.

"Please," you begged, coughing so hard you nearly doubled over. "Please, Copper, please—"

He finally moved, and you were leading him toward where you thought the entrance was, one hand on his hater and one hand trailing the wall, it the smoke was everywhere now. You couldn't see or breathe properly anymore.

Your foot caught on something and you went down hard, hand ripping free from Copper's halter. You heard him bolt, heard his hooves on the concrete floor, and you tried to get up and call after him, but your lungs wouldn't work. The smoke was too thick and the world was starting to gray at the edges.

Get up, you told yourself. Get up, you have to get out.

But your arms wouldn't hold you. You collapsed face-down on the concrete floor near what you thought was the entrance, and distantly you realized you were going to die here in the stable. On the land you loved.

You couldn't breathe anymore, couldn't move. The smoke filled your lungs and the world went soft and strange, and the last thought before everything went black was of Bucky's face when he told you he wasn't enough for you and walked away.

Then nothing.

Bucky had been awake when the fire started.

He'd been lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way you'd looked when Clayton had you cornered in that office. The fear in your eyes, the way you seemed so small, so defeated, like all the fight had been burned out of you.

It was all his fault. If he hadn't pushed you away, if he hadn't been so goddamn stubborn about his pride and his plans, maybe you wouldn't have been so vulnerable when that bastard showed up.

He was still stewing in guilt and self-loathing when he smelled the smoke.

For a second, he thought maybe someone was burning trash, but it was 2 AM and the smell was too strong. He got out of bed and looked out his window toward his property.

His heart stopped.

The stables were on fire, visible even from his cabin, and he was running before his brain fully processed what he was seeing. Running toward the fire in just his sleep pants and boots he grabbed by the door, no shirt, no phone, nothing but pure animal panic driving him forward.

The horses were scattered in the yard, wild-eyed and panicked, and his first thought was relief—someone got them out, they were safe—but then he got closer and saw the stables entrance and his world tilted sideways.

You were lying face-down just inside the doorway, smoke billowing around you, and you weren't moving.

"No!" The scream tore out of him, raw and animal. He was at the entrance in seconds, dropping to his knees, hands on your back. "No, no, no, please—"

You weren't breathing. Your skin was gray, lips tinged blue, and there was ash in your hair and you weren't fucking breathing.

"Help!' He screamed it into the night, voice breaking. "Help! Someone call 911! Please help!"

He got his arms under you and lifted, staggering away from the entrance as part of the roof collapsed inward with a shower of sparks. You weren't breathing limp in his arms, a horrible dead weight, and he couldn't—

"Please, don't be dead, please wildfire, please—"

He laid you down on the grass far from the fire, hands shaking so hard he could barely function. Tilted your head back, checking for breathing… nothing. He pressed his fingers to your throat, searching desperately for a pulse.

There. Weak and thready, but there.

"Call 911!" He screamed it again, looking around wildly, but no one was there. Everyone was asleep or too far away to hear. "Somebody please help us!"

He started CPR, hands laced over your sternum, counting compressions like the training he'd taken years ago. Thirty compressions, two breaths. Your lips were so cold under his, and you still weren't breathing on your own, and he was going to lose you before he ever got the chance to tell you, that he'd been an idiot, that his pride meant nothing compared to you.

"Come on, baby, come on," he begged between breaths. "Breathe for me, please breathe. I'm sorry, I love you, please don't leave me, please—"

He continued, thirty compressions, two breaths. Your chest rose and fell when he breathed for you, but then nothing. No response.

"HELP!" His voice was wrecked, tears streaming down his face. "Please, someone help!"

Lights flickered on in the distance. There was a truck approaching. Thank god.

Thirty compressions, two breaths.

"You don't get to do this," he told you, voice breaking. "You don't get to die because I was too fucking stupid to tell you I love you. Come on, wildfire, fight, I know you're strong."

Another thirty compressions, two more breaths.

Your body jerked and you coughed, harsh and wet and he rolled you onto your side as you vomited up smoke and ash. You gasped, a horrible wheezing sound, but you were breathing. Your eyes fluttered but didn't open, and your breathing was labored and wrong, but you were alive.

"That's it, that it baby, breathe." He was sobbing openly now, one hand on your back and one stroking your hair. "You're okay, you're gonna be okay, just keep breathing for me."

Pete's truck roared up, and he was out and running before it fully stopped. "Jesus Christ— what happened?"

"She went in," Bucky choked out. "She went into the fucking fire, got the horses out and she— call 911, she's not breathing right, she needs oxygen."

Pete already had his phone out and was shouting into it about the address and fire and person down.

Sanchez appeared from somewhere, still pulling on his shirt. "Holy shit— is she—"

"She's breathing, but barely." Bucky couldn't stop touching you, couldn't stop checking your pulse like it might disappear if he looked away. "She inhaled too much smoke, she was unconscious—"

You coughed again, weaker this time, and made a sound like you were trying to speak.

"Don't talk," Bucky said. "Don't try to talk, just breathe, help is coming, you're gonna be fine—"

But you weren't fine. Your breathing was getting worse, more labored, and your skin was still that terrible gray color. He gathered you against his chest and pressed his forehead to yours.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so fucking sorry, I love you, I was just too stupid and proud and scared to—" His voice broke completely. "You have to be okay, because I can't do this without you, wildfire, I can't."

Sirens in the distance getting closer. The volunteer fire department, the ambulance. Pete was directing them, shouting coordinates.

You made another small sound, and your eyes opened just a crack. "Bucky," you breathed, barely audible.

"I'm here," he was crying so hard he could barely see. "I'm right here, I've got you, you're gonna be fine."

"Copper—"

"He's fine, all the horses are fine. You got them all out, you crazy, brave, stubborn—" He couldn't finish, just held you tight as the ambulance pulled up, as EMT's swarmed with oxygen and equipment.

They tried to take you from him but he couldn't let go, couldn't release you until one of them put a hand on his shoulder.

"We've got her," she said gently. "Let us help her."

He forced himself to release you, watched as they got an oxygen mask on your face, loaded you onto a gurney. Your eyes found his one more time before they put you in the ambulance, and he saw fear there.

"I'm coming with you," he told the EMTs.

They didn't argue. He climbed into the ambulance and took your hand, and as they pulled away, he pressed his lips to your knuckles and made you a promise.

"You're gonna be okay," he said. "And when you are, I'm gonna tell you every single day for the rest of my life that I love you. Gonna prove to you that I can be the man you deserve, that my pride was bullshit, that yore all that matters. Just— don't leave me before I get the chance. Please, wildfire, please don't leave."

Your fingers twitched in his, the barest squeeze and he held on like you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

The first thing you became aware of was the beeping. Steady, rhythmic, accompanied by a mechanical hiss that matched the uncomfortable pressure around your face. The second thing was the voice.

"—and I know I don't deserve it, I know I fucked everything up, but if you wake up, I swear to God, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Proving that I can be the man you think I am, even if I don't believe it yet."

That was Bucky's voice, coming from somewhere to your left.

"I'm sorry I pushed you away, I'm sorry I let my pride and my own stubbornness matter more than you, I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention when the fire started. I'm sorry for all of it."

You tried to open your eyes but they felt crusted shut, heavy. Your throat burned like you'd swallowed razor blades, and breathing hurt in a way that suggested your lungs had been through something awful. And then you remembered it all: the fire, the stables, Copper.

You tried to move or speak, but all that came out was a rough sound that might have been a cough.

There was movement immediately, a warm hand closing around yours. "Wildfire? Hey, hey, don't try to talk. You've got an oxygen mask on, your lungs need time to heal. Just— just squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

You squeezed, or at least tried to. Your hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

"Thank god," his voice broke on the words. "You scared the hell out of me, I've aged like ten years tonight."

You managed to get your eyes open finally, blinking against the harsh hospital lights. Everything was blurry at first, but slowly it resolved: white ceiling tiles, an IV stand, medical equipment beeping away. And Bucky, sitting in a chair pulled up close to your bed, still shirtless under the blanket someone had draped over his shoulders, covered in soot and ash, eyes red-rimmed.

He looked like he'd been crying. Bucky Barnes, who you'd never seen cry, not even when his father died, had been crying over you.

"Hey," he said softly, and his thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. "Welcome back."

You tried to speak, but the oxygen mask muffled everything, and your throat was too raw anyway. You lifted your other hand weakly, gesturing at the mask.

"No way," he caught your hand gently, brought it back down. "Doctor said you need to keep that on for at least another few hours, your oxygen levels were scary low when you came in, you inhaled a lot of smoke."

You made a frustrated sound, and he actually smiled. "I know, I know, wildfire. But just rest, okay? Everything else can wait."

But you didn't want to wait. You'd heard him confessing, apologizing, saying things you'd been desperate to hear for weeks. You needed him to know you'd heard and needed to respond, needed—

The door opened and a nurse came in, checked your vitals with practiced efficiency. "Good to see those eyes open. How's the pain level? Blink once for manageable, twice for severe."

You blinked once. Everything hurt, but it was distant, muted by whatever they had you on.

"Good, the doctor will be in soon to check on you." She adjusted something on your IV. "You're very lucky, young lady. Another minute or two in that smoke and we'd be having a very different conversation." Her eyes cut to Bucky. "And you should probably get checked out too. That cough doesn't sound good."

"I'm fine," Bucky said automatically.

"You performed CPR for several minutes and you've been breathing smoke residue all night, at least let me listen to yous lungs."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but the nurse had already pulled out her stethoscope with a look that said she wasn't asking. While she checked him over—pronounced him "borderline but not critical"— you watched him. Catalogued the soot in his hair, the redness along his eyes, the exhaustion in his body… He'd stayed all night.

After the nurse left, silence fell between you. Bucky was still holding your hand, his thumb still stroking your knuckles, but he was looking down at your joined hands like he was afraid to meet your eyes.

"The horses are all okay," he said finally. "Pete's got them in the training paddock and the north pasture. Copper's fine—spooked but fine. You got every single one out before you…" He swallowed hard. "Before you collapsed."

You squeezed his hand.

"The stable's gone, total loss. But Sanchez thinks the fire was deliberately set, he found evidence of accelerant near the east wall. The sheriff's already investigating, smart money's o Sheridan."

That should have made you angry, should've sparked fear or rage, but you just felt tired. You'd deal with Clayton later. Right now, all you cared about was the man sitting beside your bed, still covered in ash from pulling you out of the fire.

You tugged weakly at the oxygen mask, and this time Bucky didn't stop you, just helped you pull it down to rest under your chin.

"Wildfire—"

"Did you mean it?" Your voice came out as a rasp, barely audible, your throat shredded but you needed to know. "What you said earlier, did you mean it?"

His eyes finally met yours, and they were so raw it hurt to look at. "Every word, I love you. I've been in love with you for so long I can't remember what it felt like not to love you. And I'm sorry I let my pride and y stupid hang-ups about money and worth keep me from saying it. I'm sorry when I pushed you away when all you wanted was—"

"Bucky," you interrupted him, voice still rough. "I'm not gonna die."

He blinked. "What?"

"I'm not gonna die," you repeated. "So you can stop with the dramatic deathbed confessions."

For a second he just stared at you, then incredibly, he laughed. "You almost died and you're making jokes?"

"Someone has to lighten the mood." You tried to smile but your face felt stiff. "You look like shit, by the way."

"Yeah, well." He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing the soot. "Watching the woman you love nearly die in a fire will do that to you."

The woman you love. He'd said it again, and this time the words settled in your chest like something warm and permanent.

"I heard you," you said quietly. "In the ambulance, and when I first woke up, I heard you."

His hand tightened on yours. "Then you heard me say I'm sorry, that I was an idiot, and that I'm going to spend every day proving I can be man you—"

"You already are." You cut him off. "You've always been, that was never the problem."

"Then what was?"

"You not believing it." You coughed, wincing at the pain in your chest. "You letting your father's expectations and your own pride convince you that you weren't enough… but you were always enough, Bucky, you were always more than enough."

He was quiet for a moment, just looking at you with those blue eyes full of things he'd never let himself say out loud.

"I thought I needed to build something first," he said finally. "Thought I needed to have land, money, something concrete to offer you, something that would make me your equal instead of just… the foreman who got lucky."

"I never wanted an equal. I don't want a business partner or a merger, or someone who can match my net worth. I just want you, the guy who checks on Copper because he knows the horse matters to me. The guy who fixes problems before I know they exist, the guy who punched Sheridan for cornering me and then ran into a burning building to save me even though—" Your voice cracked. "Even though I'd already gotten myself out."

"Barely," he said roughly. "You barely got yourself out, and when I found you lying there not breathing, I—" He stopped, jaw working. "I couldn't breathe either, felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest. And all I could think was that I'd wasted so much time, weeks we could have had together because I was too proud to accept that maybe love doesn't care about bank balances and property."

You brought your other hand up to cup his face, felt the scrape of stubble and the warmth of his skin. "Life's too short."

"Yeah, it is." He said leaning into your touch.

"I was at Pete and Maria's house yesterday before the fire," you ran your thumb along his cheekbone. "Watched them together, the way they move around each other, the easy affection, how simply it all looked… and I just wanted that with you so badly it hurt. Just simple love, coming home to each other, building a life together without all the weight and the expectations and the fear."

"I want that too," he said quietly. "But I don't know if I know how to do simple. Don't know if I can turn off the voice in my head that says I should be providing more."

"Then we'll figure it out together." You held his gaze. "I'm not asking you to change overnight. I'm not asking you to suddenly be okay with everything you're not okay with, but I need you to try. Need you to let me in instead of pushing me away when it gets hard."

His eyes were bright again. "What if I fuck it up?"

"You will," you smiled slightly. "And I'll fuck it up too. We'll fight and disagree and drive each other crazy, but we'll do it together."

He was quiet, and you could see him wrestling with it—the pride and the fear, but also hope, all tangled together in a know he'd spent his whole life tying.

"I don't have much," he said finally. "Don't have some grand plan, damn, I don't even have a shirt on right now, but I love you, wildfire. I love you so much it terrifies me. And if you're willing to take a chance on a stubborn idiot who almost lost you because he couldn't get out of his own way—"

"I'd give it all up," you interrupted. "The ranch, the money, the legacy… all of it. If it meant I could have something like what Pete and Maria have, If it meant I could have you."

His breath caught. "You don't mean that."

"I do," you held his eyes, let him see the truth "I love the ranch, the work, the land… but I would walk away from all of it tomorrow if it meant having a simple life with you. A small place, horses we actually have time to ride, mornings where we drink coffee together. I'd trade the empire for the everyday, Bucky, every single time."

"Don't say things like that, wildfire." He pressed is forehead to yours, careful with the oxygen tubes and the IV lines.

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me want to take you up on it, makes me want to say fuck the ranch and the town and everyone's expectations and let's just run away together."

"Maybe we should," you said.

He pulled back to look at you. "You're delirious from smoke inhalation."

"I'm serious," and you were. "Not today, or tomorrow, but maybe eventually."

"You'd really leave?" He searched your face. "You'd really walk away from everything you've built."

"For us?" You smiled. "In a heartbeat."

He kissed you then, gentle and careful with your injuries, tasting like smoke and salt and promise. When he pulled back, his eyes were wet again.

"I don't deserve you."

"Probably not," you agreed and he huffed a laugh. "But you love me anyway."

"I do," he said it like a vow. "God help me, I do."

"Then that's enough," you laced your fingers through his. "We'll figure out the rest, but right now, can we just… be?"

"Be what?"

"Together." You squeezed his hand. "Just two people who love each other… just us."

He settled back into the chair, brought your joined hands up to press a kiss to your knuckles. "Yeah, wildfire. We can do that."

You drifted off to sleep with his hand in yours and his voice soft in the darkness, telling you about how Copper had tried to break back into the paddock, about how Pete was already talking to contractors about rebuilding the stable, about how the sun was going to rise soon, and when it did, everything would look better.

One year later

You woke up to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window and the smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs. For a moment, you just lay there, hand drifting to your still-flat stomach, the secret sitting warm in your chest.

You've known for three weeks, ever since you'd taken the test in the bathroom of the main house while Bucky was out checking the irrigation system. You'd been waiting for the right moment to tell him, something that matched the enormity of it.

You are going to be a father.

The other side of the bed was rumpled and empty, Bucky's watch still on the nightstand beside a book about investment strategies he's been reading. Your husband had surprised you over the past year while you've been scaling back the ranch operations, he'd been building something of his own. Nothing that took him away from you, nothing that required sacrifice or absence, but careful investments in stocks, a small stake in a friend's agricultural tech startup, some rental properties two counties over that he managed remotely.

"Not trying to match you," he said when he first told you about it, almost shy. "Just building something for us, for the future."

And now there was a very specific future growing inside you.

You pulled on one of Bucky's old flannel shirts, over your sleep clothes and padded downstairs barefoot. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in jeans and nothing else, two mugs of coffee already poured.

Well, one mug of coffee… the other was herbal tea.

Your heart stuttered. Had he noticed? You've been so careful, switching to decaf when he wasn't looking, making excuses about wanting to cut back on caffeine.

"Morning, wildfire." He turned and smiled, and you searched his face for signs that he knew. But he just looked like himself—happy, relaxed, the permanent tension he used to carry finally gone from his shoulders.

"Morning, husband." You crossed to him, let him pull you in for a kiss that tasted like coffee and mint toothpaste. "You made me tea?"

"Figured you might want something different." He handed you the mug."You've been drinking less coffee lately, thought maybe you were getting tired of it."

Not suspicious, then. Just Bucky taking care of you the way he always did, paying attention to the small details.

"Thank you," you took a sip. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep." His hands settled on your hips. "Kept thinking about that trail ride you promised me."

"Did I promise you a trail ride?"

"You definitely did," he kissed your temple. "Said something about finally having time to actually ride horses instead of just breeding and training them."

He wasn't wrong. In the year since the fire, things had changed. You hired two additional hands, promoted Pete to co-manager, and started actually delegating tasks. The ranch still ran beautifully, but you and Bucky had something you'd never had before: time.

And soon, you'd need that time for something else entirely.

Your hand drifted to your stomach before you could stop it, and you caught yourself, turning the gesture into smoothing down the shirt. But your mind was already spinning—would you still be able to ride in a few months? Would Bucky insist you stop? Would he be overprotective, or excited or scared or—

"Wildfire?" Bucky's voice pulled you back. "You okay? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine," you smiled, probably too brightly. "I'm just hungry, should eat something before we ride."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he just nodded. "I'll make breakfast, you sit."

You perched on one of the kitchen stools and watched him move around the kitchen with easy familiarity. This was your favorite part of the new life you'd built, mornings like this, just the two of you before the day really started.

Soon there would be three of you, and the thought made your chest tight with joy and terror in equal measure.

"Actually," you said as he cracked eggs into a pan, "what if we skip the trail ride this morning? We could go this afternoon instead, make a whole thing of it… pack a picnic, ride out to the creek, spend a few hours just existing."

He glanced over his shoulder a bit surprised. "Yeah? You want to play hooky from ranch work on a Tuesday?"

"We're the bosses, we're allowed." You wrapped both hands around your mug. "Besides, when was the last time we just took an afternoon for ourselves?"

"Good point," he played the eggs, added toast and brought it over to you. "We can do the morning checks, make sure everything's running smooth, then disappear for a few hours."

"Perfect."

The world came out soft, full of meaning he didn't quite catch yet, but he would. This afternoon, by the creek, you'd tell him about the baby, about your future, about how everything was about to change in the best possible way.

You just had to make it through the morning without giving it away.

By noon, you'd packed a basket with sandwiches, fruit, and the fancy cheese Bucky loved from the market in town. You'd also packed ginger cookies for the nausea that had been creeping in the past week, and a bottle of sparkling cider that you hoped would work for a toast.

Bucky was tacking up Duke and Ranger, and you were trying to calm your racing heart. You've told people difficult things before, you've fired employees, negotiated contracts, stood up to your father when he was being stubborn, but this felt bigger than all of that.

"Ready?" Bucky appeared in the tack room doorway, looking unfairly handsome in his worn jeans and work shirt, hair pushed back from his face.

"Ready," you grabbed the basket and let him help you mount Ranger.

You rode out in comfortable silence, taking the familiar trail north toward the creek. The autumn day was perfect—cool but not cold, the leaves just starting to turn gold and red. When you reached the creek, Bucky dismounted first and came to help you down, hands lingering at your waist a moment longer than necessary.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked. "You've seemed… I don't know, different today. Nervous, maybe?"

Damn his observant nature. "I'm fine, just happy."

"Yeah?" He smiled, some of the concern easing. "Me too."

You spread out the blanket you'd fought while Bucky loosened the horses' girths and let them graze nearby. The creek burbled softly, and the sun filtered through the trees in dappled patterns, and everything felt almost too perfect.

"This was a good idea," Bucky said settling beside you on the blanket. "We should do this more often, just disappear for a few hours."

"We should," you busied yourself unpacking the basket, hands shaking slightly. "Especially now that you've got your investments working for you, Pete can handle more of the daily operations."

"Speaking of which," he took the sandwich you handed him. "I wanted to talk about that. Remember the tech startup I invested in? They're doing really well, better than projected. My stake has almost doubled in value, and—" He paused, looking almost shy. "I've been thinking about diversifying more, maybe some agriculture projects or another rental property, something that can generate passive income."

"That's amazing, Bucky." And it was. You'd watched him transform over the past year from someone who measured his worth in sweat equity to someone who understood there were other ways to build security.

"Yeah, well." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I used to be weird about money, but this feels different. Feels like I'm building something that's ours without sacrificing time with you. Without having to choose between being present and being a provider."

"You've always been a provider." You set down your untouched sandwich. "But I'm proud of you for finding a way to do it that works for you."

"I had a good teacher," he kissed your temple. "You taught me that there's ore than one way to build a life together."

This was it. This was the moment. Your heart was pounding so hard you wee sure he could hear it.

"Speaking of building a life together," you started, voice shaking slightly. "There's something I need to tell you."

He set down his sandwich, his attention immediately focused on you. "What's wrong? Are you sick? Is it the ranch? Is—"

"Nothing's wrong." You took his hand, pressed it against your still-flat stomach. "Everything's right, actually. Everything is… perfect."

He froze and you watched understanding dawn slowly: the tea instead of coffee, the fact that you'd been tired lately, the way you'd been careful about lifting heavy things. All the small signs he'd noticed but hadn't put together.

"Wildfire," he breathed. "Are you—"

"I'm pregnant." The words came out in a rush, nervous and excited all at once. "About six weeks. I found out three weeks ago and I've been trying to find the right moment to tell you and I thought here, by the creek, it felt—"

He cut you off with a kiss, so deep and full of joy so pure it made your chest ache. When he used back, his eyes were bright with tears.

"You're pregnant," he said, like he was testing the words. "We are having a baby."

"We're having a baby," you were crying now too, laughing through the tears. "I know we didn't plan this, we haven't even talked about kids yet, but I'm so happy, I'm so—"

"Happy," he finished for you, his hands coming up to frame your face. "God, I'm so happy I can't even— I don't have words, I don't know what else to say except I love you and this is everything."

He pulled you into his arms, held you tight against his chest, and you could feel him shaking.

"Holy shit, I'm going to be a dad" he whispered into your hair.

"You're gonna be a great dad," you pulled back to look at him.

"I know, thanks to you. And this baby is gonna have everything they need, not because of money or any of that shit I used to obsess over, but because we'll be their parents."

"Yeah," you covered his hand with yours. "Yeah, they will."

"How are you feeling? Are you sick? Do you need to see a doctor? Should you even be riding? Jesus, should I have let you get on a horse—"

"Bucky," you laughed, cutting off his spiral. "I'm fine, I saw the doctor two weeks ago, everything looks good. I can ride for another few months as long as I'm careful. The morning sickness is mild, just some nausea, nothing terrible. I'm healthy, baby's healthy, everything's perfect."

"Everything's perfect," he repeated, and then his eyes went wide again. "Wait, does anyone else know? Pete? Maria? Have you been keeping this secret by yourself."

"Just me," you squeezed his hand. "I wanted you to be the first to know, wanted it to be just us, just this moment."

"Best moment of my life," he kissed you again, soft and sweet. "Well, second best, first was marrying you."

"Third best was punching Sheridan's face."

He laughed, loud and bright, and the sound of it made your heart soar. This was the man you'd fallen in love with, the one who could still laugh, who could let go of his pride and just be happy, just be present in the moment.

"We should celebrate." He reached for the basket, pulled out the sparkling cider you'd packed. "Did you plan this?"

"I hoped," you watched him pour two glasses. "Hoped you'd be happy, and this would be the right way to tell you."

"It's perfect." He handed you a glass, raised his own. "To our future."

You clinked glasses, sipped the sweet fizz, and then he was kissing you again, laying you back on the blanket with careful hands.

You laid there together as the afternoon sun shifted through the trees, talking about names and nursery colors and whether you'd find out the gender or be surprised. About how the ranch would need some adjustments, but nothing you couldn't handle. About how Pete and Maria would be thrilled, how the crew would rally around you, how this baby would grow up surrounded by love.

About the future you were building, not just the two of you anymore, but three.

He placed his hand over your stomach, and you covered it with yours, and for a long moment, you just sat there together, listening to the creek and the horses and the perfect silence of a life finally fully lived.

When you finally rode back, the ranch was settling into evening—crew heading home, lights coming on in the main house, the familiar rhythm of end of the day routines. But everything looked different now, felt different.

Because you weren't just coming home to the ranch you ran together. You were coming home to the place where you'd raise your child, whey you would see their first steps, teach how to ride their first horse, learn what it meant to work hard and love harder. Where they'd grow p knowing their parents chose each other every day and created a life worth living.

Bucky helped you dismount, hands lingering in your waist, his eyes soft with wonder and love and barely contained joy.

"Ready to tell everyone?" You asked.

"Ready," he laced his fingers through yours. "Let's go tell our family."

Seraphina—clever as a blade and twice as polished, the sort who can make a compliment sound like a promise.

Daphne—pretty and effortless, all dimples and flirtation, built for ballrooms like a swan is built for lakes.

Imogen—sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, always the first to notice a weakness and the last to forgive one.

Cordelia—youngest, sweet-faced, eager, still soft enough to be shaped by the rest of them.

And then you.

Your father calls you “quiet” as though it is a virtue he might one day learn to tolerate. Your sisters call you “bookish” as though it is a disease. Your mother calls you nothing at all, most days, which is somehow worse—because it implies you are not a thing worth naming.

You’ve tried, in the ways a daughter tries.

You’ve worn the colors your mother prefers—pale pinks and creams that make you feel like a faded flower pressed between pages. You’ve practiced smiling until your cheeks ache. You’ve learned to curtsy without wobbling, to speak only when spoken to, to laugh on cue at jokes you do not find funny.

But there is no practice for being overlooked. No lesson for becoming small enough to stop disappointing the people who expect you to be someone else.

So you do the one thing you’ve always been able to do: you retreat to what does not ask you to perform.

You read.

In books, no one tells you that you are too much or not enough. No one sighs when you speak. No one looks past you to find the glittering thing behind.

Tonight, however, there will be no library to hide in.

Tonight, Arabella is hosting her first grand ball in London—her first as Viscountess Harrowgate, her first as the sister who has succeeded where your mother once feared daughters could fail. Her invitation came like a command sealed with lace: You will attend. All of you. The entire family. The ton must see us.

Your mother has clung to that final line like it is scripture.

“The ton must see us,” she repeats now, adjusting the line of your gloves with pinching fingers. “We must make an impression.”

“We always do,” Seraphina murmurs behind her fan, not quite hiding her smile.

“Precisely,” your mother says, and then her eyes flick to you like a draft sneaking under a door. “And you, my dear—please do try to look… pleasant.”

You swallow the first reply that rises in your throat. What does pleasant look like? Like Daphne? Like Arabella? Like someone worth watching?

Instead, you nod. Because you’ve learned that arguing only makes them look at you longer.

Imogen leans in as the maid pins a ribbon at your back. “Do not frighten away Arabella’s guests by talking about your dreadful poetry.”

“I don’t write poetry,” you say softly.

“You read it,” Imogen answers, as though that is equally offensive. “Which is nearly as bad.”

Cordelia, perched on the edge of the chaise like a bird too young to know the cage is real, tilts her head. “I like when she reads to me.”

Imogen’s gaze cuts. “That is because you are still a child.”

Cordelia’s mouth tightens. She looks down at her slippers.

Something in your chest twists—not dramatic, not sharp. Just a small ache you’ve learned to tuck away with the rest of the quiet hurts. You reach for Cordelia’s hand under the fold of your skirt, giving it a brief squeeze. She squeezes back, grateful, as though you’ve offered her a rescue rope.

Your mother misses the exchange entirely. “Remember,” she says, “you are not to wander. You are not to disappear into some corner like a—” She inhales, restrains herself, finishes with forced calm. “Like an unsociable girl.”

Seraphina’s eyes glint. “Like herself, Mama means.”

Daphne laughs, sweet and light.

Arabella, already dressed and luminous, pauses at the door. Her gaze lands on you. For a heartbeat, something softer lives there—under her pride, under her practiced hostess smile.

“Be kind,” she says to your sisters, quietly, but not quietly enough.

Imogen rolls her eyes. Seraphina’s smile turns sharper, but she says nothing. Your mother pretends she did not hear. Arabella hesitates, as if she might say something else—to you, perhaps—and then the moment passes. She is swept away by the crush of responsibility, the weight of her new title, the desperate need to appear perfect.

And you follow, as you always do.

The Harrowgate townhouse is a blaze of candlelight and expectation.

The entry hall smells of beeswax and perfume. Footmen take cloaks and names and secrets alike. The ballroom itself gleams—polished floors reflecting chandeliers like captured constellations. Everywhere there is silk and laughter and the soft shock of jewels catching light.

Your sisters bloom in it. Arabella floats through the room like she was born to move people where she wants them. Seraphina collects admirers as if it is sport. Daphne is surrounded before the first set ends, three gentlemen vying for her attention with the earnestness of men who have never been told no. Imogen stands near your mother, issuing judgments under her breath like a magistrate.

You stand where you are placed—near a pillar, close enough to be seen, far enough to be forgotten. Your mother’s hand presses briefly to your shoulder as she passes, a reminder that you are an accessory to her ambitions, not a person within them.

“Do not slouch,” she murmurs.

You straighten.

A waltz begins. Couples spin, skirts flaring like petals caught in wind. You watch the patterns because they are safe—numbers and music, steps and symmetry. It is easier to observe the world than to risk being noticed by it.

Your gaze drifts without meaning—past laughing mouths, past gloved hands, past the bright faces of girls who have practiced wanting what they are told to want.

And then you see him.

He is not bright.

He is not easy.

He stands at the far edge of the room near the shadowed archway that leads into the adjoining salon, as if the ballroom’s light is something he tolerates rather than enjoys. His hair is dark, brushed back with minimal care. His posture is too still—soldier-still, as though his body has learned to be ready even in peace.

The first thing people notice is his arm.

Even from here, you see the metallic gleam beneath the cuff of his sleeve when he shifts, the unnatural line where polished steel meets fabric. A murmur ripples through a nearby cluster of ladies; fans lift like shields. A gentleman leans in to whisper something that makes a woman’s eyes widen in fascinated horror.

The Duke of Barnes, someone says, and the name travels like a spark.

Duke.

War-torn.

Scarred.

A man made of stories the ton tells itself to feel thrillingly safe.

You should look away. It is what everyone else is doing—staring and then pretending not to, as though curiosity is indecent and empathy impossible.

But you don’t.

Not because you are brave, but because you know what it is to be watched like an oddity. You know what it is to be the thing people discuss behind fans and laughter.

As if he feels the weight of your attention, he turns his head.

His eyes find you across the room.

They are not the cold eyes of rumor. They are a blue-gray that holds storms and fatigue and something else—something older than the ballroom, older than polite society.

His gaze catches, and for one awful, breathless moment, you think you have done something wrong. That your staring has made you rude, that you are about to be exposed as the quiet girl who forgets the rules.

Then his expression shifts—not into a smile, not quite. Into recognition.

As if he has spotted another person standing at the edges, surviving rather than performing.

You look away first, because you always do. Because it is safer to become invisible.

But the heat of his gaze lingers like candle-warmth on your skin.

You last exactly twenty minutes before you need air.

It isn’t the crowd, not really. It’s the sense of being pressed into place—of existing as a piece on someone else’s board. You slip out when your mother is distracted by a conversation about dowries and Dorsetshire estates, and when your sisters are consumed by admirers.

The corridor outside the ballroom is cooler, dimmer. The noise becomes distant, as if you’ve stepped underwater. You move as quietly as you can, past a row of portraits in gilded frames—Harrowgate ancestors who look down at you with bored superiority.

A door stands slightly ajar at the end of the hall, light spilling from within. You recognize the room by its scent before you see it: paper, leather, dust warmed by lamps.

A library.

Your heart loosens, just a little, the way it does when you step into someplace that does not demand you shine.

You push the door open, slip inside, and close it softly behind you.

The room is lined with shelves, the kind that reach toward the ceiling like devotion. There are chairs by the fireplace, a writing desk, a scattering of volumes left open as if someone abandoned them mid-thought. A lamp glows on a side table, throwing warm light over a stack of books.

You move toward them as if drawn by gravity.

Your fingers brush a spine—Milton, then Rousseau, then a worn copy of Persuasion that makes your chest ache, though you are not sure why. You pick it up, almost reverently, flipping to a page at random.

“You’re hiding.”

The voice comes from behind you—low, roughened by disuse, as though he doesn’t speak often unless he must.

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn.

He stands near the doorway, half in shadow. The Duke of Barnes. Bucky Barnes, if the murmurs were accurate—though no one says “Bucky” in ballrooms. They say “Your Grace,” and they say it with a tremble.

He has removed his gloves. One hand is bare, strong, human. The other—metal, articulated in a way that is both beautiful and unsettling, fingers of steel catching lamplight.

He looks at you not like a creature to be studied, but like a person caught doing something familiar.

“I could say the same of you,” you manage, and it surprises you—how easily the words come.

His mouth tilts at one corner, nearly a smile. “I wasn’t subtle.”

“No,” you agree, and then you flush because it sounds like judgment.

He doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks… relieved. Like you have named the truth and spared him the performance of denying it.

“You shouldn’t be in here alone,” he says after a moment. “People talk.”

You glance at the book in your hand. “People talk no matter where I stand.”

He studies you as if the sentence has struck something in him. “That so?”

You shrug, a small movement. “My sisters are the sort people notice. I am… not.”

His gaze lowers briefly to the pages, then back to your face. “You came here for the books.”

“Yes.”

“And not,” he adds, almost cautiously, “because you were hoping to catch someone’s attention.”

The question is strange—almost too direct for polite society. But you realize he is not teasing. He is… checking. As if he has been hunted by expectations and wants to know whether you are another trap.

“No,” you say, honest. “I came because it is quiet.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing. “Good.”

You blink. “Good?”

“Quiet’s… rare.” His eyes flick to the door, as though he expects it to burst open with laughter and judgment. “And I’ve had enough of rooms full of people pretending not to stare.”

The words are careful, controlled, but beneath them you hear exhaustion. Something in you softens in recognition. Not pity—pity is a kind of distance. This is something else. Understanding, perhaps.

You find yourself speaking before you can stop. “Does it hurt?”

His gaze snaps back to you, sharp.

You almost apologize immediately. You almost retreat into silence, mortified at your own boldness.

But he doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t sneer.

He looks down at his arm, the metal gleaming where the lamplight catches the joints. His fingers flex once, slow. “Sometimes,” he admits. “Not like it did at first. But… there are things a body remembers.”

You swallow. “I’m sorry.”

He lifts his eyes again. “Don’t be. You didn’t do it.”

It is a simple sentence, but it lands heavy. Like a door opening into a room you’ve never dared enter.

You shift the book in your hands. “You fought in the war,” you say, not a question.

He nods once. “And I came home less… whole than I left.”

There’s no self-pity in it. Just fact.

You gesture helplessly to the library around you. “They talk as if you are a monster.”

His expression hardens, just a little. “They talk as if I’m entertainment.”

Anger rises in you—a slow burn, unfamiliar. You are used to swallowing hurt, not holding it.

“It’s cruel,” you say, and your voice is firmer than you expect.

Something flickers across his face—surprise, and then something warmer, softer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You look down at the book, at the lines of ink that have survived centuries because they mattered to someone. “I don’t think you’re a monster,” you say, and the honesty in it makes your throat tight. “I think you’re… tired.”

His breath catches, subtle enough that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching him the way you watch stories unfold.

“Tired,” he repeats, as though he is tasting the word. “No one’s called me that.”

“What do they call you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

His jaw tightens. “Scarred. Ruined. Dangerous. Tragic.” A humorless exhale. “As if those are the only things a man can be.”

You meet his gaze, steady now because something in you refuses to flinch. “They’re wrong.”

His eyes hold yours for a long moment. The air between you feels charged—not with scandal, but with something strangely intimate: the shared relief of dropping masks.

“You got a name, Miss…?” he prompts gently.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know it, but because names, in your family, feel like expectations. Labels people use to decide what you are worth.

But his voice is not demanding. It is offering.

You give it. Quietly.

He nods as though it matters. As though he will remember it when the room grows loud again.

“I’m James,” he says, and then, as if he knows how stiff it sounds, he adds, “Most call me Bucky, when they’re brave enough to forget I’m a duke.”

You almost smile. “Bucky.”

The sound of it feels like stepping off a polished floor onto grass. Real.

He watches your mouth when you say it, and something in his expression softens into something you’ve never been the object of before: interest without agenda.

“You like books,” he says, gesturing to the one in your hands.

“I like stories,” you correct quietly. “I like… the way they tell the truth without making you perform it.”

His gaze drops again to the book. “Read to me,” he says, then pauses as if he cannot believe he asked. “If you want. I mean. You don’t have to.”

You should be nervous. You should be thinking about propriety, about how your mother would faint if she found you alone in a library with a duke whose reputation has frightened half of Mayfair.

But the room is warm and quiet and safe in a way the ballroom isn’t, and his eyes look at you like you are not a disappointment.

So you sit.

You choose a chair by the lamp, hands trembling only slightly as you open the book. He takes the other chair—not too close, not too far, positioned like someone who has learned to give women space. His metal hand rests on the armrest, glinting. His human hand folds loosely over his knee.

You begin to read.

At first, your voice is soft. Then it steadies. Then it finds rhythm—words like familiar footsteps. You feel him listening, truly listening, in a way most people do not. His gaze stays on the pages, on your hands, on your face. He does not interrupt. He does not tease. He does not try to impress you with his own cleverness.

He simply lets you exist.

When you reach the end of a passage, you look up without thinking.

He is watching you as if you are the most interesting thing in the room.

“What?” you ask, flustered.

He blinks, as if caught. “You look… different in here.”

“Different?”

“Like you belong to yourself.” His voice is quiet, almost reverent, and something in your chest aches with the sweetness of it. “In there—” his eyes flick toward the ballroom “—you were trying to disappear.”

You swallow. “It’s easier.”

He leans forward slightly, the movement careful, controlled. “Don’t,” he says, and the word is so gentle it almost hurts. “Not for them.”

Your throat tightens. No one has ever told you not to vanish.

Before you can answer, the door opens.

Light spills in. Laughter. A familiar voice, bright and sharp.

“There you are,” Seraphina says, stepping into the library as if she owns it. Her gaze darts to you, then to the duke, and her smile changes—becoming polished, predatory. “Oh.”

Behind her, your mother appears, like a storm finally finding the house it means to break.

You stand so fast the book nearly slips from your hands. “Mama—”

Your mother’s eyes lock on Bucky’s arm first, and you watch the reflexive flicker of distaste cross her face before she smothers it with forced courtesy.

“Your Grace,” she says, dipping into a shallow curtsy that contains more calculation than respect. “I did not realize you would be… joining us in private.”

Bucky stands, too. Taller than you realized. Broader. His expression closes like a door.

“Lady Ashford,” he says evenly.

Seraphina fans herself, eyes gleaming. “How extraordinary. I didn’t know you were acquainted.”

You open your mouth, but your mother speaks over you. “My daughter has a habit of wandering,” she says lightly, as though you are a child who strays from the nursemaid. “I was just reminding her of proper conduct.”

Bucky’s gaze shifts to you, and in it you see a question: Are you alright?

You nod, barely.

Your mother continues, oblivious to anything but appearances. “Of course, Miss Ashford is not… accustomed to such company. She spends most of her days with books rather than people.”

The insult is wrapped in silk, but it is still an insult. Your cheeks burn.

Bucky’s metal fingers flex once, the soft click of joints in the quiet room.

“She reads well,” he says, voice calm. “Better than most I’ve heard.”

Seraphina’s eyes narrow, quickly masked by delight. “How charming. I didn’t realize Your Grace enjoyed being read to.”

Bucky’s gaze is flat. “I enjoy honesty,” he answers.

Imogen’s voice drifts from the doorway now—she must have followed. “And what honesty is there in a girl hiding in a library?”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Imogen.”

Imogen shrugs, unrepentant. “It’s true. She cannot even survive one ball without fleeing.”

You want to disappear. You want the floor to open and swallow you whole.

But then Bucky looks at you again, and in that look is something steady—like a hand offered in the dark.

“She didn’t flee,” he says. His voice is still controlled, but there is iron beneath it. “She stepped away from the noise. There’s a difference.”

Your mother’s smile grows tighter. “A young lady’s duty is to be seen.”

Bucky’s gaze sharpens. “And a young lady is also a person.”

The room goes very still.

Your mother’s nostrils flare slightly, scandal barely held back. “Your Grace,” she says, warning threaded through the title, “I do not believe you understand—”

“I understand,” he interrupts quietly, and the quiet is worse than shouting. “I understand what it is to be treated as a thing rather than a human being.”

Your mother’s composure wavers for the first time. She recovers quickly, smoothing her skirts. “Come,” she says to you, voice clipped. “You will return to the ballroom.”

Your feet feel rooted.

Bucky’s gaze holds yours. He does not command you. He does not rescue you without permission.

But he stays.

So you take a breath you did not know you were capable of taking, and you nod at your mother.

“Of course,” you say, because it is not yet the moment to fight.

But as you pass Bucky, leaving the library, you feel something brush your hand.

Metal, cool and careful.

Not grasping. Not claiming.

Just… there.

A touch as light as a bookmark between pages.

Your breath catches.

His voice follows you, low enough that only you hear it. “Don’t disappear,” he murmurs. “Not entirely.”

You step back into the ballroom with your pulse racing like you’ve done something wildly improper—like you’ve done something dangerously brave.

After that night, the ton begins to talk in earnest.

They always talked about Bucky Barnes—about the tragedy of him, the horror and fascination, the rumors of how he lost his arm (a cannon, a blade, a French trap, a punishment). They talked about how he returned from war as if he carried winter in his bones.

But now, they talk about you too.

Because the Duke of Barnes calls.

He leaves his card at the Ashford residence the very next morning.

Your mother holds it between her fingers as if it might stain her. “This is highly irregular,” she says.

Seraphina’s eyes gleam. “It’s highly interesting.”

Daphne gasps, delighted. “A duke!”

Imogen sneers. “A scarred duke.”

Cordelia watches you quietly, worry and wonder tangled in her gaze.

Your father clears his throat, uncomfortable. “He is… wealthy.”

Your mother’s mouth tightens. “And damaged.”

Your stomach twists. “Mama—”

“I will not have you throw yourself at a man simply because he paid you a moment of attention,” she snaps, and the words hit harder than they should, because some part of you fears she is right. “You are not suited to the role of duchess. You would embarrass us.”

You go cold all over. “He wasn’t— I didn’t—”

Seraphina’s smile is syrupy. “Perhaps he only called because he enjoys being pitied.”

Bile rises in your throat. “I don’t pity him.”

Imogen tilts her head. “Then what do you feel?”

You don’t answer, because you cannot. Not without exposing yourself.

Not without admitting that one quiet hour in a library made you feel seen in a way you have been craving your whole life.

Your mother presses the calling card to the table as though pinning down an insect. “You will not be alone with him,” she declares. “You will not encourage him.”

“And if he asks to dance with you again?” Daphne asks, bright-eyed.

Your mother’s gaze flicks to Daphne, then Seraphina, calculating. “If he wishes to court an Ashford, he may court properly.”

Seraphina straightens, hopeful.

Your mother glances at you, and the disappointment sharpens. “But it will not be you.”

The room goes silent.

Your father does not contradict her.

Your sisters do not protest.

Only Cordelia looks stricken, like she has just witnessed a cruelty she cannot yet name.

You swallow the hurt until it tastes like blood. “Of course,” you whisper.

You excuse yourself before anyone can see you crack.

You take refuge where you always do—in a book.

But now, every page feels haunted by the memory of a voice at your side, listening. Of eyes watching you as if you mattered.

Days pass. Then another calling card arrives. Then another.

He does not stop.

Your mother refuses him twice before she can no longer do so without causing commentary, and commentary is the only thing she fears more than scandal.

So Bucky Barnes is invited for tea.

Your mother arranges the drawing room like a battlefield.

Daphne and Seraphina sit poised like flowers. Imogen sits like a judge. Cordelia hovers close to you, a quiet anchor. Your mother sits at the center, spine rigid, smile sharp.

You sit where you are told.

And then he enters.

In daylight, he looks even more out of place in your world—dark clothes, severe lines, a presence that fills the room without trying. His metal arm is covered by his coat sleeve, but you can see the shape of it beneath the fabric.

Your mother rises, all polite stiffness. “Your Grace.”

He bows, controlled. “Lady Ashford. Miss Ashford.” His gaze flicks over your sisters—and then finds you, and settles like something warm on your skin. “Miss Ashford,” he says again, softer, as if the second time is for you alone.

Your breath catches.

Tea is poured. Questions are asked—the kind meant to assess rather than understand.

“How is your estate?” your mother asks, as though she might find rot beneath the wealth.

“Managed,” Bucky answers, polite, clipped.

“And your health?” Seraphina asks, voice sugared. “You must have suffered terribly.”

His gaze is flat. “I recovered.”

Imogen’s eyes narrow. “Can you dance with that arm?”

The room freezes.

Your cheeks flame. “Imogen—”

Bucky’s metal fingers tap once against his teacup saucer, a soft clink. His expression doesn’t change. “I can,” he says simply.

Daphne leans forward, eager. “And do you plan to marry, Your Grace?”

Your mother sends her a warning look that says: Let him speak when spoken to, but the question is already out, and your sisters watch with hungry curiosity.

Bucky’s gaze drifts, slow, to you.

“I plan,” he says carefully, “to marry someone who doesn’t look at me like a spectacle.”

Seraphina’s smile falters.

Your mother’s eyes sharpen. “And where might you find such a woman?”

Bucky’s eyes do not leave you. “I’ve already met her.”

The air goes thin.

Your heart stutters. Surely he cannot mean— Surely—

Your mother laughs, brittle. “Your Grace, you scarcely know my daughters.”

“I know enough,” he replies, and there is quiet authority in it. “I know which one listens instead of performs. I know which one doesn’t flinch at my arm. I know which one reads like she’s speaking the truth.”

Your mother’s face tightens. “Miss Ashford is not—”

“Not what?” he cuts in softly, and it is the softness that makes it dangerous. “Not charming enough? Not loud enough? Not a proper ornament for your ambitions?”

Your mother’s mouth opens, shocked.

Cordelia’s hand finds yours under the cushion. She squeezes, hard.

You stare at Bucky, stunned. No man has ever spoken on your behalf. No one has ever put words to what you endure.

And yet terror coils in your stomach too, because his honesty could ruin you.

Your mother straightens, forcing control back into her spine. “Your Grace,” she says coldly, “you are not welcome to make sport of my family.”

“I’m not making sport,” he says. “I’m asking permission to court her.”

The word her lands like thunder.

Your sisters stare.

Seraphina’s cheeks flush with fury. Daphne looks bewildered. Imogen looks offended, as though he has insulted the entire concept of taste.

Your mother turns her gaze to you.

It is the same gaze that has weighed you and found you lacking all your life, but now it holds something new: fear. Fear that you might step out of your place.

“You will not,” she says quietly, as if she can command your choice by sheer will.

Bucky’s eyes are on you again, steady. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t pressure.

He waits.

For the first time in your life, a room full of people is waiting to see what you will do.

Your throat tightens. Your pulse pounds.

You think of the library—of quiet, of warmth, of being spoken to like you are not a disappointment.

You think of your mother’s words: You would embarrass us.

And then you realize something terrifying.

Perhaps you are done trying not to.

You swallow. “I would like,” you say, voice shaking but real, “to be courted.”

Your mother’s breath hitches, a sound like outrage.

Bucky’s expression softens—not into triumph, but into something that looks like relief.

“As you wish,” he murmurs.

Courting Bucky Barnes is not like courting any other gentleman.

He does not bombard you with flattery. He does not bring you bouquets that smell like a stranger’s effort. He does not linger too close, smile too wide, speak too loudly.

He brings you books.

The first time he arrives with one, your mother nearly chokes on her own indignation.

“A gift already,” she snaps. “Your Grace, this is—”

“A book,” he says, calm. “Not a diamond.”

“It is still an impropriety.”

He glances at you, eyes quiet. “Does she think it is?”

Your mother’s gaze darts to you, warning.

You take the book with careful hands, as if it is precious. “No,” you say softly. “I think it is… thoughtful.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches. “Good.”

He visits, properly chaperoned, though he treats your mother’s hovering like bad weather—present, irritating, not something worth surrendering to. Sometimes the chaperone is Arabella when she can manage it, her presence a small mercy. Sometimes it is Cordelia, who tags along like a determined little guardian, refusing to let your mother poison every moment.

Bucky speaks to you as if the room is not full of observers.

He asks what you like. What you think. What makes you laugh when no one is watching. He listens when you answer, even when your voice is quiet.

At first, you don’t know how to do it—how to exist without shrinking. You catch yourself softening your opinions, hiding your enthusiasm, stopping sentences before they become too much.

And every time you do, he notices.

“You don’t have to edit yourself for me,” he says one afternoon, when you pause mid-thought about a novel’s heroine.

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says gently. “I know that look. It’s the same one I wore when people asked me what the war was like and expected me to say something that made them feel brave for listening.”

You swallow. “What was it like?” you ask quietly.

His gaze drops to his tea. “Loud,” he says after a moment. “And cold. And… lonely, even with men beside you.”

Your chest tightens. “And now?”

He lifts his eyes. “Now it’s loud in a different way. People stare and whisper and decide what I am without asking.”

You shift, then, without thinking, you let your fingers brush the cuff of his sleeve where the metal begins beneath. Not grasping. Not claiming. Just touching the fabric, a question.

He goes very still.

Then, slowly, carefully, he moves his arm so the metal hand rests on the table between you.

The room is quiet. Even your mother, across the way, has paused—watching with something like horrified fascination.

Bucky’s eyes stay on yours. “You can,” he says, voice low. “If you want.”

Your breath catches.

You reach out.

Your fingertips meet cool steel.

It is not monstrous. It is not obscene. It is simply… part of him. And in the precision of its design, the careful way it responds when he flexes his fingers beneath your touch, you see something you didn’t expect.

Survival.

A body refusing to be ended.

A man refusing to be reduced to what he lost.

You don’t know why tears prick your eyes. You blink them back quickly, embarrassed.

Bucky’s gaze softens. “Hey,” he murmurs, as if the word is a comfort. “Don’t cry for me.”

“I’m not,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’m… angry for you.”

His throat works as he swallows. “No one’s ever been angry for me,” he admits, so quietly it feels like a secret.

Your fingers curl slightly around his metal ones—not tight, not possessive, just steady.

“I am,” you say. “And I think… I think you deserve better than their whispers.”

His eyes go bright for a moment, and you realize he is fighting something too—something sharp and painful and hopeful.

“So do you,” he says.

It is not the ton that tries to tear you apart first.

It is your family.

It begins with little cruelties. Imogen “accidentally” misplaces your gloves before an outing. Seraphina makes comments about your “strange taste” in men. Daphne, though less malicious, sighs and says, “But imagine the gowns you could have if you married someone… normal.”

Your mother grows colder by the day. She critiques your appearance like she is searching for flaws to justify her disapproval.

“Your hair is too plain.”

“Your laugh is too quiet.”

“Do not look at him like that. You’ll encourage him.”

One night, after Bucky leaves, your mother corners you in the corridor.

“You think this is romance,” she says, voice harsh. “You think you’ve found some poetic tragedy to live in. But men like that do not make good husbands.”

“Men like what?” you ask, quiet but steady.

“Broken men,” she spits.

Your chest aches. “He isn’t broken.”

“He is,” she insists, and her eyes flash with something ugly. “And he will break you too.”

You stare at her in the dim hallway, the candlelight making her face look older, harder. “You don’t know him,” you say.

“And you do?” she scoffs. “Because he listened to you read a book? Because he made you feel special for once?” Her voice sharpens. “You are vulnerable, and he sees it.”

Your throat tightens. “He sees me,” you correct, and your voice shakes on the truth. “No one else bothers.”

For a heartbeat, your mother looks struck—as if you’ve slapped her without touching her.

Then her face closes. “You are my daughter,” she says, as if it is ownership. “And you will not disgrace this family.”

You feel the familiar pull—the urge to shrink, to apologize, to become the obedient shadow again.

But the memory of Bucky’s steady gaze, his gentle don’t disappear, holds you upright.

“I’m not trying to disgrace you,” you say softly. “I’m trying to live.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then live quietly. Live properly.”

You swallow. “I have done that my entire life,” you whisper. “And it has never been enough for you.”

She inhales sharply, as though she might retort.

But footsteps echo from the entry hall—Bucky returning, perhaps forgotten something, or Arabella calling for you.

Your mother’s face hardens. “We will speak of this again.”