Gia.xo

New York City is all you have ever known your whole life. Private schools, private planes, grandeur manors your world was entirely walled off by old-money luxury, historic brownstones, and an overarching silence. Your mother had passed away the day you were born, a tragedy that left your father, Charles Verplanck, entirely single-minded in his purpose: to protect you from anything that could ever cause you a moment of pain. He didn't just provide for you; he fiercely insulated you. To him, you weren't just his daughter; you were the only piece of your mother he had left in the world.

In that quiet, structured upbringing, you naturally developed an eye for the arts. It started small—silly, disproportionate sketches scribbled on expensive heavy cardstock that you would proudly hand to your dad after he returned from the corporate office. While other millionaires collected pieces from Christie’s auction house, your father treated your childhood doodles like invaluable relics. He kept every single one. As the years slipped by and your technique matured, those silly drawings evolved into complex, sprawling landscapes and deeply observant portraits. Your dad remained your most loyal patron. By the time you turned fourteen, he had pulled strings across Manhattan to host an exclusive gallery exhibition entirely dedicated to your work.

But old money brings an invisible, crushing weight. Every gala, every dinner, and every formal introduction carried assumptions based entirely on your last name. You grew weary of being viewed through the lens of a family bank account. You wanted to breathe. You wanted a fresh start where you could just be an artist, evaluated purely by what you put on a canvas rather than what was sitting in your trust fund.

When you announced your desire to transfer to Briar University—a school miles away from the tight-knit circle of New York high society, your dad was deeply reluctant. He hated the idea of his only child being out of his immediate protective reach. But his soft spot for your happiness was absolute; he could never firmly put his foot down when it came to you. In the end, you had your way.

Which brought you to the current passage of your life.

Your belongings were packed into sleek, unmarked suitcases, moved into an oddly spacious off-campus apartment located exactly twelve minutes away from the university quad. Finding your front door on Saint Paul Street was always a bit of a running joke. You lived in apartment 6 or 9—the little brass plaque on the wood hung lazily by a single, stripped screw, spinning dynamically depending on how hard the front door was closed. No one really knew which number it was supposed to be. Some of the drafty corridor doors down the hall had no numbers left on them at all, just pale rectangular outlines where the old adhesive had long since given up.

Inside, however, the space was entirely yours. It featured a towering window that overlooked a secluded, quiet garden downstairs. Your easel stood right beside the glass, currently holding an unfinished, heavy oil painting of a hazy scenery. It was a peaceful sanctuary

Ever since your arrival at Briar, you had practically vanished into your own world. While other transfer students spent their first weeks navigating campus parties, joining clubs, and frantically trying to build a social circle, you had done the exact opposite. You holed yourself up in the campus art studio, retreating into the familiar, comforting scent of turpentine and linseed oil. Day after day, you would sit at your easel for hours on end, letting the campus life hum past outside the heavy glass windows without you.

The only real exception to your solitude was Maya. She was a fellow art student who shared a couple of your studio blocks—a bubbly, incredibly sweet girl who had practically adopted you on your very first day. Maya was the one who showed you where the best brushes were kept and which coffee cart on the quad actually brewed an edible espresso. You liked her genuinely, and the two of you would frequently exchange small talk about assignments or lend each other a hand when carrying heavy canvases across the room. But despite her warmth, you hadn't really let her all the way in. The walls you’d built to protect your identity as a Verplanck were still firmly intact, and while Maya was a great studio companion, she wasn't a confidante. You remained a friendly, quiet enigma, keeping her and everyone else at Briar at a polite, safe distance.

The following afternoon, you sought out the campus art wing to truly begin your new routine.

The soft, crackly croon of Elvis Presley was the only thing filling the high-ceilinged studio. Logan stopped by the half-open door, his gaze catching on the canvas first, then sliding to the girl in front of it. She was completely tuned out from the world, a smudge of dark oil paint on the edge of her jaw, moving her brush in sync with the slow tempo of the music.

The door gives a sharp, metallic squeak as Logan shifts his weight. She blinks, the brush freezing an inch from the canvas. She turns, her eyes wide, shifting from startled surprise to quiet curiosity as she takes him in.

Clearing his throat, instantly rubbing the back of his neck, "Sorry. I didn't mean to creep. The door was… yeah. I just noticed the painting."

Tucking a stray hair behind her ear, leaving a faint streak of paint on her temple, "Oh. It's fine."

Stepping entirely into the room, his eyes darting back to the canvas, "It's really beautiful. The lighting you're doing on the trees—it looks real." A small breathless laugh escapes her, shoulders dropping slightly, "Thank you. But trust me, it's not. It's actually missing…a lot. I've been staring at it for two hours and it feels completely unfinished." Logan gives her a quiet, genuine smile, "Well from where I'm standing, the unfinished version looks better than anything else on this campus."

He gives her one last look, a quiet nod, and steps out, closing the door softly behind him. She stands there for a moment, the room suddenly feeling a little bigger, before she turns back to her canvas. But for the first time all afternoon, her focus is completely gone.

"Well… I'll let you get back to it. Don't overthink the trees. They look good," he says. A smile touches her lips, "I'll try not to."

The next day, a quiet anticipation builds inside you, wondering if the mystery man from yesterday will actually come back. By 1:55 PM, you find yourself glancing at the clock, meticulously picking out a nicer playlist to fill the room. Meanwhile, Logan is rushing across campus after his lecture, intentionally slowing his pace at the last second just so he doesn't look completely out of breath when he reaches the art wing by 2:00 PM.

By the fifth day, a new rhythm forms. Logan shows up holding two coffees, setting one down on your stool without a word, and in return, you slide a spare sketch pad toward him.

"Still no name?" he asks, leaning back against the windowsill.

You look up from your canvas, a playful smile touching your lips. "Names carry too many assumptions. Let's see how long we can go."

He chuckles, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. "Deal."

Multiple afternoons spent talking, sharing quiet laughter, and telling stories had turned the chilly studio into your own private world. You had spent weeks piecing each other together through quick glances and comfortable pauses, learning the rhythm of each other's thoughts over steaming paper cups.

Until one gloomy afternoon, the steady, gray autumn downpour finally washed away the last of our carefully guarded boundaries.

The rain blurred the high, arched windows of the studio, creating a rhythmic, isolated hum that made the vast room feel incredibly small, safe, and entirely cut off from the rest of the campus. Usually, Logan spent his hour leaning back in his chair, quietly observing you paint with a steady, grounding presence. But today, the heavy silence in the room felt different. He was sitting at the desk he’d claimed, a textbook open in front of him, but his jaw was tight, his large shoulders tense, and his eyes were staring right through the pages, completely lost in a dark headspace.

You set your paintbrush down in the jar of water, the soft clink of glass breaking the quiet.

"You're going to burn a hole through those pages just by staring at them," you said softly, tilting your head.

Logan blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. He looked up from the textbook, letting out a low, tired breath that sounded less like a laugh and more like a sigh. He rubbed the back of his neck, his posture deflating.

"Yeah," he admitted, his voice a bit rougher than usual. "Sorry. Just... a lot on my mind today."

You hopped down from your stool, picking up your lukewarm coffee cup and walking over to lean against the windowsill near his desk. "Want to talk about it? Or do you want to keep intimidating your homework?"

Logan looked out at the rain, his fingers tracing the edge of the wooden desk. For a long moment, the only sound was the storm against the glass. He hesitated, a rare flash of raw exhaustion crossing his face before he finally looked up at you.

"My dad called before I came here," Logan said quietly, his tone dropping into a flat, heavy register. "He was... drunk. Again. It’s usually a fifty-fifty shot whether he’s sober enough to hold a conversation, but today was bad." He let out a harsh, self-deprecating breath. "I spent twenty minutes on the phone making sure he hadn't burned the kitchen down or driven his truck into a ditch. It’s just... exhausting. Spending half your life playing parent to the person who’s supposed to be taking care of you."

Your heart ached for him. The image of this massive, confident hockey star being reduced to a worried, tired kid over a phone call hit you with a wave of fierce empathy.

"I'm sorry," you said softly, your voice carrying a deep, unhurried sincerity. "You shouldn't have to carry that. Especially not by yourself."

"It's just the fear, I guess," Logan murmured, looking down at his worn sneakers, a tight line forming along his jaw. "Watching someone destroy themselves and knowing that if I slip up—even a little bit—everything falls apart. I didn't grow up like most of the guys on the team, or the kids on this campus. My family didn't have money. There was no safety net, no savings account, no inheritance waiting for me."

He gestured vaguely toward the window, looking out at the sprawling, historic brick buildings of Briar University.

"The only reason I'm sitting in this room, the only reason I can afford to walk through these halls, is because of my athletic scholarship. Hockey is my only ticket," Logan admitted, his voice dropping to a vulnerable, raw whisper. "If I get a career-ending injury, or if my grades slip because I'm too busy worrying about whether my dad is conscious back home... the scholarship vanishes. And if that goes, I’m done here. I'm back to a small town with a broken father and zero options. It feels like I'm carrying the weight of my entire future on the blade of a skate every single night."

He shook his head, instantly looking apologetic. "Sorry. That’s heavy. I shouldn't be dumping that on you. You've got this peaceful life, and I'm out here ruining the quiet vibe."

"You aren't ruining anything," you countered gently, stepping a fraction closer. You looked down at your coffee cup, tracing the rim as you allowed your own guard to drop—something you rarely did with anyone on this campus.

"My life isn't perfect, Logan. It’s just... quiet," you admitted, a wistful smile touching your lips. "My mom passed away when I was young, so it’s just been me and my dad. And he is incredible. He supports everything I do, he protects me fiercely, and he has never, not once, placed an ounce of pressure on me."

Logan listened intensely, his dark eyes locking onto yours, sensing the underlying weight in your words.

"But because he’s so good, and because he gives me absolutely everything... I do it to myself," you whispered, looking up to meet his gaze. "The pressure doesn't come from him, Logan. It comes entirely from me. I look at how much he loves me, how hard he works to protect my world, and I construct this impossible standard in my own head. I feel this crushing, internal need to be flawless. To never make a mistake, to always hold myself with composure, and to be entirely worthy of everything he’s sacrificed. I moved a state from home just to try and escape my own head, but I’m still the one holding the rope tight around my own neck. I’m terrified that if I'm not perfect, I'll be the one who lets him down."

"But because he’s so good, and because I’m all he has left... the pressure is suffocating," you whispered, looking up to meet his gaze. "Every day, I feel this invisible, crushing need to be flawless. To never make a mistake, to never cause him a second of worry, to inherit this massive family legacy and carry it without tripping. I moved twelve minutes away from home just to breathe, but I still feel like I’m walking on a tightrope. I feel like I'm letting down the only person who matters."

You let out a small, breathless laugh, suddenly feeling exposed. "It sounds silly, I know. Sitting here accumulating my own internal panic over a family that loves me, while you're fighting just to stay here."

"Hey," Logan interrupted softly.

Before you could step back into your poised, guarded shell, he reached out. His large, warm hand closed gently over your forearm, his thumb resting against your skin with a steady, grounding pressure.

"It doesn't sound silly at all," Logan said, his voice incredibly thick with emotion as he looked up at you. "Internal pressure is just as heavy as external pressure. It doesn't matter where the weight comes from, it still cuts into your shoulders the exact same way. You're holding yourself to an impossible standard because you care so much. That doesn't make you spoiled. It just makes you human."

You looked down at his hand on your arm, the warmth of his touch radiating through your sweater, melting away the lingering chill of the rainy afternoon.

Logan smiled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a deep, understanding tenderness. "I guess we both just need a place where we don't have to keep score against ourselves."

"Yeah," you breathed, a genuine, unburdened smile finally gracing your face. "I guess we do."

By the sixth week, he doesn't just linger by the door anymore. He claims a nearby desk, pulling out his homework or scrolling through his phone while you paint. The silence between you becomes a comfortable haven. Over these weeks, you gradually piece him together; you learn he plays hockey for Briar, and that every single afternoon before he heads off to practice, he chooses to spend his spare hour right here, with you.

The invitation didn’t come from a flyer or a massive group chat; it came in the quiet, low-lit printmaking studio on a Thursday afternoon.

You were meticulously cleaning an ink roller when your classmate, Maya, leaned against the heavy iron printing press, a mischievous look on her face.

"Dean Di Laurentis and Beau Maxwell are hosting a dynamic duo party tomorrow night for their birthday," Maya said, tapping a finger rhythmically against the metal. "The entire hockey team and half the student body is going to be there, and frankly, we've spent the last three weeks inhaling turpentine. We need to touch grass."

You had offered a faint, amused smile, initially inclined to decline. A loud party house was a far cry from the quiet galleries you preferred. But looking out the studio window at the autumn breeze, the thought of spending another weekend isolated in your spacious apartment felt a little too lonely. Besides, a small, quiet part of you wondered if a certain hockey player who frequented the studio at 2:00 PM might show up.

"One drink," you had negotiated with Maya, wiping your hands on a cloth with effortless poise. "And we leave the moment it gets too chaotic.

For the dynamic duo party, you and your classmate had opted for something that subtly nodded to your major: The Artist and the Masterpiece. Maya wearing overalls carrying a chisle, while your interpretation of the masterpiece was entirely high-fashion, like a sculpture—a beautifully draped, cream-colored silk midi dress that looked like wearable sculpture, your hair swept up into a loose, elegant twist secured by a vintage gold pin. It was understated, timeless, and effortlessly sophisticated.

Dean Di Laurentis’s off-campus house was a sensory overload of vibrating bass and cheap beer, a world entirely foreign to the quiet galleries and Manhattan brownstones you grew up with. You stood near the edge of the kitchen, observing the chaos with a detached, quiet amusement, holding a drink you had no intention of finishing.

That was when you spotted him across the living room.

The contrast was striking. In the art studio, he was a quiet, unassuming presence in dark hoodies. Tonight, he was surrounded by the loud, boisterous energy of the Briar hockey team, wearing a hawks shirt its sleeves cut off with a pair of metallic golden wings strapped over his broad shoulders. He looked entirely ridiculous, yet carried it with an easy, unbothered confidence.

Logan happened to glance toward the kitchen, his eyes scanning the crowd until they locked onto you. He stopped mid-sentence. A look of genuine relief crossed his face, and he immediately excused himself from the team, navigating the packed room with purpose until he stopped right in front of you.

Adjusting his costume, a self-deprecating smile pulling at his lips, "Please tell me you aren't going to hold this costume against me."

Amused, tilting your head slightly, "I don't know. Metallic gold is quite a statement outside of the art wing… Logan."

He stops, genuinely surprised, his eyes widening a fraction, "Wait—how do you know my name?"

A bit playful, taking a slow sip of your drink, "You play for Briar, and you're the star left wing. You're a little hard to miss on a campus this size. Besides, I do my research on the guys who steal my coffee warmth at 2:00 PM."

Logan gives a quiet laugh, a faint flush creeping up his neck as he rubs the back of his head, "Fair enough. Caught red-handed. As for the look... Tucker and I were supposed to be a dynamic duo. He went as a bumblebee, so I improvised. A hawk." He shakes his head, smiling. "We're calling it 'the birds and the bees' but honestly, it’s just a disaster."

His eyes trace the elegant drape of your silk dress, a look of genuine appreciation replacing his embarrassment. "You look incredible, by the way. What’s the duo theme?"

"The Artist and the Masterpiece. My classmate, Maya, has the chisle."

Logan looks down at you, his tone dropping into something soft and intensely sincere, "Masterpiece. Yeah. I can definitely see that."

Someone shoves past trying to get through, and Logan seamlessly shifts his weight, stepping in closer to shield you from the rowdy crowd. His focus narrows entirely to you.

"Look, the 'no names' rule was fun," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. "But since it's officially broken… I want to ask you properly. What’s your name?"

You offer him a small, genuine smile, extending your hand in a gesture that is entirely classic, poised, and polite.

"[Name]."

He takes your hand, his grip warm, large, and steady, reapeating it carefully as if committing it to memory, "[Name]. It's really nice to officially meet you. Honestly, I was wondering if you would go to the party tonight."

Before the moment can linger too long, Dean swagger-walks over, looking between you and Logan. "Yo, Logan. You skipped out right in the middle of my story. Who’s your friend?"

Logan turns to dean, his posture turning subtly protective as he introduces you, "Dean, this is [Name]. She's the artist from the studio."

Dean grins broadly, extending a hand, "Ah, the famous 2:00 PM appointment. I’m Dean. Welcome to the madhouse."

Before you could reply, a loud, booming laugh echoed from the living room, and a tall, athletic guy with an easy, commanding presence navigated through the crowd. Garrett Graham possessed the kind of effortless charisma that instantly marked him as the team captain. He had a gold medal prop looped around his neck—completely unbothered by the chaos around him.

Garrett slapping a hand on Logan's shoulder, "Don't let Logan bore you, [Your Name]. He’s been checking his watch all night waiting for you to walk through that door."

Shooting a warning glare at Garrett, a dark flush creeps up on Logan, "Shut up, Graham."

Right on Garrett’s heels was John Tucker, who looked remarkably too broad to be wearing a plush, striped bumblebee costume complete with bouncing antenna on a headband. He carried a plastic honey pot filled with punch, offering you a warm, southern, and genuinely polite smile that instantly made him feel approachable.

"Don't mind them, ma'am. I'm Tucker. And yes, before you ask, he’s the bird to my bee. We had a pact, though he clearly half-assed his end of the bargain."

You couldn't help the soft, genuine laugh that escaped your lips, the sheer absurdity of the hockey team completely contrasting with the stiff, formal galas you were used to. "It’s a pleasure to meet you all. The synchronization is... impressive, Tucker."

Logan, shaking his head, "Don't encourage him, please."

Finally, Beau Maxwell stepped up beside Dean, completing the core group. Beau possessed a sharp, discerning gaze, but it softened with an easygoing smirk as he took in your high-fashion silk dress and Maya's paint covered outfit nearby.

"The Artist and the Masterpiece. Clever. It’s definitely a massive step up from the usual crowd we get in this kitchen. I'm Beau. Happy to have you here."

As the guys fell into their natural, boisterous banter, a sharp, amused voice cut through the noise from the kitchen doorway.

"Oh, thank god. Someone with actual taste has finally entered this house."

You turned to see Hannah Wells walking in, holding a drink and looking at your draped silk dress with pure, unadulterated appreciation. Right behind her was Allie Hayes, who offered you an immediate, blindingly warm smile.

Hannah stepped past Garrett, who automatically looped a possessive arm around her waist. "I'm Hannah. And let me just say, your dress is spectacular. It's wearable art."

You smile, "Thank you. I'm [Name]. My classmate and I went as the Artist and the Masterpiece."

Allies eyes light up, "That is brilliant! I'm Allie. Honestly, [Name], please stay in this kitchen. If I have to listen to Dean talk about Top Gun flight trajectories for one more minute, I’m going to lose my mind."

Logan chuckling, though his posture remained subtly protective beside you, "Don't overwhelm her, ladies."

Hannah shooting a knowing and playful smirk to him, "Oh, please, Logan. We're rescuing her from you boys."

For the next twenty minutes, the initial barrier of the chaotic party completely melted away. Hannah and Allie effortlessly pulled you into the conversation, asking about your art major with genuine curiosity rather than the passive-aggressive scrutiny you usually feared from campus peers. For the first time since moving twelve minutes away from home, you felt a spark of true belonging.

But the dynamic shifted slightly when the kitchen crowd parted, and someone with a sharp, discerning gaze stepped up to the counter. Crossing their arms, eyes instantly sliding past Logan to lock into you with intense curiosity.

Sensing this, Logan cleared his throat, "Jules, this is [Name]. She’s the artist from the studio I told you—I mean, she’s from the art wing. [Name], this is my sibling, Jules."

You offered her a poised, elegant smile, extending your hand. "It's very nice to meet you, Jules."

Jules didn't just shake your hand; they took it, their sharp eyes taking in your beautifully draped, silk dress and your air of sophistication. They let out an appreciative hum.

"The costume suits you. Honestly, you're entirely too sophisticated for this house. And definitely too sophisticated for my brother."

Tilting your head, "Oh, I don't know. I think his golden bird wings are quite a statement."

Jules lets out a sharp, delighted laugh, "Oh, I like her. she's witty." She leaned her elbow on the counter, entirely disregarding Logan’s warning glare. "So, [Your Name]... give me the real story. What exactly is the nature of your relationship with my brother? Because Johnny here usually talks about hockey, hockey, and more hockey. But lately, all I hear about is a '2:00 PM appointment' and someone who apparently makes the absolute best coffee company on campus."

Logan groans out loud, rubbing a hand over his face, "Jules, please stop. Right now."

A burning blush hits your cheeks, but you maintain your quiet composure, a playful smile touching your lips) "We're just... breaking the rules of assumptions. No names until tonight, just coffee warmth and quiet sketching."

Jules’s eyes gave you a look of genuine, protective approval flashing in their expression. They tapped the back of their phone against their chin, giving you a playful wink.

"Well, if you can keep him quiet and compliant for an hour every day, you’re officially a miracle worker. I'll see you around campus." They say, quietly slipping back in to the crowd.

Eventually, the heat and noise of the kitchen grew a bit too suffocating. Sensing your subtle shift in posture, Logan leaned down, his voice a low, private rumble against your ear.

"Come with me. Let's get some air."

He guided you through the crowded hallway and out onto the quiet, shadowed wrap-around porch. The cool autumn air hit your skin like a relief, the heavy bass of the house instantly muffling behind the closed glass doors. You walked over to the wooden railing, looking out over the dark lawn.

Logan stepped up beside you, unstrapping the ridiculous metallic gold wings from his shoulders and setting them on a nearby bench.

"Much better," he sighed, running a hand through his hair, leaving it perfectly messy. "I love the guys, but they're a lot sometimes."

You tilt your head to look up at him, "I think they're charming. Especially Tucker's commitment to the bumblebee aesthetic."

Stepping a fraction closer, his large frame blocking the chilly breeze for you, "Yeah, well... Tucker is one of a kind. But honestly? I didn't bring you out here to talk about Tucker."

The playfulness in the air suddenly shifted, melting into something thick and magnetic. Logan’s eyes darkened, dropping down to trace the elegant slope of your jaw where the oil paint had been just days prior, before locking onto your lips.

His voice dropping a soft breathless whisper, "I meant what I said inside, You look absolutely breathtaking tonight."

Your breath hitched in your throat. The quiet confidence you usually carried around like armor suddenly felt fragile under the intensity of his gaze. He stepped in closer, his warmth radiating through his shirt. Slowly, intentionally, his hand rose, his thumb gently brushing against your cheekbone, tilting your face up just a fraction.

You leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut as his head began to incline. The space between your lips vanished until you could feel the ghost of his breath—

SLAM.

The porch door flew open with violent force.

Tucker bursts out, completely oblivious, the bumblebee antenna on his head bouncing wildly, "Logan! Bro! Dean is about to do a keg stand into a bush and Garrett says you have to anchor him! Move, move, move!"

The spell shattered instantly. Logan froze, his eyes snapping open with a flash of pure, unadulterated frustration. He closed his eyes for a brief second, inhaling deeply as if praying for strength.

Logan, without looking at Tucker, his voice strained, "Give me a minute, Tuck."

Finally registering the atmosphere, Tucker's eyes widening, "Oh. Oh. Wow. I am an insect of bad timing. Carrying on! Buzzing away!" He scrambled backward, slamming the door shut again.

A small, breathless laugh escaped your lips, breaking the tension. Logan looked back down at you, utterly defeated smile pulling at his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"I am going to kill him. I'm going to squash him."

Smiling softly, smooting down the front of your silk dress, "It’s fine, Logan. Duty calls. You should probably go make sure Dean doesn't break a bone."

Sighing, stepping back reluctantly, though his eyes remained intensely locked on yours, "Yeah, probably. But before I go..." He hesitated, a rare flash of nervousness crossing his features. "We have a home game this Friday. Against Harvard. It's going to be loud, and it's definitely not a quiet art studio... but I really want you there."

He reached out, his fingers briefly brushing yours.

Hannah and Allie always sit in the front section by the glass. If you come, you can sit with them. I'll make sure your name is on the list at the gate. What do you say?"

You looked at him—this broad-shouldered hockey star who spent his afternoons in a quiet studio just to be near you, now looking entirely vulnerable as he waited for your answer.

"I've never been to a hockey game before."

A smile breaks across Logan's face, "Then let me show you how it's done. Please?"

You offered him a small, sophisticated nod. "Alright, Logan. I'll be there."

His smile widening, taking a step toward the door backward, "I'll be looking for you on the glass. Don't overthink the trees tomorrow, okay?"

With a final, lingering look, he turned and jogged back inside to handle the chaos, leaving you on the quiet porch with your heart beating entirely out of rhythm.

Getting home after the party honestly filled with a buzz from the new friends made down to that moment with Logan. The heavy silence of your spacious apartment was a stark contrast to the thumping bass of the hockey house, but your mind was still racing, your heart doing a strange little flutter every time you pictured Logan’s eyes dropping to your lips on that porch.

The sharp ring of your phone abruptly disrupts your thoughts. Looking down at the caller ID, Dad it says.

You slide the screen to answer, a soft smile automatically gracing your face as you press the phone to your ear.

"Hi, Dad."

"There she is," his deep, familiar voice echoes through the line, instantly carrying the comforting warmth of Manhattan. You can hear the faint clinking of a crystal glass in the background—he’s likely winding down in his study. "I was starting to think my girl forgot about her old man. How is Briar treating you tonight? You aren't locking yourself away in that studio all weekend, are you?"

"Actually, no," you say, kicking off your heels and walking over to the large window, looking down at the moonlit garden. "I just got back from a party, believe it or not."

A brief pause hangs on the line, filled with genuine surprise. "A party? You? Who managed to drag my private little artist out into the wild?"

"A classmate from my major, Maya. We actually did a duo costume together," you explain, leaning against the window frame. "And it was actually... really nice. I met some great people. A girl named Hannah, and another named Allie."

"Well, look at you," your dad chuckles, the sheer relief and happiness in his tone palpable. He always placed your happiness above everything else in his universe. "I knew that campus wouldn't know what hit it. So, just a girls' night out, then? Or did some hotshot college boy try to sweep you off your feet?"

It was a standard, teasing dad question—one he’d asked a dozen times before over the years, usually met with your calm, indifferent dismissal.

Except this time, your throat completely locks up.

Logan's warm, steady grip on your hand flashes in your mind. Masterpiece. Yeah. I can definitely see that.

You open your mouth to give a smooth, poised reply, but nothing comes out. The silence stretches for one second. Two seconds. A sudden, burning blush creeps violently up your neck, coloring your cheeks in the darkness of your bedroom.

On the other end of the line, the clinking of his glass stops completely. Your dad’s voice drops an octave, the casual humor instantly melting into the hyper-alert sharpness of a protective millionaire father.

"Wait a minute," he says, his tone narrowing with sudden suspicion. "[Name]? Why are you quiet?"

"I'm not quiet," you squeak out, your voice a pitch higher than usual, completely betraying your carefully practiced composure.

"Oh, you are absolutely quiet. That is your 'I’m hiding something' quiet," he counters, his voice a mix of growing panic and fierce protectiveness. "Who is he? What’s his name? Is he one of those fraternity boys? Because I can look up his family records before sunrise—"

"Dad! No, please, stop," you interrupt, entirely flustered, burying your face in your hand as if he could see you through the phone. "It’s nothing like that. He’s... he’s just someone from the art studio."

Hearing the genuine panic in your voice, your dad sighs, softened by how fiercely he loves you. He knows he can never firmly put his foot down when it comes to you, especially when you sound this vulnerable. He lets out a breath, his tone turning incredibly gentle, persuasive.

"Sweetheart... you know you can tell me anything." He murmurs softly, a tender reminder of the bond the two of you shared since the day you were born. "If there’s someone making my daughter blush through a phone line twelve minutes away from campus, I think I at least deserve to know if he's a gentleman."

His gentleness completely disarms your guard. You look over at the canvas resting on your easel, a soft, helpless smile touching your lips as you decide to open up.

"His name is John Logan, but we call him logan" you admit softly, your voice barely a whisper in the quiet room. "He plays hockey here. And... we've been sitting in the art studio together every afternoon at 2:00 PM for the last three weeks. He brings me coffee."

There is a long silence on the line. You can practically hear your dad processing the words hockey player, wrestling with his internal protective instincts, before he sighs again, defeated by your happiness.

"A hockey player who frequents an art wing," your dad muses, a faint, reluctant amusement in his voice. "Well... at least he has good taste in coffee companions. Does he treat you right?"

"He's incredibly intentional, Dad. And observant," you say honestly, the memory of Logan shielding you from the rowdy crowd in the kitchen warming your chest. "He actually invited me to his game this Friday. He put my name on the guest list to sit with Hannah and Allie."

"Alright," your dad says quietly, though you can tell he's already mentally adjusting to this massive shift in your life. "You go to the game. Have your fun. But [Your Name]?"

"Yes, Dad."

"If he ever steps out of line, you tell me. I don't care how big he is on a skating rink."

You let out a soft, genuine laugh, the lingering tension from the party completely fading away. "I know, Dad. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart. Get some sleep."

As the call disconnects, you set the phone down, the apartment suddenly feeling a little warmer as you head to bed, the anticipation for Friday's game already building in your chest.

The morning after an account on instagram popped up on your feed named The fifth line in its post, a photo of you and logan at the party looking at each other eyes, him holding your hand.

The stadium was a towering cauldron of sound, vibrating with a chaotic, electric energy that was entirely foreign to the refined world you grew up in. Long before you even reached your seat, the deep, rhythmic thumping of student chants rattled through the concrete floors beneath your boots. The air inside the arena was a unique mixture of crisp, artificial cold and the heavy warmth of thousands of packed bodies. Bright, unyielding stadium lights reflected harshly off the pristine white sheets of the ice below, creating an intense, almost blinding glow.

You navigated the steep stairs of the arena, holding tightly to the railing as students in matching blue and white jerseys shouted over the blaring stadium speakers. It was a high-stakes rivalry game against Harvard, and the tension in the air was thick enough to taste.

True to his word, Logan had left your name at the gate. The security guard had scanned your ID, smiled warmly, and directed you straight down to the glass—the exclusive friends and family section.

"Over here! [Name]!"

You looked down toward the very front row to see Allie Hayes waving frantically, a bright smile on her face. Beside her, Hannah Wells was wrapped in an oversized Briar hockey hoodie, offering you an immediate, welcoming nod. As you slid into the row next to them, the immediate feeling of being an outsider completely vanished.

"You actually made it!" Allie beamed, pulling you into a quick, enthusiastic hug. "We were hoping Logan wasn't just hallucinating when he said you promised to come."

"I keep my promises," you said, offering a poised, genuine smile as you took your seat right against the thick plexiglass. "Though I have to admit, I have absolutely no idea what is happening."

"Don't worry," Hannah laughed, leaning over the back of her seat with an easy, comfortable familiarity. "Just watch the guys in blue. If they hit someone into the boards, you cheer. If Garrett scores, I scream. If Logan scores, you get to look smug."

Before you could ask what the 'boards' were, a deafening siren echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted into a frenzied roar. The heavy metal doors of the home tunnel swung open, and the Briar varsity team flooded onto the ice. They looked massive, almost monstrous in their full pads and helmets, gliding across the ice with terrifying speed and precision.

Your eyes immediately began scanning the sea of jerseys, searching for a specific number.

And then you saw him. Number 22.

Logan looked entirely different out here. The quiet, gentle boy who sat sketching in the low-lit art wing was gone. On the ice, he was a force of nature. He skated with a lethal, effortless grace, his broad shoulders cutting through the air as he finished his warm-up lap.

As the team huddled around their goal for the final pre-game breakdown, Logan suddenly detached himself from the group. He skated backward toward your section of the glass, his eyes instantly tracking the front row until they locked onto yours.

Even behind the heavy cage of his helmet, you could see the exact moment his eyes softened. A brilliant, breathless smile broke across his face. He raised his heavy hockey stick, tapping the thick blade gently against the glass right in front of your hands—a private, incredibly intentional salute just for you in a room full of ten thousand people.

"Oh, wow," Allie teased loudly over the roar of the crowd, nudging your shoulder. "Look at that. Johnny is officially clocking in for duty."

A sudden, fierce blush rushed up your neck, warming your cheeks against the chill of the ice. You offered Logan a small, elegant wave, your heart doing that strange, rhythmic flutter it had been doing ever since the party. He gave you one last lingering look, a confident nod, and spun back around to face the center line.

The referee blew the whistle, the puck dropped, and the game began.

It was a brutal, dizzying blur of speed. You watched in absolute fascination as Logan commanded the left wing. He was terrifyingly fast, his skates throwing up sprays of ice as he shielded the puck with his massive frame, completely unbothered by the Harvard defensemen trying to crash into him. It was a violent, chaotic dance, yet from your vantage point on the glass, you observed it with the sharp eye of an artist, capturing the raw, powerful composition of his movements.

By the second period, the score was tied 2-2. The arena was deafening, the student section screaming for a breakthrough.

The puck was jammed in the far corner of the Harvard zone. Garrett Graham fought through a heavy check, somehow hooking the puck backward with his stick and blindingly centering it right into the slot.

Out of nowhere, a flash of blue jersey cut through the defense. It was Logan.

With a single, explosive motion, he caught the pass on his tape and unleashed a devastating, lightning-fast wrist shot. The puck vanished into the top corner of the net so quickly you barely saw it move.

A red light flashed behind the goal, the horn wailed with a piercing shriek, and the entire stadium exploded into pure pandemonium.

Logan didn’t go to the student section to celebrate. He didn't even high-five Garrett first. Instead, he skated hard straight toward your section of the glass, his teammates swarming after him. He slammed his gloved hands against the plexiglass right where you were sitting, laughing breathlessly, his eyes burning with a triumphant, electric adrenaline as he stared directly at you.

You stood up with Hannah and Allie, completely swept up in the roaring magic of the moment. Abandoning your usual guarded composure, a brilliant, unrestrained smile broke across your face as you tapped your hands against the glass, matching his energy.

Logan’s gaze trapped yours through the plastic barrier, his chest heaving as his teammates threw their arms around his neck, dragging him into a celebratory huddle. But even as he was pulled away, his focus never left you.

In that loud, chaotic, freezing arena, surrounded by thousands of screaming strangers, you realized your private little world was officially expanding—and you weren't sure you ever wanted to shrink it back down again.

The locker room was a chaotic sensory overload of spraying champagne, blasting music, and screaming hockey players. The adrenaline from the 3-2 victory over Harvard was still vibrating through the concrete walls. Coach had just finished a roaring, prideful speech, slamming his clipboard against the table to a chorus of cheers before the team began dismantling into the showers.

As Logan was stripping off his heavy shoulder pads, a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder.

"Logan. A word in my office." Coach Jensen says, already walking towards the room.

Logan blinked, his heart instantly doing a nervous spike. On a athletic scholarship, being pulled into Coach's office right after a massive win usually meant something was wrong. He quickly tied a towel around his waist and walked into the quieter, fluorescent-lit office, the heavy thumping of the locker room music instantly muffled.

"Everything good, Coach? Did I mess up that defensive rotation in the third?"

Jensen, sitting back in his chair, a rare genuinely stunned expression on his weathered face. "Shut the door, son. And no, your rotation was fine. It’s not about the game." Coach picked up a piece of official university letterhead, staring at it before looking up at Logan. "I just got a call from the athletic director. An hour before puck drop, a private legal entity finalized a full institutional sponsorship for you."

Logan froze, his hand still resting on the doorknob. "A sponsorship? Like... gear?"

"No, Logan. A total financial package. They are covering your entire housing stipend, your meal plans, your training fees, and writing a blind check to cover the remainder of your tuition out-of-pocket. It removes you entirely from the standard athletic scholarship constraints. Even if you get injured tomorrow, your entire time at Briar is completely paid for."

The air left Logan’s lungs all at once. The room tilted slightly. He thought of his alcoholic father back home, the constant, suffocating fear of a single blown knee destroying his entire future, the absolute exhaustion of carrying his survival on the edge of a skate blade.

His voice barely a breathless whisper, complete baffled. "Who... Coach, who is it? Is it an agency? A scout?"

"They refused to give a name. The lawyers specified that the donor wishes to remain entirely anonymous. They just said it was an 'investment in raw talent.' I’ve been coaching twenty-two years, kid, and I’ve never seen a blind benefactor hand out a golden ticket like this."

Logan stood there, completely paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of the information. His mouth opened to say something—anything—but his brain couldn't process the sudden, overwhelming freedom. The invisible rope around his neck had just vanished.

Coach stood up, walking over to pat Logan’s soaked shoulder with a look of profound respect.

"Don't overthink it tonight, kid. Someone out there sees what you're doing, and they wanted to give you a level playing field. Go freshen up, get showered. You earned it."

Ten minutes later, Logan walked out of the varsity tunnel into the arena's quieter, chilly corridor. His hair was still damp from the shower, a duffel bag slung over his broad shoulder. He was completely numb, his mind spinning in a thousand different directions as he tried to comprehend the anonymous miracle that had just altered his entire life.

But the fog in his mind cleared the exact moment he saw you.

You were leaning against the concrete wall near the exit, your hands tucked into the pockets of your wool coat, looking entirely out of place in the sterile stadium hallway—yet completely, breathtakingly beautiful.

Hearing his footsteps, you looked up, an uncharacteristically wide, brilliant smile breaking across your usually calm face.

"There’s the star left wing. I believe you promised me a smuggler's look if you scored."

Logan stopped in front of you. He looked down at your face, your soft eyes, and the genuine happiness radiating from you. The urge to yell, to scream, to tell you that he was finally safe, that his future was secure, burned in the back of his throat.

But as he looked at your elegant composure, his pride—and the sheer, protective confusion of the anonymous gift—made him lock the secret deep inside his chest. He didn't want to ruin this perfect, unburdened night with heavy, complicated financial mysteries. He just wanted to be the guy who won the game for you.

A breathless, incredibly tender smile broke across his face as he stepped directly into your space, completely ignoring the lingering cold of the arena.

"Yeah, well... it’s easy to score when the prettiest girl in the stadium is standing right against the glass." He dropped his duffel bag to the floor, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "Come here."

Before you could offer a witty reply, his large, warm hands cupped your jaw, tilting your head up as he brought his lips down to yours...

His lips were warm against yours, tasting like the faint chill of the rink and pure, unfiltered adrenaline. For a few short seconds, the sterile concrete hallway of the arena completely vanished. Your hands naturally found the fabric of his damp hoodie, anchoring you to his chest as his thumb swept gently along your jawline.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of your breaths coming out in short, ragged puffs.

Logan murmurs against your lips, "Yeah. I'm definitely never letting you miss a game again."

A soft laugh escaped you, your fingers lingering on his chest. But before you could reply, a harsh, synchronized vibration rattled through the corridor.

Bzzzzz.

It wasn’t just your phone. Inside his duffel bag on the floor, Logan’s phone let out the exact same heavy, rhythmic buzz. Then, down the hall, you heard two passing students gasp, their thumbs instantly flying across their screens.

A strange, sudden chill settled over your skin. You pulled your phone from your coat pocket, the bright screen illuminating a notification that made your stomach instantly drop.

@TheFifthLine: Spotted: Briar’s star left wing checking in for duty at the front row glass tonight. Looks like a budding romance is officially brewing between Number 22 and our resident studio recluse. But word around the quad is our mystery artist isn’t exactly what she seems on the surface. Looks like Ms. Shadow carries a very opulent, lengthy background. Is there a reason you left Manhattan behind, Verplanck? Who are you really hiding behind that canvas?

Your voice suddenly betrays you, cracking on the first syllable "I—Logan, it’s... the campus blogs, they just take random names and rumors to get clicks. They just..."

You stammered, your fingers tightening around your phone so hard your knuckles turned white. The sudden confrontation, combined with the paralyzing fear of being entirely exposed, sent a wave of pure panic through your veins. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't find the elegant, poised words you usually used to shield yourself.

Logan saw the exact moment the color drained from your face. He saw the slight tremor in your hands.

He didn't push. He didn't demand answers. Instead, he took a step closer, his large hands gently but firmly wrapping around your wrists, forcing you to lower the phone.

His voice dropping into a calm, steady directive. "Hey. Look at me. Breathe."

You looked up, your eyes wide and frantic, capturing his gaze.

The crowd is about to empty out into this hallway. Come on. Let’s get out of here."

The drive back to your apartment twenty minutes away from campus was entirely silent, save for the rhythmic, heavy swipe of the windshield wipers clearing the lingering rain.

You stared out the passenger window at the passing streetlights, your heart still hammering against your ribs. It wasn't that your identity was some dark, elaborate lie. Your last name had always been on the class rosters, and you'd never denied who your father was—you had just deliberately kept it down low. You didn't wear flashing logos, you didn't talk about Manhattan townhouses, and you let everyone simply assume you were just another art major struggling through midterms. You had finally found a place where you were liked just for you, not for your family’s checkbook. If he looked up the history of the Verplanck name tonight, would he look at you differently? Would he think you were just playing a game?

When the truck finally rumbled to a halt in front of your oddly spacious apartment building, Logan turned off the engine. The sudden quiet of the cabin was deafening.

He shifted in his seat, looking at your profile in the dim light of the dashboard.

"You're completely frozen," he said softly, his voice lacking any judgment, only carrying a deep, protective concern. "Whatever that post is talking about... it doesn't change anything for me tonight. You don't have to explain it right now if you aren't ready."

You finally turned your head, looking at his kind, honest eyes. The vulnerability of the moment made your chest tighten.

"Logan... I'm sorry I panicked. My family... it’s not a secret. I just never talk about it because I wanted a completely fresh start here. I wanted to be a normal student. I wanted to see what it felt like to exist outside the assumptions that come with my name."

Logan looked down at his own large hands, a small, slightly complicated smile touching his lips as he thought about his own massive, secret financial news from Coach.

I get it more than you think. Everyone on this campus wants to put you in a box based on a name or what you have. But I know who you are in that studio. That’s the only version of you that matters to me."

He leaned over the console, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering against your warm skin.

"Go inside, get some sleep. Let me worry about the hockey blogs. I'll see you tomorrow at two o'clock PM?"

A genuine, relieved breath escaping you. "two o'clock PM. Promise."

You offered him a soft, lingering smile before opening the truck door and stepping out into the cool night air. As you walked up the steps to your building, you felt a strange, dual sensation in your chest. You were completely, utterly safe in Logan's arms—but the storm brewing on at campus, on the student body, on the Fifth Line account was officially spinning out of your control.

Overnight, your privacy completely vanished.

The online discourse surrounding you rampaged across campus forums and social media threads. Some users were bewildered, a few were genuinely nice, but most comments carried a sharp, passive-aggressive sting that made your stomach turn.

"What’s a trust fund kid even doing at Briar lol," one comment read.

Another thread was filled with links to old Manhattan society pages and financial articles about your father’s corporate acquisitions. It was all out there now, laid bare in the worst way possible. Your background had never been intended as a dark, malicious secret—you had just always had a hard time introducing that part of yourself to new relationships. You didn't want to be put on a pedestal or treated differently. It was completely and entirely against the exact reason you had come to Briar in the first place. You just wanted to be an artist.

Now, the morning light filtered through your apartment windows, but you hadn't moved from your kitchen island. You sat staring at your laptop screen, reading the comments as more and more information was pulled from Google. Anxiety crept heavily into your chest, a suffocating weight that made it hard to draw a full breath. Your fingers fidgeted restlessly, picking at the skin around the sides of your nails until they were raw.

It wasn't that you weren't used to attention; growing up a Verplanck meant gala photographers and strict etiquette. But being scrutinized this publicly, this outright, and by the very peers you were trying to fit in with was a completely different kind of terrifying.

A sudden, loud knock at your front door made you flinch so violently your coffee spilled slightly over the rim of your mug.

Before you could even stand up to check the peephole, the door swung open. Hannah and Allie walked straight into your apartment, completely bypassing any formal greetings. Allie was carrying a massive brown paper bag that smelled strongly of greasy diner pancakes, and Hannah had three oversized iced coffees balanced precariously in her arms.

Hannah seting the coffees down on your counter with a loud thud, "Step away from the laptop, Verplanck. Seriously, close the lid right now or I'm throwing it off your balcony."

Allie—already opening your cupboards to find plates, "We brought carbs. Heavy carbs. Because when the campus anonymous boards go feral, the only logical solution is chocolate chips and whipped cream.""We brought carbs. Heavy carbs. Because when the campus anonymous boards go feral, the only logical solution is chocolate chips and whipped cream."

You blinked at them, completely stunned, your hand still frozen near your laptop. "How did you guys even get past the lobby gate?"

Hopping casually onto one of your barstools, looking around your spacious, beautifully styled apartment with an appreciative nod "Please. Allie smiled at the security guard, and I told him we were your personal emotional support team. Plus, this place is incredible. We are officially making this the designated Friday night pre-game spot. The lighting in here is way too good for you to keep it all to yourself." Hannah says.

Allie walked over, gently but firmly reaching across the marble counter and snapping your laptop lid shut. She looked down at your raw, picked-at cuticles, her expression instantly softening into something incredibly sweet and protective.

"Hey. We saw the Fifth Line post. And we saw the idiot comments."

Your throat felt tight, your defenses instinctively trying to build a wall around you. "I'm sorry I didn't explicitly tell you guys about my family. I didn't want you to think—"

Interrupting with a dramatic roll of her eyes, hannah says, "Oh, please. Do you think we care that your dad owns half of New York? Allie’s boyfriend is going to the NHL, and my boyfriend is Garrett Graham—who literally thinks he’s royalty. If anything, having a millionaire heiress in the group just solidifies our status as the most elite table at the diner."

Allie smiled, sliding a plate of pancakes in front of you. "Seriously. You're the girl who sits in the dusty art wing and lets Logan buy her cheap campus coffee every day. We know who you are. The rest of the school is just bored because it's a Friday."

A massive, crushing wave of relief washed over you, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally loosening enough to let you breathe. You looked at the two girls sitting in your kitchen, realizing that the fresh start you wanted hadn't been ruined by the leak at all. If anything, it had just brought the right people closer.

With a genuine smile, breathless laugh escaping your lips. "You guys are ridiculous."

Hannah replies. "We know. Now eat your pancakes. We have to get you ready for your 2:00 PM hot date in the art studio tomorrow, and I fully intend to raid your closet first."

The protective bubble Hannah and Allie had built in your kitchen lasted exactly until you stepped out and walked onto the campus quad.

Usually, the walk from the apartment to the art wing was an invisible, peaceful routine. You’d keep your head down, headphones in, blending seamlessly into the sea of oversized hoodies and backpacks. But today, the atmosphere was thick with a sudden, suffocating shift in gravity.

The moment your boots hit the brick walkway, you felt it—the weight of dozens of eyes pivoting in your direction.

A group of girls sitting on the stone steps of the library stopped talking entirely as you walked past, their heads huddled together over a phone before they all looked up to track your movement. You could hear the low, distinct hiss of whispering.

"That's her."

"The Verplanck girl?"

"Look at her coat. Yeah, that's definitely not from the campus bookstore."

A guy walking toward the athletic center nudged his friend, both of them blatantly staring at you with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Overnight, you had been stripped of your anonymity. You weren't just a quiet art major anymore; you were a walking headline, a spectacle, a piece of Manhattan elite dropped into a college town.

As you neared the student union, a girl from your art history lecture—someone who had never spoken a single word to you all semester—suddenly stepped directly into your path, a bright, overly enthusiastic smile plastered on her face.

"Oh, hey, [Name]! I just wanted to say, I absolutely loved your costume at the duo party. It was so chic. Hey, a few of us are heading to a gallery opening in the city next weekend, and we were wondering if you wanted to come? We could all totally carpool."

The sudden, transparent shift in her demeanor made your stomach turn. She didn't want to get coffee; she wanted an invitation into a world she thought you belonged to.

Forcing a polite, rigid smile, your composure automatically clicking into place like armor. "Thank you, that's very kind. But I'm actually going to be completely buried in the studio next weekend."

The smile faltering slightly, her eyes quickly scanning your face for any sign of weakness. "Oh. Right. Of course. Well, let me know if you change your mind! See you in class!"

As she walked away, you let out a slow, shaky breath, your fingers tightening around the strap of your shoulder bag. The passive-aggressiveness from the online comments was one thing, but firsthand, the treatment was dizzying. Some people looked at you with resentment, some with newfound awe, and others with opportunistic calculation. None of them were seeing you. They were just looking at a dollar sign.

By the time you reached the heavy wooden doors of the art wing, your heart was hammering against your ribs. You pulled open the door, practically escaping into the quiet, familiar scent of turpentine and old paper.

You hurried down the corridor toward the high-ceilinged studio, praying that the one room that had always felt like a sanctuary hadn't been compromised, too.

You pushed open the door to the studio, the clock on the wall ticking to exactly 1:59 PM.

Logan was already there.

Without a single word about the post, comments and the rumors, Logan stood up straight, picked up one of the coffees, and walked directly over to you.

Logan stopped just a foot away from you, the warm scent of the fresh hazelnut coffee cutting through the sharp sting of turpentine in the room. He didn't look at you like you were a headline, but as he handed you the paper cup, you noticed a slight tightness around his eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.

"Did you see them on your way in?"

Logan paused, stepping back to lean his hip against the edge of your painting stool. "See who?"

"Everyone," you said softly, looking down at your coffee. The composure you’d forced yourself to wear outside was completely cracking. "The girls on the library steps... people from my lectures. They're all staring, Logan. The Fifth Line post was right. My full name is [Name] Verplanck. My family has been in New York since the shipping boom. My dad is... incredibly successful, and I grew up in a world where everything is structured, expensive, and completely public."

You swallowed hard, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "I didn't hide it to lie to you. I just wanted to see if I could be an artist first. Without a bank account attached to my introduction."

When you looked up, you expected his usual easy, reassuring smile.

But it wasn’t there.

Instead, Logan was staring at you, his dark eyes intensely searching your face. For a fleeting second, his expression was completely unreadable, a mix of caution, surprise, and a sudden, quiet distance. You could practically see his brain trying to reconcile the girl who sat on a dusty stool drinking cheap campus coffee with the historic, untouchable Manhattan dynasty of the Verplancks. To a guy who grew up with a scraping bank account and an alcoholic father, that name represented a world he couldn't even fathom.

The sudden silence stretched between you, heavy and uncertain. Your heart did a nervous flip. He’s looking at me differently.

Logan caught the flash of hurt on your face, and the defensive, brotherly instinct in him instantly overrode his own internal whiplash. He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped closer, closing the sudden distance between you.

"Sorry. It’s just... that’s a lot to take in. I’ve seen that name on news segments before." He looked down at his large, calloused hands, a slightly complicated smile touching his lips. "I’m not gonna lie to you and say it doesn't spin my head a little bit. We grew up on completely opposite sides of the track, [Name]."

You bit your inside lip, a wave of guilt hitting your chest. "Logan—"

"Hey, look at me," he interrupted softly. He reached out, his warm fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb brushing over the raw skin near your nails where you’d been picking at them. "I’m thrown off, yeah. But I’m not stupid. I know who you are in this room. I know you're the girl who stares at a canvas of trees for two hours. I know you're terrified of letting down a dad who loves you. None of those things change because your last name is on a building in Manhattan."

He squeezed your wrist gently, though his eyes still carried a trace of that lingering, cautious complexity.

"If people out there want to be fake, let them. But you don't have to carry that rigid posture in here. You don't have to be perfect for me. I’m still just the guy on a hockey scholarship, remember? We're still just us."

Hearing him say we're still just us made the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally loosen. A genuine smile broke through your panic.

"We're still just us."

A playful, familiar smirk returning to his face as he let go of your wrist. "Good. Now, pick up your brush. You're losing light, and I didn't walk all the way across campus to watch you stress over a blog post."

You let out a real, unburdened laugh, turning back toward your canvas. Logan reclaimed his usual chair, pulling out his textbook, but as he stared at the pages, his mind was privately drifting.

He was thinking about his father. He was thinking about his sudden, massive anonymous financial sponsorship from an hour ago. And now, he was thinking about your millionaire background. The fragile, silent boundary between your two worlds had officially been drawn.

By the third week of November, the campus was practically vibrating with the frantic, excited energy of the upcoming Thanksgiving break. Students were already dragging duffel bags across the quad, and the air smelled like crisp frost and impending woodsmoke.

Inside your apartment, the radiators hissed a steady, cozy warmth against the freezing glass. It was Sunday night, and your living room had officially been overridden by the hockey team. Allie and Hannah were buried under a faux-fur blanket on your plush sofa, while Garrett, Dean, and Tucker had completely taken over your floor and lounge chairs, analyzing a game tape on your TV while aggressively demolishing three large pizza boxes.

Logan was stretched out on the opposite end of the sofa, his massive frame taking up almost the entire length of the cushions, one of his legs draped casually over your lap as you sat on the carpet, your back resting against his shins. Your fingers were idly tracing patterns on the denim of his jeans while Tucker and Dean argued over a defensive play.

Suddenly, your phone lit up on the coffee table, vibrating against the wood. The screen read: Dad.

His voice carries that familiar, wealthy, yet deeply warm New York register over the line) "Hello, sweetheart. I’m just leaving the office. I wanted to check in before the holiday rush hits. You're still coming home directly on Wednesday for Thanksgiving, right?"

"Of course. I already have my bags packed. I'll be there before dinner."

"Good. Because right along the holiday, we have the annual Verplanck Charity Gala. The board has been frantic about the catering, but everything is finalized. It’s our biggest night of the year for up-and-coming artists who need the financial backing." He paused, his tone softening into something incredibly intentional. "...And you've sounded happier over the phone these past few months than you have in years. You always talk about this new circle of yours at Briar. Why don't you invite your friends to come to Manhattan with you? Tell them I’m reserving a private table for them at the gala."

Your breath hitched slightly. You looked up at the absolute chaos in your living room. Tucker was currently trying to put Garrett in a headlock over the last slice of pepperoni, Dean was checking his reflection in your glossy media console, and Logan was looking down at you, his dark eyes observing your expression with a quiet, curious intensity.

"Dad... are you sure? They're a bit... loud."

Letting out a chuckle "I think a little noise is exactly what that stuffy ballroom needs. And don't worry about commercial flights, sweetie. I'll have the pilot fly the private plane up to the regional airfield near campus on Tuesday afternoon to pick them all up. They can fly down to the city, enjoy the gala, and the plane can take them wherever they need to go for Thanksgiving on Wednesday morning. Invite them, [Name]. Safe travels tomorrow. I love you."

"Love you too, Dad."

You clicked the phone shut, the living room noise instantly flooding back into your ears. You cleared your throat, setting the phone down.

Dean without looking up from his phone, adjusting his collar "Tell the old man I say hello. If he needs any real-estate tips for his next Manhattan high-rise, Di Laurentis is available for consultation."

Garrett snorting, shoving Tucker away "Shut up, Dean. What did he say, [Name]?"

"He wants me to invite you guys to Manhattan. My family hosts the annual Verplanck Gala on Tuesday night right before break. It’s a massive charity event dedicated to sponsoring and funding up-and-coming artists who need financial backing. He’s... reserving a private table for the entire group."

Tucker groans. "Man, I’d love to, but my flight back to Texas leaves early Wednesday morning, and trying to get to New York and back to the airport during Thanksgiving traffic sounds like a nightmare."

Rubbing the back of your neck, standard Verplanck luxury still feeling slightly awkward to say out loud "Actually... my dad said he’s sending our private plane to the regional airfield on Tuesday afternoon to pick you all up. You’ll fly into New York for the gala, and then the pilot will fly you guys directly to your hometowns on Wednesday morning so you don't miss Thanksgiving."

Complete, utterly stunned silence fell over the room. Tucker stopped mid-chew. Garrett blinked. Even Dean looked up from his phone, his eyebrows lifting in genuine shock.

Hannah's jaw practically dropping as she sits up straight. "Shut up. A private jet? We are flying to a Manhattan gala on a private jet?!"

A massive grin spreading across Tucker's face as he drops his pizza "Wait, a private plane? Does that mean free high-end catering in the sky and at the party? Paid for by millionaires? I am one thousand percent in!"

"Hell yeah. I’ve never been on a private plane in my life. Let's go!" Garrett exclaims.

Dean smirks leaning back. "Finally, a form of transportation suited to my natural preferences. I'll have to get my tuxedo shipped immediately."

Amidst the loud, chaotic cheering of the boys planning their impromptu luxury trip, your eyes instinctively drifted up to Logan

He hadn't joined in on the shouting. He was just looking at you, his jaw slightly tight as the staggering weight of your reality fully settled in. To a guy like Logan, who spent his holidays worrying about his alcoholic father and scraping by on a strict athletic scholarship, a family that casually sends a private jet to pick up a college hockey team just for a Tuesday night charity party was entirely unfathomable. It was a stark reminder of the opposite tracks you both lived on.

But as he caught the vulnerable, hopeful look in your eyes, the protective sweetness in him won out. He let out a low breath, a small, incredibly tender smile breaking through his caution. He reached his large hand down, his fingers wrapping around the back of your neck to gently pull you against his leg.

"A private jet and a charity gala, huh? Does that mean I actually have to brush my hair so I don't look like a stray hitchhiker?"

"You're renting a tuxedo, Logan. And I am personally approving it so you don't embarrass us on the tarmac." Hannah says.

Chuckling, his thumb gently caressing the skin of your shoulder "Fine. If it means supporting the artist, I'll fly in style."

You rested your head against his shin, the warmth of his presence grounding you completely. The invites were accepted. You were all heading into the holiday week on a private flight awaiting you in the glittering ballroom of the winter gala.

The transition from the cramped airport shuttle to the Verplanck estate was enough to give anyone whiplash. As the black SUV rolled through the massive wrought-iron gates and up the winding, tree-lined driveway, the chaotic chatter of the Briar gang slowly died down into a collective, awestruck silence.

The house wasn't just a house; it was a sprawling stone manor that looked like it had been lifted straight out of a classic film.

"Holy hell," Tucker muttered, his forehead pressed against the glass. "Are we staying here or auditioning for a period piece?"

Logan sat next to you, completely rigid. His large frame seemed to shrink back into the leather seat, his eyes taking in the manicured lawns, the pristine fountains, and the sheer, overwhelming scale of your world. You reached over, sliding your hand into his. His palm was damp, his knuckles tense, but he squeezed back immediately, desperate for the anchor.

When the car finally idled to a stop in the grand courtyard, the front doors of the manor swung open. Stepping out onto the stone portico was your father.

Logan braced himself, his shoulders squaring into his defensive, protective posture. He was expecting a titan of industry—someone cold, calculating, and intimidating. Someone who would look at a guy from a broken home with a father in rehab and see right through him.

Instead, your dad broke into a wide, genuine smile, his arms spreading out as he walked down the steps.

"They're here!" he called out, his voice warm and booming. He immediately went to you, pulling you into a fierce, loving hug that smelled of expensive cologne and familiar comfort. "Oh, it's good to have you home."

When he pulled back, his eyes landed directly on Logan, who was standing a step behind you like a bodyguard waiting for a blow.

"And you must be Logan," your dad said. Before Logan could extend a polite, terrified hand, your dad closed the distance and clapped a heavy, warm hand onto Logan’s shoulder, pulling him into a brief, hearty half-hug. "It is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you, son. This one does nothing but talk about you."

Logan froze for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard by the effortless warmth. "Thank you, sir. It’s... thank you for having us."

"None of that 'sir' nonsense under my roof. It's Charles," your dad insisted, giving Logan's shoulder one last, affectionate squeeze. "Look at you, you're built like a linebacker. We're going to get some proper food into all of you. Come on inside, the staff will grab your bags."

As your dad turned to welcome the rest of the gang, Logan stood entirely still on the gravel. You looked up at him, smiling, but the smile faded when you saw his face.

His jaw was clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. His dark eyes were glossy, fixed on your father’s retreating back. It wasn't the intimidation that had shaken him—it was the casual, easy kindness. The realization of what a father could be hit him like a physical blow, casting a long, painful shadow over the memory of the quiet lobby and the marshmallow on a paper plate from that morning.

He looked so fiercely conflicted, tearing himself apart internally, that you could see the faint glint of unshed tears in the corners of his eyes.

"Hey," you whispered, stepping closer to him, blocking him from the view of the others. "You okay?"

Logan blinked rapidly, swallowing hard as he finally looked down at you. He forced a thick, tight nod, his voice rough. "Yeah. Yeah, fine. Just... a lot of flight time. Let's go inside."

By the time the rooms were assigned and everyone had settled in, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the estate in deep twilight shadows. Your dad had set the gang up in the guest wing, but you had managed to slip away to your personal suite in the west wing to unpack.

A soft, hesitant knock sounded at your door.

"Come in," you called out.

The door pushed open, and Logan stepped through. He had changed out of his travel clothes into a clean henley, but he still looked entirely out of place among the antique furniture, the plush rugs, and the sheer elegance of your bedroom. He closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding incredibly loud in the quiet space.

"Am I allowed in here?" he asked, a faint, tentative trace of his usual humor returning, though his eyes were still heavy.

"I make the rules in this wing," you smiled, walking over to him.

Logan didn't smile back. Instead, he just looked at you, then looked around the room, taking in the framed photos of your childhood, the massive canopy bed, and the fireplace. The air in the room suddenly felt incredibly thick, charged with an undeniable, heavy tension. The distance between his reality and yours was laid out bare, yet here he was, standing right in the middle of it.

"Your dad," Logan began, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. He stepped closer, closing the gap between you until you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. "He's... he's really great."

"He liked you a lot, Logan. I told you he would."

"It's not that," Logan whispered. He reached out, his large hands anchoring gently on your waist, pulling you just an inch closer. The heat radiating off him was dizzying. "It's just... seeing him with you. Seeing how he looks at you. It made me realize how much..." He trailed off, his throat moving as he swallowed the rest of the sentence. He didn't need to finish it. You knew.

"You deserve that kind of warmth too, you know," you said softly, reaching up to cup his jaw. His stubble scratched against your palm, a grounding, raw sensation against the backdrop of the pristine room.

Logan let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a brief second as he leaned into your touch. When he opened them, the vulnerability was gone, replaced by a dark, burning intensity that made your breath hitch. The sheer contrast of him, this massive, powerful force of a man completely unraveled by a little bit of kindness sent a shiver down your spine.

"Right now," Logan murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips, his hands tightening on your waist just enough to pull your hips flush against his, "all I want is to be right here. With you. Away from all of it."

The space between you completely vanished. The tension that had been building since the morning, the weight of his family secret, the shock of your wealth, the emotional whiplash of the day narrowed down into a single, breathless point.

"Then stay," you breathed against his lips.

Logan didn't answer with words. He leaned down, his mouth catching yours in a deep, bruising kiss that felt less like a greeting and more like a man desperately claiming his only safe harbor in a storm

The heavy, grounding weight of the kiss stayed with you long after Logan finally slipped out of your room, whispering that he didn’t want to push his luck on the very first night under your father's roof.

But down the hall in the guest wing, Logan couldn’t sleep. The mattress was too soft, the sheets had too high a thread count, and the silence of the massive estate was deafening compared to the familiar, chaotic ambient noise of the Briar house. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the stark contrast: the sterile, clinical lobby of the recovery center from this morning, and the bright, effortless warmth of Charles Verplanck’s smile from this afternoon.

His chest felt tight, a restless, heavy knot of emotion he couldn't shake. Needing to move, Logan threw on a dark t-shirt and quietly stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, tracking his way back downstairs by memory to find a glass of water.

The sprawling manor was dark, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the nightlights lining the baseboards. When he reached the massive, professional-grade kitchen, he expected it to be empty.

Instead, a single pendant light was turned on over the marble island. Sitting on a stool, nursing a mug of tea with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, was your dad.

Logan froze in the archway, his instinct telling him to turn around and fade back into the shadows. But the floorboard gave a tiny creak, and Charles looked up.

"Ah, Logan," your dad said, his voice a low, warm rumble that didn't carry the sharp authority Logan had spent a lifetime associating with older men. Charles pushed his glasses up onto his head and smiled genuinely. "Can't sleep either?"

"Sorry, sir—Charles," Logan corrected himself quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, looking massive and slightly awkward in the doorway. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Just wanted to grab some water."

"You're not interrupting a thing. Come on in," Charles said, gesturing to the empty stool beside him. He stood up, walking over to a sub-zero refrigerator and pulling out a chilled glass bottle of water. He poured it into a heavy crystal glass and slid it across the smooth marble. "The first night in a new place is always a tossing-and-turning match. Especially a place this quiet."

Logan took a seat, his large forearms resting on the island. He took a slow sip, the cold water soothing the dryness in his throat. "It's beautiful here. Really. Thank you again for letting all of us crash."

"It is my absolute pleasure," Charles said, leaning back against the counter, looking at Logan with a quiet, observant gaze. It wasn't a judgmental look; it was the look of a father trying to understand the man who held his child’s heart. "You know, when they talk about you, their eyes completely light up. I haven't seen them this grounded in a very long time. I have you to thank for that."

The praise was so simple, so freely given, that it made Logan's breath catch in his throat. He looked down at his glass, his fingers tracing the condensation.

"I don't do anything special," Logan muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden rush of emotion he was fighting desperately to suppress. "I just... I care about them. A lot."

"It's not nothing, son," Charles said softly. He stepped closer, his expression softening as he noticed the tight, strained line of Logan's jaw and the slight glint of the amber light reflecting in his eyes. Charles had lived long enough to recognize a young man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. "You don't have to carry it all by yourself, you know. Whatever it is."

That was the breaking point. The sheer, unadulterated kindness of this man—a man who had every right to be protective, elitist, or cold, but chose instead to offer safety—fractured the last of Logan's defenses.

A single, hot tear escaped Logan's eye, tracking down his cheek into his dark stubble. He quickly swiped it away with the back of his hand, his chest heaving with a silent, shaky breath as he stared intensely at the marble countertop, utterly mortified to be breaking down in front of his partner's father.

"Hey," Charles said, his voice dropping to a fierce, protective whisper. He didn't pull back or act uncomfortable. Instead, he reached out and placed a heavy, reassuring hand firmly on Logan’s shoulder. "It’s alright. You’re safe here."

"I'm sorry," Logan choked out, his throat burning as he squeezed his eyes shut, a few more tears spilling over. "My dad... he's not... he's in a facility right now. For alcohol. We dropped something off for him this morning before the flight. And then I came here, and I saw you, and..." He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "I just didn't know a dad could be like this. I didn't know it could be this easy."

Charles didn't say a word. He just tightened his grip on Logan's shoulder, anchoring the young man through the storm. He let the silence stretch, giving Logan the space to breathe through the heavy, suffocating grief of what he had missed out on his entire life.

"Your father’s struggles are his own, Logan," Charles said firmly but gently after a long moment. "They are not a reflection of your worth. And they certainly don't define the kind of man you are turning out to be. From what I see standing in front of me? You are doing an incredible job."

Logan let out a ragged breath, the tight knot in his chest finally loosening just a fraction. He opened his eyes, wiping his face properly this time, and looked at Charles.

Charles kept his hand on Logan's shoulder, his expression shifting from comforting to deeply earnest. "I mean it. I’ve watched them grow up, Logan. I've seen them navigate a lot of different people, a lot of different phases. But I have never seen them this happy with someone. Not like this. You give them a kind of peace they've been looking for."

Logan’s chest swelled, the raw weight of the compliment landing heavily in the quiet kitchen.

Charles squeezed his shoulder one last time, his gaze intense, a father's fierce love laying itself completely bare. "Take care of her, Logan. She's the only one I've got."

The vulnerability in Charles's voice struck a chord deep within Logan. It wasn't a threat; it was a sacred trust being handed over from one protector to another.

Logan met Charles's eyes evenly, his jaw setting with absolute, unwavering certainty. "I will," Logan whispered, his voice rough but steadier than it had been all night. "I promise you, Charles. I will."

"I know you will," Charles smiled, finally stepping back and giving the young man his space. "Now, drink your water. And if you ever need to talk, midnight or midday, my door is open. Understood?"

Logan nodded, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. "Understood."

The gala was held in the estate’s grand ballroom, a breathtaking space of soaring ceilings, massive crystal chandeliers that cast a warm, diamond-like glow over the crowd, and a full live orchestra playing a sweeping, elegant waltz on the raised mezzanine. The room was a sea of New York's elite, moving smoothly amidst champagne towers and velvet drapes.

But your eyes weren't on the crowd; they were on the entrance, where your friends were making their official debut. To say they cleaned up well was an understatement.

Tucker actually looked civilized, wearing a classic black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt, though he had already managed to smuggle three bacon-wrapped appetizers into his breast pocket and was actively trying to figure out if the ice sculpture was real.

Garrett looked effortlessly suave in a sharp, tailored midnight-blue suit that perfectly matched his confident smirk, a glass of expensive champagne already held loosely in his hand.

Hannah was wearing a sleek, floor-length emerald green satin gown that turned heads the second she walked in, her usual go to footwear replaced by heels she was practicing walking in with hyper-focused concentration.

Dean, looking every bit the brooding counterpart to the rest of the loud group, cut a devastatingly handsome figure in a sharp, all-black tuxedo and a dark silk tie, managing to look entirely sophisticated despite the slight, reluctant scowl he wore as he adjusted his collar against the stuffy atmosphere.

Allie looked absolutely radiant, wearing a stunning, flowing blush-pink gown that perfectly complemented her bright energy, her hair swept up in an elegant style that made her look like she belonged in a high-society magazine, even as she playfully nudged Dean to stop scowling.

And then.

Standing just a step behind them all was Logan, and the sheer sight of him made your heart do a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. He was adjusting the cuffs of a perfectly fitted black tuxedo that accentuated every single inch of his broad shoulders and commanding height. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his jaw was cleanly shaven. He looked like an absolute prince—classic, powerful, and utterly breathtaking.

When he finally looked up and saw you approaching, his breath hitched audibly, his dark eyes widening as they swept over your stunning formal gown and the way the chandelier light caught the fabric.

"Wow," Logan breathed, a rare, completely captivated smile breaking through his usual caution as he closed the distance between you. "You look... absolutely incredible. I don't even have a word for it. Beautiful doesn't cover it."

A blush crept up your neck as you reached out, your fingers gently smoothing the lapel of his jacket. "Thank you," you smiled, looking up into his dark eyes. "And look at you. You look incredibly dashing, Logan. I knew you'd clean up well, but this is almost unfair to everyone else in the room."

He let out a soft, rough chuckle, his hand coming up to gently cup your waist, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your dress. "I'm just trying not to trip over my own feet in front of your dad's friends," he murmured, leaning down so only you could hear. "But seeing you? It's making it a lot easier to forget anyone else is here."

Before the crowd could swallow you both up, the live orchestra transitioned into a slower, deeply romantic, sweeping melody, and Logan looked toward the dance floor with a sudden, nervous flash in his eyes.

"I don't really know how to waltz," he admitted softly, "but if you're willing to guide me, I'm not letting anyone else have this dance."

Whispering for him to just hold onto you, you let him lead you out onto the polished hardwood floor, drawing the eyes of several onlookers as he placed one massive, warm hand securely on the small of your back and pulled you flush against him. As you began to move, his natural athletic instincts took over, his long strides easily matching your pace in a rhythm that was surprisingly, intoxicatingly smooth.

You rested your head close to his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring thud of his heart as the anxiety from the previous nights, the weight of his family secret, and the fear of your different worlds all vanished under the canopy of the music. Spinning slowly beneath the glowing chandeliers, Logan looked down at you with a dark, burning devotion, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as his grip tightened just a fraction.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion so raw it made your chest ache. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm completely stuck on you."

You smiled against his shoulder, closing your eyes as the music swept around you.

The high of the dance shattered an hour later in the crowded gallery just off the ballroom. Logan had stepped away to grab you both fresh drinks, but on his way back, he was cut off by a man in a flawless, bespoke charcoal suit—a man whose face Logan had stared at on sports network broadcasts and athletic press releases for years.

It was Thornton Vance, the majority owner of the professional hockey franchise Logan had been training his entire life to break into.

"John Logan, right?" Vance asked, a sharp, business-like smile on his face as he stopped Logan in his tracks. "I thought that was you. Charles told me you'd be here tonight."

Logan’s heart stopped, his grip tightening around the crystal glasses in his hands. "Mr. Vance. Yes, sir. I didn't expect to see you here."

"Well, when Charles Verplanck invites you, you show up," Vance chuckled casually, gesturing out toward the grand ballroom. "Charles Verplanck has been our leading financial backer for the last five years. When he called me personally yesterday morning to tell me he had a phenomenal young defenseman staying under his roof this weekend—someone he wanted me to keep a very close eye on—I told him I’d make it a point to connect. Then told me how he sponsored your stay at Briar. You've got a hell of a fairy godfather in your corner, son."

Vance kept talking, offering a card, saying something about rookie camp invites, but Logan couldn't hear a single word over the sudden, violent roaring in his ears.

Yesterday morning. Before the flight. Before they even arrived.

The warmth he had felt from your dad, the safe harbor he thought he had found in your room, the magical dance under the chandeliers it all twisted into something transactional, something toxic, in a matter of seconds. He wasn't here because he was wanted. He was a charity case. A project. You had lined his future up like a chess piece, pulling strings behind his back because you looked at his messy, broken life and felt sorry for him.

Logan didn't put the drinks down; he practically slammed them onto a passing waiter's tray. His chest was heaving, his face pale and his dark eyes burning with a sudden, defensive fury as he stormed back into the ballroom, tracking you down near the edge of the crowd.

When he caught your wrist, his grip wasn't gentle like it usually was. It was desperate, tight, and trembling. He didn't say a word as he pulled you out of the noise, dragging you into a secluded alcove near the heavy velvet curtains.

"Logan? What's wrong?" you asked, your heart dropping at the sheer agony and anger radiating off him. "You're white as a ghost."

"Did you orchestrate that?" Logan rasped, his voice a low, jagged whisper that cut through you like a knife. He looked down at you, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. "Thornton Vance is out there. He just told me your dad is the primary sponsor for the team. He told me your dad called him yesterday morning to secure me an in."

Your eyes widened in genuine confusion. "Logan, I—I didn't know—"

"Don't lie to me!" he snapped, a harsh, broken laugh escaping his throat. He stepped closer, towering over you, completely consumed by the crushing weight of his own pride and insecurity. "Is that what this is? Is this whole relationship just a charity project for you? You look at my dad in rehab, you look at my broken-down house, and you think, 'Oh, let me save the poor guy from Briar'. Was this all just pity?"

The word hit you like a physical blow. Your breath hitched, the sheer injustice of the accusation tearing through your chest. "Pity? Logan, how can you even say that?"

"Because it makes sense!" he choked out, his voice cracking as his defensive walls slammed shut, completely mischaracterizing every single thing you were. "You're a Verplanck. You have everything. I'm just a guy with a messed-up family trying to scrape by, and you decided to fix me. You pity me."

Tears immediately flooded your eyes, hot and stinging, blurring the sight of the man you loved completely turning on you. Your chest heaved, a sob threatening to break through your throat. Unable to look at the cold, defensive mask he had put on, you tore your wrist from his grip, turned on your heel, and ran.

You fled the ballroom, ignoring the curious glances of the guests as you pushed through the heavy glass doors at the back of the mansion. You ran blindly into the sprawling back garden, where the cool night air hit your bare shoulders and the distant, rhythmic lull of the stone water fountains filled the quiet darkness. The heavy bass of the orchestra faded into the background, replaced only by the sound of your own ragged breaths and the tears spilling down your cheeks.

"Hey! Wait!"

Logan’s heavy footsteps crunched violently against the gravel path as he pursued you, his tuxedo jacket open, his tie slightly crooked. He caught up to you near the center fountain, reaching out to stop you, but you spun around, backing away from him until the stone rim of the fountain pressed against the back of your gown.

"Don't touch me!" you sobbed, your words stumbling over each other as the tears choked you. "I didn't know! I swear to God, Logan, I didn't know anything about the sponsorship! I didn't know my dad called him!"

"Then why did he do it?" Logan demanded, though the fiery anger in his eyes was starting to crack, replaced by a desperate, panicked confusion as he saw you breaking down.

"Because he loves me!" you shouted, your voice cracking completely, a sob escaping as you defended your father. "He saw how happy I was! All he had was pure intentions! He wanted to help the person who makes his child smile! How could you take something so kind and twist it into something ugly?"

Logan froze, his chest heaving as the weight of your tears began to pierce through his defensive armor.

"I don't care if you're penniless, John Logan!" you wept, the raw truth pouring out of you as you gestured wildly between the two of you. "I don't care if you have the entire world at your fingertips or absolutely nothing! I liked you for you. I loved your observantness. I loved how you always read me like a book, how you always knew exactly what I needed and when I needed it before I could even say it out loud!"

You took a ragged, trembling breath, wiping aggressively at your wet cheeks, your voice dropping into a devastatingly broken register.

"But I guess I was wrong," you whispered, the betrayal cutting deep. "I thought you knew me. All I ever had for you was admiration. I never, ever pitied you. How could you think so lowly of me?"

Logan blinked, the harsh reality of what he had just done crashing down on him. The defensive anger completely vanished from his face, leaving him looking hollow, horrified, and entirely exposed. "Hey... no. I—I didn't mean—"

"No, you did," you choked out, stumbling over your words as you took a step back, completely shutting down. You looked at him through your tear-stained vision, your heart breaking into a million pieces in the quiet garden. "John Logan... never talk to me again."

Before he could move, before he could open his mouth to beg, you turned and ran past the fountains, disappearing into the dark shadows of the estate, leaving him standing completely alone in the cold night air.

Logan walked back through the heavy glass doors of the ballroom, but the music, the laughter, and the glittering light no longer felt like a dream—it felt like a mocking indictment. His tuxedo jacket was completely unbuttoned, his collar felt suffocatingly tight, and the hollow, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was growing by the second. He moved through the high-society crowd like a ghost, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the far corner of the room where the Briar crew was clustered near the bar.

Garrett was mid-laugh, gesturing with his champagne glass, while Tucker was currently trying to explain something to Allie and Hannah. Dean was leaning back against a marble pillar, his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp eyes scanning the room.

As Logan approached, the laughter at the table died instantly. Garrett’s smile faded, his eyes narrowing as he took in Logan’s pale face and the absolute devastation radiating off his large frame.

"Logan?" Hannah asked, stepping forward first, her green gown rustling against the floor. "What happened? Where is she?"

"Man, you look like you just watched your own dog get run over," Tucker muttered, his usual humor dropping away into immediate concern.

Logan stopped a foot away from them, his hands shoving deep into his pockets just so they wouldn't see how violently they were shaking. He couldn't look any of them in the eye. He stared at the polished hardwood floor, his throat working hard as he swallowed the thick, suffocating lump of regret rising in his chest.

"I messed up," Logan choked out, his voice so rough and hollow it barely sounded like him. "I completely blew it."

Dean straightened up from the pillar, his brooding expression shifting into something intensely focused. "What do you mean, you blew it?"

"I ran into Thornton Vance out in the gallery," Logan said, the words spilling out of him in a desperate, ragged rush. He finally looked up, his eyes glassy and filled with a raw, agonizing panic. "He told me... he told me her dad is the primary sponsor for the team. He said Charles called him yesterday morning to get me an invite to rookie camp and my stay in briar was from his sponsorship."

Garrett blinked, shaking his head. "Wait you got a sponsor— wait—okay... and that's a bad thing? Logan, that's a massive hookup."

"I thought she set it up," Logan whispered, his voice cracking as the full weight of his mistake crashed down on him in front of his friends. "I thought... with my dad being where he is, and this place being what it is... I thought she looked at me and just felt sorry for me. I thought the whole thing was a charity project. I went crazy. I confronted her, and I accused her of pitying me."

A heavy, horrified silence fell over the group. Allie let out a sharp, quiet gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, while Hannah’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

"Logan, tell me you didn't," Hannah breathed, her voice a mix of anger and pity.

"I did," Logan said, a single, rough breath escaping him that sounded dangerously close to a sob. He rubbed a hand aggressively over his face, his broad shoulders shaking. "She didn't even know about it. She swear she didn't know. Her dad just did it because he saw how happy she was with me. And I... I twisted it. I told her she thought lowly of me. "

"She ran out into the back garden," Logan choked out, his dark eyes turning to Garrett, then to Dean, completely unraveled. "She was crying so hard she could barely get the words out. She told me she loved me because I was observant, because I always knew what she needed... and then she told me never to talk to her again. Guys, I've never seen her look at me like that. Like I was a stranger. I completely broke her heart because I couldn't handle my own stupid pride."

The remaining days of the Thanksgiving trip passed in a punishing, agonizing blur for Logan. True to your word, you completely vanished from his sight. He had spent the long hours staring out the guest wing windows, desperately hoping for a glimpse of you in the gardens, or lingering by the grand staircase hoping to hear the sound of your laugh. But your suite remained closed, and the crushing weight of your absence echoed through the massive halls of the manor.

Now, instead of leaving rejuvinated, the air was heavy unusual for Thanksgiving.

The Briar gang stood out in the grand courtyard, their bags piled neatly by the waiting vehicles. The lively, chaotic energy they usually carried was entirely subdued, everyone casting quiet, worried glances at Logan, who looked like a shadow of himself—hollow-eyed, silent, and carrying a reservoir of pure, unadulterated regret in his chest.

Charles Verplanck walked down the stone portico steps alone. Logan’s chest tightened painfully as he looked past your father, searching the grand front doors one last time. They remained firmly shut.

"The cars are packed and ready to take you to the tarmac," Charles announced, his voice carrying that same calm, booming warmth as the first day, though there was a distinct note of quiet somberness to it now. "The plane is fueled and ready to take you all straight back to Massachusetts."

Charles stopped right in front of the group, his eyes softening as he looked over the solemn faces of your friends. Then, he turned his gaze directly to Logan.

Logan braced himself, his jaw tight, fully expecting the righteous, defensive anger of a father whose child had been deeply hurt. He knew he deserved it. He deserved to be thrown out, to be yelled at, to be banned from ever breathing the same air as you again.

Instead, your dad just looked at him. There was no fury in his eyes, no elitist coldness. There was only a profound, quiet understanding, and a gentle sadness that felt like a physical blow to Logan’s ribs.

"She won't be coming back to Massachusetts with you on the plane today," Charles said softly, his voice steady. "She's decided to stay here at the estate for a little while longer."

The words felt like a final, devastating verdict. Logan closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his throat burning as he forced himself to nod, swallowing the bitter taste of his own failure.

Charles stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He didn't pull back his warmth. He didn't revoke the safe harbor he had offered in the kitchen. He simply reached out and placed that same heavy, reassuring hand firmly on Logan's broad shoulder. It was a gesture of complete, unearned forgiveness that made Logan's eyes sting fiercely.

"Do right by her, son," Charles murmured, his voice a low, protective register meant only for Logan. He gave the shoulder a tight, encouraging squeeze, a reminder of the sacred trust they had spoken about at midnight.

Logan looked up, his dark eyes glassy, his voice incredibly rough and thick with emotion as he managed to choke out the words. "I will, Charles. I swear to you, I will."

Your dad offered a small, sad, but genuinely hopeful smile, giving Logan's shoulder one last pat. "Safe travels, everyone," Charles called out to the rest of the gang, waving a warm goodbye before turning on his heel and walking back up the grand stone steps, disappearing into the quiet sanctuary of the estate.

The air inside the Briar off-campus house was heavy, suffocatingly quiet compared to its usual chaotic energy. Outside, the Massachusetts winter was bleeding into the gray afternoon, but inside, Logan hadn't moved from the worn leather armchair in the corner of the living room for hours. His duffel bag was still sitting unpacked by the front door, a bleak reminder of the sudden, silent flight back from the Verplanck estate.

Logan stared blankly at the floorboards, his knuckles white as his fingers locked together. He was drowning in it—absolute, unadulterated regret.

Every single time he closed his eyes, he didn't see the glittering ballroom or the professional hockey scouts; he just saw your face. He saw the hot, stinging tears blurring your eyes, heard the devastating crack in your voice, and felt the sheer, agonizing weight of the hurt he had inflicted on you.

How had he let himself get so blind?

He had allowed his own deep-rooted insecurities, his pride, and his shame over his father to completely hijack his mind. He had spun a twisted narrative in his head where he was a charity case and you were just a wealthy savior looking for a project. In that moment of blind panic, he had gotten so caught up in his own head that he had completely forgotten who you actually were as a person.

Now, in the quiet of the living room, the memories he had buried under his defensive walls came rushing back with agonizing clarity, forcing him to reminisce on the real truth of you.

He thought back to that afternoon in the art studio—the soft, dusty light hitting your face, the quiet focus in your eyes, and the effortless comfort of just being near you. He remembered the exact day he had first found out about your wealthy background. There hadn't been an ounce of arrogance in you. Not a single trace of superiority, and most importantly, not a single drop of pity.

That was just who you were. You were the person who loved unconditionally, who was always entirely willing to help the people you cared about, never expecting a trophy or a transaction in return. Your dad’s phone call hadn’t been a calculated setup; it was a reflection of the same pure, generous heart you carried every single day. And he had thrown it back in your face. He had called it ugly. He had called it pity.

Across the room, the heavy silence was wearing thin.

Garrett was leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-empty sports drink in his hand, his eyes fixed worriedly on his roommate. Tucker was sitting at the dining table, uncharacteristically quiet, lazily spinning a hockey puck on the wood but keeping his gaze glued to Logan's rigid posture. Even Dean, who usually kept to himself, had wandered downstairs and was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed with deep concern.

Logan was brooding so intensely, radiating a dark, hollow aura of self-hatred, that the guys were genuinely getting worried. He looked less like a fearsome athlete and more like a man who had completely broken his own soul.

"Hey," Garrett finally broke the silence, his voice unusually soft as he stepped into the living room, gesturing subtly to Tucker and Dean. "Logan. Man... you gotta breathe. You haven't blinked in ten minutes."

Logan didn't look up. He just let out a long, ragged exhale that sounded more like a fracture in his chest, the weight of your last words—never talk to me again—replaying on a merciless, agonizing loop.

A full week had passed since the disastrous night at the estate, classes at Briar resumed. Yet, your seat in the lecture halls had remained devastatingly empty. Logan had spent every morning scanning the campus crowds, his heart leaping at every glimpse of dark hair, only to be crushed by the reality that you still weren't there.

Until today.

When you finally walked down the quad, it felt as if a collective shift occurred in the air, but for Logan, the world simply stopped. You weren't hiding. You didn't look broken. Instead, you walked with an immaculate, chilling poise, your shoulders back and a beautifully constructed, polite mask firmly in place. Your eyes were entirely guarded, devoid of the bright, soft warmth that usually greeted the world. It was a terrifying sight for Logan; you looked exactly like the untouchable, high-society stranger you had been the very first day you met. The open, vulnerable person he had held in the ballroom was completely locked away behind iron gates.

He didn't dare make a scene in the courtyard. He knew he didn't have the right. So he waited, tracking your schedule by memory, until he knew you would head toward the old campus art studio, the place where the noise of the university faded, and where you had once shared an effortless, quiet peace.

The door to the studio gave a faint, familiar creak as Logan pushed it open. You were standing by an easel near the back windows, the pale winter light washing over your profile. You didn't jump or startle when he entered. You slowly paused your brush, your fingers tightening slightly around the wooden handle, but you didn't turn around to look at him.

Logan closed the door softly behind him, stepping into the room with none of his usual commanding, athletic stride. He looked entirely undone, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights, his face gaunt, his large frame looking almost defeated in a simple dark hoodie. He kept his distance, stopping a few feet away, terrified that if he took one wrong step, you would vanish again.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice so raw, hoarse, and broken it barely carried across the quiet room.

You took a slow, steadying breath, your shoulders rising and falling with that perfect, distant poise before you finally turned your head to face him. Your expression was completely blank. "I believe I asked you never to talk to me again, Logan."

The coldness in your voice cut straighter to his chest than any physical blow ever could. A visible flinch went through him, his jaw trembling as he looked at the sheer emotional distance between you.

"I know," Logan choked out, his dark eyes immediately filling with a desperate, stinging heat. He dropped his hands to his sides, completely defenseless, his broad chest heaving with a shaky breath. "I know I have absolutely no right to be in this room right now. I have no right to ask you for a single second of your time. But please... please, just let me speak. Then I'll go. I swear to God I'll go if you want me to, but I need you to hear me."

You didn't answer, your silence acting as a heavy, agonizing barrier as you simply watched him with guarded eyes

"I am so incredibly sorry," Logan rasped, the first tear finally spilling over his dark stubble, his voice cracking entirely. "I am so sick with myself for what I did to you. I let my own pathetic, ugly insecurities completely hijack my head. I was so terrified of where I come from, so ashamed of my dad, and so scared of losing you to a world I didn't think I belonged in, that I went completely blind."

"I don't expect you to forgive me today. I don't expect you to ever trust me again," Logan whispered, his voice cracking on every syllable as he looked back up at you, his eyes entirely bare and filled with an absolute, unwavering devotion. "But if you will have me, I will make up for it."

The winter chill of the Massachusetts campus became the backdrop for Logan’s absolute, unwavering undoing. The afternoon in the studio hadn’t magically fixed the deep fracture between you, and he didn't expect it to; he knew that words were incredibly cheap after the damage he had inflicted, leaving him with only one path forward—to prove himself brick by brick. He threw himself into doing every single "boyfriend thing" imaginable with a desperate, reverent humility, not because he assumed it would buy his way out of the doghouse, but because he was entirely

The afternoon in the studio hadn’t magically fixed the fracture between you, and Logan didn't expect it to. He knew words were cheap after what he’d done; he had to prove himself brick by brick with a desperate, reverent humility.

Every single morning, before early lectures, a heavy cream envelope would be waiting in your locker or on your desk. They weren't frantic text blocks, but beautifully penned letters where he poured his soul onto the paper—noting specific things he admired about your mind and making quiet, steady promises for the future. He never demanded a reply, just wanting you to wake up knowing you were loved.

You never knew when or where they would appear. A small bouquet of white hydrangeas left on the stool you sat on to paint, or a single, perfect peony waiting on the counter of your favorite campus coffee shop because he paid the barista in advance. There were no occasion cards—just small tags that read, "Thinking of you. Siempre. — L."

He paid attention with a hyper-focused intensity. One rainy afternoon, while sitting in the back of the studio just to be in your orbit, he noticed the tiny crease between your brows as you squeezed the very last ribbon of cobalt blue paint from your tube. You didn't say a word, throwing the empty tube away—but by the next afternoon, a brand-new, professional-grade set of blue acrylics and oils was waiting neatly on your stool.

His texts became a steady, protective constant. Every morning at 7:00 AM sharp: "Good morning. I hope you slept well. It’s freezing out today, please make sure you wear the heavy coat." Every night before bed: "Checking in to make sure you got home safe. You don't have to text back, just wanted to say goodnight." He never crowded your space, but he made sure you knew he was standing guard.

No matter how late your studio sessions ran, you would step outside into the freezing air to find Logan's massive frame waiting patiently. He wouldn't push himself near you; he would simply stand a respectful two steps behind, acting as a silent, protective barrier as he walked you back to your apartment, carrying your heavy canvas bags and shielding you from the biting winter wind.

When you finally agreed to a date, he didn't dare bring you to a loud college bar. He drove you forty-five minutes out of town to a quiet, dimly lit botanical conservatory you had casually mentioned months ago. He set up a private table tucked deep into the lush greenery, surrounded by the faint, soothing sound of running water, a gentle, intentional healing of the painful memory from the estate garden.

He spent the entire evening pulling out your chair, hanging up your coat, and looking at you as if you were the only living thing left in the universe, proving he was finally ready to hold the world for you.

The air inside the botanical conservatory was warm and heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine, completely shutting out the freezing Massachusetts winter outside. Across the small candlelit table, Logan was watching you. He wasn't talking about himself, and he wasn't making excuses. He was just there, completely stripped of the defensive pride that had ruined that night at the gala, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering flame between you with an absolute, quiet devotion.

You looked down at your hands, then out at the lush green canopy surrounding you. You thought about the stack of handwritten letters sitting on your nightstand. You thought about the fresh tubes of cobalt blue paint waiting in your studio locker, and the freezing nights he had spent standing outside the art building just to ensure you walked home safely.

How could you resist a love that was willing to entirely rebuild itself from the ground up?

The anger that had kept your shoulders tight for weeks finally, beautifully melted away, leaving only the simple truth that you missed him. You missed him—not just the attentive boyfriend he had been trying so hard to be lately, but the boy who knew exactly how to read you like a book.

Slowly, you reached across the table, your fingers trailing over the linen cloth until your palm rested flat against the wood.

Logan’s breath hitched. His eyes dropped to your hand, tracking the movement as if he couldn't entirely believe what he was seeing. Slowly, tentatively, his massive, warm hand came up, his long fingers sliding over yours, his palm burning against your skin with that same intoxicating heat you had missed so desperately.

"You don't have to walk two steps behind me anymore, John Logan," you whispered, a soft, genuine smile finally breaking through your guarded expression.

Logan let out a long, ragged exhale, his entire chest heaving as the crushing weight of the last few weeks finally lifted. A breathless, relieved laugh escaped his throat, his grip tightening around your hand just a fraction, secure, protective, and completely unyielding.

"I'm right here," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion so raw it made your heart do that familiar, heavy thud. He leaned across the table, his dark eyes shining with an absolute, burning promise. "Right beside you. For as long as you'll have me."

An hour later, the drive back to campus felt entirely different than the quiet, tense rides of the past weeks. The interior of Logan’s car was warm, the radio playing a soft, low melody that filled the space between you with an effortless comfort.

When he pulled up to the curb outside your apartment building, he didn't just let you slide out. He hurried around to the passenger side, opening the door for you and taking your hand to help you down onto the snow-dusted pavement. But instead of letting go, he drew you gently into his space, his large hands coming up to secure themselves gently on the small of your waist.

You looked up at him, the amber glow of the streetlights catching the sharp lines of his jaw and softening the usual brooding intensity in his eyes. Without the walls of his pride blocking the way, he looked happier than you had seen him in a very long time.

"Thank you," Logan whispered, leaning down so his forehead rested gently against yours, his warm breath mingling with the cold winter air. "For not giving up on me. For letting me fix it."

"Just don't make me run into any more gardens," you teased softly, your fingers coming up to gently smooth the collar of his heavy coat.

He let out a low, rough chuckle, pulling you flush against his chest until you could hear the steady, reassuring thud of his heart beneath his layers. "Never again," he promised fiercely, his lips brushing against your temple. "You're stuck with me now."

Smiling against his shoulder, you closed your eyes and wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, finally back where you belonged. "Good," you whispered into the quiet night. "Because I'm never letting you go."

It was a messy jumble of words, ink stains obvious on the fading paper, the emotions spilling out before you could even register what you were writing. All you knew was that you needed the whole thing out of your system and onto the only thing you knew what to do and that was to write. 

Before you could stop, or be smart about it, everything was poured on the paper. Lengthy, descriptive, and full of the things you wanted to say, and things you know you can’t say, because even at that age, you knew that liking John Logan was a beautiful terrible idea. 

Because he was your best friend. And you aren’t supposed to like your best friend. At least, in your head. Who are you to ruin the friendship, you know?

You remember folding it in half. Then again, then for a third time, like you were trying to make it as small as possible. Like diminishing it physically would diminish what the words on the paper meant. 

You'd been looking for somewhere to put it. The trash felt too final, too much like admitting it had existed, and you were halfway on just stuffing it under your pillow  when you'd found the box. Your grandmother's, handed down at the end of summer with a kiss on your forehead and the words for letters you mean to send someday. Wooden, old-smelling, with a brass latch that stuck a little if you didn't press it just right.

You'd tucked the letter in and shut the latch.

That was the beginning of it.

-

It had been a random tuesday, back in junior year of high school.

John – he had always been John to you before he became Logan – had after school hockey practice. You'd been draped over the boards for the past ten minutes, watching from the bleachers the way you always did when you had nowhere better to be, which was most days— something you'd never quite admitted to yourself until recently. Because the walk home was shorter from this direction. You had a whole catalogue of reasons, and not one of them was true.

John had been the last one off the ice.

That in itself was not unusual. John Logan was always the last one off the ice. The coach was nice enough to lend him that extra time, considering that he had always been the kid that loved hockey more than anything else. 

And you would always wait in the bleachers. Sometimes on your phone, most times watching him as he skated. You count the amount of times he circled it, especially when you felt bored but didn’t have the strength to look away. Because something about him was magnetic to you. You wondered what it was, every time you stay that extra ten minutes in the rink.

Then after his usual rounds (at most, seven rounds), he looked up, and caught your gaze.

John grinned. The stupid, lopsided grin that suddenly made your heart skip. Then he skated all the way over to the boards, where you were, and leaned on them as he grinned. His helmet was tucked under his arm, hair damp at the temples, “You just got here?”

“Yep. Passed by after practice.” You tried to keep your tone as casual as possible, like the sight of him didn't make your heart skip. 

“You really didn’t have to come by, you know. It’s late.”

“I wanted to.” You smiled. You didn’t say anything else as follow up. Because adding something else after that would mean that you were admitting something that you weren’t ready to admit. And you would have to explain everything else that you didn’t name yet.

He looked at you for a second, searching for something in your face, and then he looked down and smiled again. It was softer this time, private, the one that felt like it wasn't for anyone else, the one he wore when something surprised him in a way he found pleasant, and tilted his head. 

"Sure. Thanks for that.”

You just shrugged.

John nods over at the locker rooms. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll get you hot chocolate at the cafe nearby.”

You huffed, lips curling in amusement. “There? Really? Last time we went there, you said you didn't like the hot chocolate they made.” 

John just grinned at you. “Yeah. But you like it.” 

He skated away after that. Like those words didn’t make you freeze, your eyes trailing after him, heart stuttering and your brain finally naming that warmth that spread on your cheeks. 

And that was it. That was the whole thing. That was the moment that broke you open.

You'd gone home that day and picked up the closest paper and pen, and the words just started coming, because they didn't have anywhere else to go. You wrote about how his smile was the most disarming thing he could have. You wrote about the way he'd leaned on the boards and looked at you like looking at you was just a natural extension of breathing. You wrote about how his curls fell perfectly on his face.

You wrote about how the hot chocolate from the machine in the convenience store nearby had been terrible, watery and too sweet for him, and even when you told him he didn't have to drink it, he'd laughed and drank it anyway and said that it was fine with all the cheerfulness of someone who genuinely didn't mind, and how that had somehow made everything worse.

You wrote, hesitantly, but filled with everything in your chest— I like him. 

You folded the paper into thirds, tucked it into your grandmother's box, and pressed the brass latch shut.

You didn't open the box for three weeks after that. Not because you were over it, but because you were hoping, very determinedly, that if you didn't look at it, the feeling would dissolve on its own.

It didn't.

-

The letters accumulated the way all things do when you are trying not to notice them: gradually, and then all at once. 

By the end of junior year, there were ten. By senior year of high school, fifteen.

They were not all long. Some were barely a paragraph, dashed out on notebook paper in the middle of class when something happened that you had no one to tell except him, which was the problem, because he was the person that you would usually go to about these things… so you tell the paper instead.

Junior year, you wrote about how naturally John seemed to do things for you. Carrying your bag, buying things in the cafeteria when you didn't want to get up from the bench. But at the same time, it was always the question if he liked you, or if he was being nice

You remembered I hate raisins in things. You picked them out of the muffin before you gave it to me. You've been doing that since seventh grade and I only just noticed today that it's something you do on purpose.

Jealousy would often seep into your letters, as well. Because you knew he was well liked. That John had a future of having girls that would throw themselves at him, and he would always entertain it with his smile and pretty curls and— 

— but you act like I’m special, and that they don't matter. But I don't have the right to even stop them from liking you, so all I could do is watch and wish that you would instead look at me.

You kept those folded five times. 

--

Senior year, anger would sometimes seep into them.

I should tell you. I should tell you that I lie in bed until 3 am wondering if anything would happen between us. I should— but you are so unfair. You act like you care, and then I'm left hanging again. I still have your jacket. That stupid, gray jacket that you gave me. The damn gray jacket that was your favorite and you don't let anyone wear but you handed it to me when I was cold. And at the same time, you turned and smiled at Kaia like she mattered and. I hate that I like you and I hate that it feels like you do too— but then you turn around and act like you don't.

Some were the soft, bewildered variety, written in the margins of homework you’d never turn in, about something small he'd done that shouldn't have meant as much as it did.

You know how everyone else talks over me when I'm telling a story and moves on before I'm done? You always wait. You just… wait. You wait until I'm finished, and then you respond to what I actually said, not what you were going to say next. I don't know if you know you do that. I don't know how to tell you that it matters.

When you both got into Briar University, John on a hockey scholarship, you on a Merit Scholarship— you celebrated together in the parking lot of the ice rink, his arms around you, lifting you a full two inches off the ground, and you laughed and said “John, put me down!” even if you knew that deep down, you didn’t mean any of it, wanting him to keep his arms around you longer. 

You'd gone home that night and written four pages.

I keep telling myself I'm not following you. And I'm not. I worked for this, I studied late into the night and doubled my efforts whenever I would fail because I wanted Briar before you got in.  But some part of me is terrified that the reason I want it so badly is mixed up with the reason you're going, and I can't separate them cleanly, and that scares me.  What if I didn't want Briar so much as I wanted to be wherever you were going to be? What does that mean? What am I supposed to do with that? I don't have an answer. I'm going to go to sleep. I'm going to not think about it. I'm going to go to Briar, even if I can't solidify why I am.

You went to Briar.

You don’t address it after the long four page letter, and somewhere between orientation week and prelims, the box had gone from a strange habit to a necessity, a pressure valve that kept everything from building to critical mass.

You'd gotten good at it. At the translation of feeling into ink, at the sealing away of things that had no business existing in the open air. The box lived under your bed, behind your extra blankets and a stack of Intro to Lit anthologies you kept meaning to donate. The latch, temperamental from the start, had gotten worse with age. 

You'd meant to fix it.

You kept meaning to do a lot of things.

The letters still ranged from two lines to four pages, even when you entered Freshman Year in Briar. They still kept the same amount of yearning and thoughts you would never find the courage to say, or even send to Logan– and soon after, you started signing them too.

John – or maybe Logan?  You started being called Logan after you teamed up with Tucker and the rest. So maybe I should change it up to. Adapt and change, you know. Though it would be weird to start calling you by your last name.  – With love, and judgement.

You tried to call him Logan. He looked at you then with such offense that you back tracked and went back to calling him John. He said it made him feel better. Special, because John was a name only you could use. 

You wrote another letter that night, trying to reason out the butterflies and the implications of what he meant. Because rationalizing it away makes it easier than admitting it out loud.

They kept piling up. Letter after letter.

This sucks. You remembered my coffee order even after I changed it three times in two months. I can’t blame you for how well you treat me. It’s just how you are.  I should just stop putting meaning into things, but the other part of me just wants to believe that maybe it did mean something. UGH. John Logan you fucking suck. I hope you trip on the ice during practice. Actually, no. That was a joke. Maybe. – With love.

You called the longest ones your pathetic, yearning lovergirl letters. Late-night things, written when the distance between what you felt and what you were allowed to say felt too wide to sleep across. Those ones you sometimes read back in the morning with a kind of horrified tenderness, like finding a diary from a younger self. 

They were overwrought. 

They were honest in ways you couldn't quite access in daylight.

John, I've been thinking about the thing you said last week, that you don't know what you'd do without me. You said it so easily. Like it was just true, just a fact of your life, the way you'd say it's cold out or practice got cancelled. I don't know what to do with that. I've been turning it over and over in my head trying to figure out what it means and I think the honest answer is that it means exactly what it sounds like and nothing more and I need to learn to be okay with that. I'm working on it. – With love. P.S. You should stop handing me your hoodies when I get cold and letting me keep them. It messes with me and my late night 3 am delusional thoughts.

John, You have this thing you do when you're listening to someone — you get very still. Most people, when they listen, they nod, they mm-hm, they start formulating their response and you can see the moment they stop actually hearing you. You don't do that. You just go still and you look at the person and you listen, like it costs you nothing, like you have all the time in the world. I don't think you realize you do it. I don't think you realize what it does to people. What it does to me. I'm going to stop writing now. Before I start turning into the 3 am yearner I was last night. Again. — With love.

By freshman year of college, there were thirty letters.

Sophomore year is when it all cracked.

Classes started to weigh on you in a way freshman year hadn't warned you about. Rehearsals that ran until midnight, choreography notes bleeding red ink across marked-up scores, tech week for the department showcase bleeding into finals week, the constant ache in your calves and the tape on your feet that never seemed to come off in time — a dance major was not a degree that let up, and you were running harder than you ever had, barely sleeping, more often than not with Logan being the one thing keeping you sane, showing up with food you hadn't asked for and quiet company at your desk — or in the studio doorway — at midnight, watching you run the same eight counts until your body finally understood what your brain already knew. 

And then there was the puck bunny thing.

You didn't have the right to say anything about it, not really. You understood why. John Logan was hot. He was charming, easy to talk to, easy to fall for — and there was always a rotating cast of girls finding excuses to linger near him after games. You watched it happen the way you'd always watched it happen, except now you were closer to it, in his dorm, at his games, in the middle of the aftermath. And you had no claim to any of it. He wasn't yours. He'd never been yours. You just got to watch, the way you always had.

So you stopped writing. You shoved the box into the dark crevice under your bed and didn't take it out again. You prayed it would stay there. You told yourself you were moving on.

Meeting Davis was almost spontaneous — a late night out at Malone's, small talk with a guy from your gen-ed class that turned into something steadier. He was easy. Uncomplicated. He didn't make your chest hurt the way John did, and for a while, that felt like a relief instead of a warning sign. The letters stayed buried. Things between you and Logan went back to what looked, on the surface, like normal. Friends. Best friends. 

Because that was all it was going to be.

-

"So how are things with Davis?" Logan asked, leaning against the kitchen counter while you hunched over a marked-up piece of choreography notation, notes scattered across the counter in purple and yellow highlighter, counts and spacing diagrams bleeding into the margins. Gen ed notes scatter on top of them, but you seemed more preoccupied with the scrawls of markings for your major.

"Things are fine." You tried to keep the annoyance out of your voice, but Logan had always been perceptive, and it showed in the way his brows drew together.

"Yeah? Then why do you sound like that?"

Your pen dug a little deeper into the page. "Sound like what?"

"Like things aren't fine."

Your head snapped up, an evident frown pulling at your mouth. "It's none of your business, John."

Your voice came out sharper than you meant it to, and you winced, immediately regretting it. "Sorry. That was — sorry."

He didn't push on the apology. Just crossed his arms and softened his voice instead. "What's wrong?"

You hesitated, pen hovering over your notes, and then you let out a long groan and dropped your forehead against your textbook. "I don't want to start venting."

"Vent anyway."

"He keeps asking when I'm free. Wants to hang out constantly, and I get it, I do, but callbacks are in two weeks and I have a showcase piece I'm not off-book for yet, and I told him that, and he just —" You sat up, dragging a hand down your face. "He said it's kind of pathetic that I care this much about a theater degree. That I don’t have a future in this and that I’m only wasting my time."

Logan's jaw went tight. He would also do that when something pissed him off, and you knew him enough to know that he was also pissed off at what you said. "He said that?"

"Basically."

"That's not — " He stopped himself, exhaled through his nose, clearly working to keep his voice level. "You've wanted this since we were sixteen. You used to run your combinations for me in your driveway at eleven at night in the middle of winter because you couldn't get the phrase to feel right, and I stood there freezing my hands off holding your phone so you could film it."

That got a small, watery laugh out of you. "You always came outside, though. Even when it was that cold."

"Because it mattered to you." He said it so plainly, like it wasn't even a decision he'd had to make. "Anyone who makes you feel stupid for caring about the thing you've wanted since we were in high school doesn't get to also get your time. That's not — that's not how it should work."

You didn't have an answer for that. You just nodded at your notes, throat tight, and went back to studying, and Logan stayed leaning against the counter a while longer before he finally pushed off it and went to make you tea you hadn't asked for, the same way he always did.

-

Things ended with Davis not long after that — quietly, without a scene (an irony you did clock, even mid-breakup), the kind of ending that comes less from a single fight and more from a slow accumulation of moments where you'd chosen your scripts, your late rehearsals, your friendship with Logan, over him, and he'd finally said out loud what he'd clearly been thinking for weeks. You didn't wallow in it. It hadn't felt like losing something so much as setting something down.

Allie, your dorm neighbor across the hall, caught you in the laundry room a few days later, sorting a basket of mismatched socks.

"Wait, so you and Davis are actually done?" Allie asked, propping her hip against the dryer.

"Yeah." You shrugged, feeding a quarter into the slot. "It didn't work out." She knew about what he said, and she made the same face as you the moment you told her. She was the friend you made in one of the early collaborations your major did with hers, and she was the one who knew well how taxing it would be on your body and to have someone just brush it off? She had also pushed for you re-evaluating your whole relationship before you even talked to John about it.

"Huh." Allie studied you for a second too long. "You don't seem that broken up about it."

"I'm fine," you said, and mostly meant it, which felt strange enough that you didn't examine it too closely.

Allie didn't push, but she gave you a look on her way out that said she'd clocked something you hadn't said out loud.

Your roommate and best friend in all things best friend, Jai, was less subtle about it. She came in that night to find you cross-legged on your bed, not doing anything in particular, just sort of staring at the wall.

"Okay, what's actually going on with you?" Jai said, dropping her bag and sitting across from you. "You broke up with Davis, which you knew most of us had been telling you to, but usually break ups have the whole grieving process. And right now,  you look like you're thinking about a math problem, not a breakup."

"I don't know. I think I just — I didn't care as much as I should have. The whole time. I feel bad about that." You fiddle with your fingers. “That maybe I feel this apathetic because I didn’t care as much in the beginning.”

Jai considered you for a moment, tilting her head the way she did when she was about to say something you weren't going to like. "You know what I think?” 

You looked up at Jai, who nodded over at the space under your bed. “You never wrote about him.”

You blinked. "What?"

"The letters." Jai said it like it was obvious, like she'd noticed the box's absence the same way she'd notice if you'd rearranged the furniture. "You've had that thing since I've known you — you disappear into it when something's actually gotten to you. You didn't write a single letter about Davis. Not one, in like four months."

You opened your mouth to argue and found you didn't have anything to argue with.

You hadn't written about Davis. Not once. Every single letter in that box, every one you'd ever written, had one name on it, and it wasn't his.

The realization hit you like cold water. 

You hadn't moved on. Not even a little.

That night you pulled the box out from under the bed — dusty, a stray cobweb clinging to one corner — wiped it down, and wrote the first letter in months. You didn't let yourself think too hard about what it meant that your hand knew exactly how to start again, like it had never really stopped.

I dated someone in hopes of getting over you– only to realize that every time I sit across from him, I imagine its you. It’s not fair on him. Or myself. But though he did deserve the break-up… he didn’t deserve someone who is still hung over a guy she liked since high school, It’s stupid. Terribly so, but I had four months of thinking that dealing with him was much easier than dealing with the constant ache in my chest every time I see you.  Maybe it’s more stupid of me to get back to writing to you and acknowledging the constant hurt i feel. — With love, reluctantly, again, and always.

By Junior year, the letters slowed but never stopped completely. The program was, if anything, worse than sophomore year — a full-length ensemble piece now, not just technique classes, and you were buried in rehearsal schedules and rep notes, and the only thing that made any of it bearable was Logan, constant as ever, still showing up with food, still sitting on the studio floor with you at 1 a.m. while you both pretended you weren't exhausted, still somehow always exactly where you needed him to be. 

Jai, who had appointed herself the unofficial keeper of your feelings since the Davis revelation, was relentless about it.

"You have to tell him," she said one night, apropos of nothing, while you were both supposed to be doing readings for your gen ed classes. "Junior year of high school, senior year, all of freshman and now half of junior year of college. That's — I did the math, that's four years, and you're going to keep writing it down instead of just saying it?"

"It's not that simple."

"It kind of is, though."

You'd relented eventually, worn down by her insistence and your own exhaustion at holding the same shape for four years straight. You told her you'd do it. You'd tell him. Maybe at the house party that weekend, when everything felt looser and easier and less like something you had to plan for.

You didn't get the chance.

You found him in the kitchen of the party, laughing with a girl whose name you didn't know, and before you could process anything, she'd leaned in and he hadn't leaned away.

You didn't wait to see more than that. You turned around and left before he ever noticed you'd been there, walked back to your dorm in the cold without your jacket, and didn't cry, exactly — just sat on your floor and wrote until your hand cramped.

I stopped hoping tonight. I think I needed to see it to actually believe it, because apparently telling myself wasn't enough. I'm not writing this one for you to ever read. I'm writing it so I stop lying to myself about what almost happened this weekend, and didn't, and isn't going to.

I keep thinking about how badly I wanted to walk over there and how I didn't, and how that's the whole story of us, isn't it. Me, standing a few feet away, wanting, and staying exactly where I am.

You told Jai it hadn't worked out. She didn't push for details, just sat with you until you didn't feel like crying anymore.

Things between you and Logan, in the weeks after, went quiet in a way that wasn't quite a fight and wasn't quite normal either — some instinctive retreat on your end that you dressed up as being busy. Eventually it faded, the way most things did when you were both incapable of staying upset at each other for long, and by the second half of the semester you'd settled back into something that looked, from the outside, exactly like it always had. You told yourself that was enough. You tried, in your quiet, determined way, to move on.

There was one more letter before the long silence, written the week after, when he'd shown up at your studio with soup because Jai had mentioned you were sick, and stayed on the floor doing his own reading while you slept on and off on the yoga mats, and woken you gently every hour to make sure you drank water.

You have no idea what you do to me by being like this. You have no idea, or you do, and you just don't care, because it's easier to be kind to me than to explain why you keep being kind to me. Either way, I am so tired of this constant wishing and wanting. I’ll move on. I have to. Or I’ll never get out of this stupid hole.  I love you. But it hurts to keep loving you.

By the second semester of junior year, there were forty-three letters. You left it at forty-three letters.

Ever since that night, where your anger and everything about you spilled into paper and ink– you didn't slip in another letter. It stayed at forty-three.

Forty-three letters, across four years, across the span of a friendship that had become the most important thing in your life and the most carefully guarded secret you kept. Forty-three letters that were supposed to go with you to the grave while you plan out your whole moving on shtick.

That was the plan. That had always been the plan.

The plan, it turned out, was not consulted before Thursday afternoon.

—

It was a fire drill that turned out not to be a drill.

You'd been on the floor beside your bed, hunting for your phone charger, having pulled the mattress out from the wall and tangled yourself in the extra blankets you kept stuffed behind it, when the alarm split the air — sudden, violent, the particular shriek of the Briar dorms that had never once not startled you no matter how many times you'd heard it.

Your elbow caught the edge of the blanket stack. The box, which you'd shoved back into place after re-reading that last letter just the other day, teetered on the edge of the mattress frame. You grabbed for it, fingers catching the corner.

The latch — that brass, temperamental, long-suffering latch you'd always meant to fix and never had — gave.

The box opened.

Forty-three letters, across the floor of your dorm room.

You were still on the ground, staring at them, trying to process the scope of the disaster, when you heard Logan's familiar voice, your name, followed by a quick, "It's me, don't freak out —"

You looked up. Panic set in immediately, your heart dropping to your feet.

John Logan stood in the doorway, your dorm key in his hand — the one you'd given him freshman year for emergencies and never asked back — the opening words dying in his throat as he watched the letters settle.

The alarm was still going. Someone in the hall was shouting about everyone needing to get out. The late-afternoon light came through the window, gold and slanted, landing on the scattered envelopes and the stunned expression on his face and every single letter that bore, in your own handwriting, his name.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you hit the floor on both knees, grabbing at the letters with both hands, stacking them against your chest with no particular order, your mind repeating the same panicked loop — collect them, get them back in the box, get them away from his line of sight.

"These are nothing — they're old, they're just — don't look at those—" You scrambled, but the panic made the ones in your hand slip loose again, and you nearly wanted to just sprawl over the envelopes and pretend they'd never fallen at all.

But John was crouching too. He wasn't reading them. He was just looking at the envelopes scattered across your floor, and you could see the exact moment he registered what they all had in common.

All of them. Every single one.

John Logan.

Your handwriting. His name. Over and over, in blue ink and black ink, and once in green, junior year of high school, when you'd been out of everything else.

His name on the front of forty-three letters you never sent.

He picked one up. He did it with the careful hands he used for things he wasn't sure about — the same way he picked up injured birds on his way to practice, the same way he handled other people's textbooks, and, twice, your feelings, on the two occasions you'd broken down in front of him and he'd gently cradled your face and helped you through the tears. Those were among the ten thousand other things written in your letters. Things you loved him for.

"These are addressed to me," he said. His voice was quiet. Unsure, tentative, like if he spoke louder he'd scare you off entirely.

"They're not —" you stammered. "I didn't send them. That's the whole —" You pressed the stack still in your hand to your sternum. "Please. Just — pretend you didn't see them."

"How many are there?"

His voice was doing something you couldn't quite pinpoint. Low. Careful. Something heavy underneath it, if you read between the lines.

You looked at him over the letters clutched to your chest, not sure what expression was on your face that made him soften even further. Maybe it was the pure panic. Maybe it was something else.

"Twenty — wait, uhm." You paused, blinked. "Thirty-four."

He lifted a brow. "You hesitated."

"...Forty-three."

The silence after that had weight. The alarm had stopped — someone had pulled it, or the drill was over, or building staff had caught up to whatever triggered it — and the sudden absence of noise made everything feel louder. Your heartbeat. His breathing. The soft scratch of the envelope he was turning over in his hands, not opening, just turning.

"How long?" he asked.

You didn't want to answer that. The answer was the part that would make it real. The part that would say out loud what had only ever existed on paper.

"Since junior year of high school," you said quietly.

You watched him absorb it.

He sat back on his heels, and you could see him doing the math. Junior year of high school. The end of the letter stack. The date on whatever letter he was holding. The span of years between then and now.

"You've been writing me letters," he said slowly, like he was learning the sentence as he spoke it, "for four years. That you never sent."

"It's not — it's a journaling thing. It's not —"

"Your journals have my name on them."

You winced and closed your eyes. "Yes."

"Why didn't you send them?"

You opened your eyes. He was watching you with an expression that made it very hard to think clearly, and you needed to think clearly to get through this conversation without losing something you couldn't afford to lose. Carefully, you thought. Be careful. He is your best friend and he is looking at you and you are not allowed to ruin this.

"Because I didn't want things to change," you said, which was the truest and most incomplete answer you had.

"What things?"

"Us." The word landed between you, bare, nothing around it to soften it. "The way things are. The way things have always been. I didn't — I wasn't willing to risk it. So I wrote it down instead, and I kept it, and I was going to keep it forever, and this was a mistake, Logan —"

"John." He interrupted quietly. You ignored the correction.

"— you were not supposed to see these."

"What are they?" he asked. "Just — tell me what they are. In plain English."

You looked at him. Then at the forty-three letters — the ones against your chest, the ones still sprawled on the floor, the one in his hands, the stupid brass-latched box open between you. You thought about every 2 a.m., every bleacher, every game, every borrowed hoodie you'd never given back. You thought about how long you'd been careful not to say a single thing. How much energy you'd spent on the not-saying, and how completely, catastrophically exhausted you were from it.

"They're everything," you said, "that I didn't know how to say to your face."

—

He was quiet for a long time after that.

You spent most of it looking at the floor, cataloguing the letters you could see from where you sat — the corner of the very first one, faded and ink-stained, from that Tuesday in junior year. The familiar blue pen of the one from a few months ago, the night of the game where he'd scored the tying goal in the final minute and looked up into the bleachers and found you immediately, like he'd known exactly where to look, like he always knew where to look, and you'd gone home and written four pages you didn't remember most of the next morning.

Then right by your knees was the latest letter. The one that was lengthy and full of hurt and anger and everything else that you poured out after seeing him make out with another girl– You push down the memory. 

The afternoon light had shifted. It was later than you'd realized.

"I want to ask you something," Logan said, "and I need you to answer honestly."

"Okay."

"Is it —" He exhaled through his nose, tried again. You watched the struggle on his face — that particular Logan expression of someone who had something to say and was working out how to say it without saying too much or too little. You'd seen it a thousand times. You'd written about it. Letter fourteen, sophomore year of high school. The way he gets quiet before he says something he means.

"Is it the same thing I think it is?"

"Probably," you said, to the floor. "Unless you think it's a grocery list, in which case, no."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh — hoarse, surprised out of him.

"You've liked me," he said, still careful, "since junior year."

"Yes."

"And you didn't say anything because you didn't want to lose the friendship."

"Yes."

"And you wrote — forty-three letters. Instead."

"I was going to say forty-three seemed excessive, but honestly, given the timeline, I think it's fairly restrained."

"Hey." His voice changed. That made you look at him. He was watching you with something so open on his face it hit you square in the sternum. "Don't do that. Don't make it a joke right now."

You swallowed. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry either." He set the letter down between you, gently, the way he set down things he didn't want to damage, and ran a hand through his hair — the thing he did when he was thinking hard, when something had knocked him somewhere he hadn't planned to go. "I just need a second."

You gave him the second.

Outside, someone on the quad was playing music, drifting up through your open window without any particular hurry. Late afternoon light cut across the room at the angle it only ever hit in March — long and gold and slanted, the kind that made everything look like it was happening in the last good hour of something. The last hour before whatever came next.

He abruptly brings up Davis. "What about Davis?"

Your brows furrow. "What about him?"

"You dated him last year."

You hesitate. "It was a half-hearted attempt to try and get over you."

"Did it work?"

You deadpan. "Well, I broke up with him, didn't I?"

John laughs through his nose. "Yeah. Yeah that makes sense."

Another beat passes, quieter this time, before he asks if you know why he's shown up to every single one of your performances since freshman year. Not just the winter and spring showcases. The studio showings nobody came to, the ten-minute improvisation pieces you took for the sake of getting better, performed to an audience of six, the Tuesday afternoon rehearsal run-throughs that overlapped with his lift block, when he'd shown up, hair damp, sitting cross-legged in the back corner of the studio so he could leave before anyone noticed a hockey player watching a modern dance rehearsal like it was the only thing happening in the building.

"That's practice, though," you say. "You're always busy."

"Not always." He says it like it's nothing, like it was never a real sacrifice, just a matter of arranging things around each other the way you'd both always done. "I never missed a lift block or a mandatory practice for it, if that's what you're asking. Coach would've had my head, and there goes the scholarship. I'm not that much of an idiot."

"So how—"

"I just used the time I actually had. Free blocks. The hour after morning skate before class. You'd be in Studio B until midnight running the same eight counts over and over, and I'd come sit in the corner with a granola bar and my laundry, because doing laundry at the machines by the dance building was somehow always more urgent than doing it in my own dorm."

You protest anyway, because your brain is still catching up, still trying to file this under good friend the way you have filed every other thing he's ever done for four years running. "You're just — that's just you being supportive. You did that for Summer-"

"I went to Summer's event once, and that was because Dean wanted us to. I have sat through you running the same eight counts eleven times in a row at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday because you couldn't get the turn right, and I have watched you mark a whole solo with a busted ankle because you didn't want to fall behind, and I still came."

"That was one time."

"I know. I counted the limps."

That gets you. Something in your chest cracks open a little wider.

He tells you about the incidents, then — the small things you never clocked because you were always mid-combination or too deep in your own head to notice him in the doorway, or slumped against the wall outside the studio with his bag still packed from practice. The night your partner dropped you a beat early in a lift and you both recovered it so smoothly the audience never noticed, and how he'd told Tucker after, unprompted, that he'd never seen anyone save a mistake like that mid-air, like it mattered to him the way his own game footage mattered.

The way he'd show up straight from morning skate, hair still wet, to walk you back to your dorm after a late rehearsal because he didn't like the idea of you crossing the quad alone at midnight, ice pack pressed to your shin, making conversation about nothing in particular just so you wouldn't have to walk in silence. The stretch of a week during tech for the fall showcase, when you barely left the studio, and he started just bringing his own homework to do on the floor during your five-minute breaks, so you'd have someone there without either of you having to say why that mattered.

"You did that the whole week," you say slowly.

"I did that the whole week."

"You never told me you had a physics midterm that same week."

"Didn't want you to feel bad about it." He shrugs, like this is a reasonable thing to have kept from you for two years. "It wasn't your fault. I wanted to be there."

You're quiet for a second, turning that over, and something about the quiet must give you away, because he tilts his head at you. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You've got a face on. That's not nothing."

"It's just—" You stop. Start again. "If you wanted to be there that badly. If you were doing all of that. Then what was with the girls?"

He blinks. "What girls?"

"You know what girls, Logan." Your voice comes out sharper than you mean it to, two years of swallowed irritation finally finding a door. "The ones after games. Hanging off the boards. The ones who got to walk up to you, because they didn't have some — some rule in their head about not ruining anything."

"That's what this is about?"

"I'm asking."

He drags a hand down his face, and for the first time all night, he looks ashamed instead of careful. "Those weren't anything," he says. "You know that, right? They were never anything."

"They looked like something."

Logan lets out a hoarse laugh — short, not really about anything funny. It's the sound of a person getting cornered by their own bad decisions. "Yeah," he says. "I bet they did."

There's something almost shameful in the way his jaw works before he goes on.

"They were a distraction." He says it plainly, no dressing it up. "You didn't — I thought you didn't feel the same way. I thought I was the only one carrying this, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I did the dumbest possible thing, which was try to feel something for anyone else so I'd stop feeling this much for you. It never worked. Not once. I always ended up back at your door with food you didn't ask for, like an idiot."

"I did care," you say, and it comes out smaller than you mean it to, four years of carefulness still clinging to your voice even now. "I thought you didn't."

"I know that now."

You stare at each other for a second, and it lands on both of you at once — the sheer, staggering waste of it. Four years of two people orbiting the same unspoken thing, each one certain the other didn't want it, each one building elaborate, private monuments to a feeling neither of you would say out loud. You almost want to laugh. You almost want to be furious. Mostly you just want to sit in the wreckage of it with him and not move for a while.

That's when he tells you about the texts.

"There's something you should probably know, since, well– I just accidentally saw your very personal letters." he says, and something in his voice makes you go still before he even finishes the thought. "I've been deleting texts to you since October of junior year."

"What texts?" you said.

"The ones I wasn't going to send." A muscle in his jaw moved. "Different medium. Same problem."

You stared at him.

"You," you said carefully, "have also been —"

"Yeah."

"Since —"

"Junior year." He kept his eyes on you. "You did that solo — the contemporary piece, the one set to that stripped-down piano track, for the fall showcase. I only went because you asked me to come, and also promised to buy me free snacks right after. So I came. I sat in the back row not expecting to care, and then the lights came up on you and you just — you weren't you anymore, you were something else entirely, and I remember thinking, very clearly, that I had never seen anything move like that. Not the piece. You. I didn't say anything to anyone. I definitely didn't say anything to you. I just knew, sitting in that folding chair, that something in me had rearranged itself and it wasn't going back." He stopped. Shook his head. "I thought you knew, later, that something had shifted for me. I thought it was obvious. I thought you didn't feel the same way, and I figured I could live with that — be your friend, be fine. And I was mostly fine. I was fine until you and Davis started whatever that was, and I wasn't fine anymore, and that's when I knew I was a lost cause."

"There was nothing with Davis," you said. "It was just — a gen-ed class, and I thought it was something—" The words died on your tongue.

"I know that now."

"John." Something enormous was rising in your chest — too big for any letter, too loud for that box. "We've been — we've both been —"

"Catastrophically stupid," he said, with a short, helpless laugh. "Yeah. I'm aware."

"Four years."

"I know."

"I have forty-three letters —"

"I know, I can see them —"

You laughed, and it came out slightly broken, and he laughed too, and for a moment it was just that — the two of you on your dorm room floor, surrounded by four years of everything you hadn't said, laughing at the sheer, impossible absurdity of it. At how close you'd been the whole time. At how completely you'd managed to miss each other while never once being apart.

Then the laughter faded.

He was looking at you. The gold light had shifted, fallen across him, and he looked the way he always looked when he was done thinking and had arrived somewhere decided. You knew that look. You'd written about it. Letter twenty-one. The way he looks when he's made up his mind about something and nothing in the world is going to unmake it.

"What do we do now?" you asked.

John reached out slowly, giving you every chance to move away if you wanted to. He tucked a loose strand of hair back from your face, hand staying at your jaw, careful. His thumb traced, barely, along your cheekbone.

"I have a practice slot tomorrow morning," he said. "Early. Six a.m., the rink's usually empty." He paused. "You could come. Sit in the bleachers, like you always do. And after — I could buy you hot chocolate. And maybe this time I could actually say what I haven't been saying for four years."

You looked at him. His hand was warm at your jaw, and the room smelled like old paper and cedar and whatever that specific thing was that his jacket always smelled like, because of course he was wearing the jacket you knew best.

"And we're doing it at the rink," you said slowly, "because —"

"Because that's where it started," he said, shrugging. "It should start there too. Not the ratty ice rink back home, but it still counts."

The feeling in your chest crested, enormous and warm, nothing like the quiet ache you'd carried for four years. That ache had been private and careful, kept deliberately small so it wouldn't take up too much room, wouldn't crowd out anything else. This was not small. This was taking up every room you had. This was refusing, loudly and completely, to fit inside a box.

"Okay," you said.

He smiled — the full one, the private one, the one that had always felt like it was only for you. Maybe it had been. Maybe you'd just been too busy cataloguing reasons not to believe it.

"Okay," he echoed.

He let go of your jaw slowly, like he was in no hurry about it, then stood and started helping you gather the letters off the floor, stacking them with surprising care, not reading them, just collecting. You watched him do it and didn't say anything. There was something strange and sweet about watching his hands handle these things that had existed in secret for so long.

He asked a few questions. Simple ones. The things you could admit to. Small rants you'd written. How you didn't read back on some of them, out of fear of what you'd find. You mentioned the one where you'd hoped he tripped, and how the very next day, he actually had.

Logan laughed at that — bright, curls settling around his face. You had to stop yourself from staring too long.

"Which one's your favorite?" he asked, holding the stack against his chest the way you'd been holding it minutes ago.

"I'm not telling you that."

"Come on."

"Absolutely not."

"I'll find it eventually."

"That sounds like a threat."

"It's a promise." He looked entirely too pleased with himself. "I have forty-three letters and the rest of my life. I'll get there."

When all the letters were back in the box, he set it on your desk and looked at it for a moment.

"You're going to have to let me read them eventually," he said.

"I really am not."

"The 'I hope you trip' one. I want to find that one."

"Absolutely not."

"I'm going to find it."

"Get out of my room, Logan."

"I thought I said you could call me John?"

You rolled your eyes. "I'm adapting to Briar. You're either Logan or John. Now get out of my room."

He grinned, the lopsided, lethal one, and you felt it the same way you always had — right in the sternum, like a bell being struck — and went, unhurried, toward the door.

"Six a.m.," he said from the doorway.

"Six a.m.," you agreed.

He left.

You stood in your room surrounded by the afterimage of all of it, then sat on the edge of your bed and put your face in your hands, staying that way for a while — not crying exactly, just feeling the full, enormous weight of something shifting into a new configuration, four years of tectonic plates rearranging themselves into something that finally made sense.

After a while, you got up, took the box from the desk, and put it back under your bed.

You set your alarm for five-thirty.

Hockey rinks always smelled and looked the same, no matter where you would go. It would always smell like ice and rubber and something underneath, though it didn't have the same ratty smell from the old hockey rink at home.

You climbed to your usual spot in the bleachers. Third row, center. You'd been sitting here since the first time you ever came to watch him practice. Even when you moved closer to Briar, you always gravitated to the same spot, before you'd known it was your spot, before you'd known you'd keep coming back. You'd just sat where the sight line was clear and the draft from the ventilation didn't hit as hard. You'd sat there every time after that, out of habit, out of something you'd told yourself was just habit.

John stepped onto the ice.

He didn't look up at the bleachers right away. That wasn't unusual. He rarely did, at first. He had a routine — you knew the routine, had watched it enough times to know it by heart — where he'd take a lap or two before he settled into the actual work of it, like he was reacquainting himself with the ice, reminding himself of the particular quality of this rink on this morning. Then he'd pick up speed. Then he'd look like himself.

You watched him. You were done pretending you weren't.

He skated the way he always skated — like it required nothing, like it was breathing, like the rink was just another place he lived and the ice was simply the ground beneath him. He did a lap, and then another, and then he started working through something, crossovers into a long sweep across the length of the rink, and you watched the way he held his weight, the clean economy of every movement, and felt the thing you always felt watching him, which you'd spent four years filing under aesthetic appreciation, nothing more, and which you were now allowed to call by its actual name.

After a while he came to the boards and looked up at you.

"You're in your spot," he said.

"I'm always in my spot." 

"I know." He leaned on the boards, the same way he had the first time, junior year, helmet under his arm, and he looked up at you with that look you were done misreading. "I skate better when you're here. I don't know if you knew that."

"I didn't."

"I didn't either, for a while. I thought it was just that the bleachers were less empty, which helps. But then I figured out it was specifically you." He said it matter-of-factly, like it was just a thing that was true. Like it was weather. Like it was temperature. "Third row, center. Every time."

"You knew the seat."

"I always knew the seat."

You looked at him, and the rink was cold, and the light was just beginning to come in through the high windows, pale and early and new, and forty-three unsent letters sat in a box under your bed, and standing at the boards in front of you — in his skates, in his gear, on his ice — was the person they were all addressed to. 

With a smile, you got up and headed down from your seat. The second you stopped in front of Logan, the only thing separating you being the rink’s wall, you smiled wider. "Hi," you said.

"Hi," he said back.

He reached for you, and you reached back, and when his hand found yours over the boards it was easy, the easiest thing, like something that had been waiting a long time to finally happen and was not going to make a fuss about it now that it had. His hand was cold from the ice, and you held it anyway, and neither of you said anything for a moment, because there wasn't anything that needed saying.

You got the hot chocolate from the machine in the convenience store. Different store, same franchise. It was, as promised, terrible. Watery and too sweet, dispensed in a thin paper cup that was already going soggy at the base.

He handed it to you and watched you take a sip and pull a face.

"Still bad," you reported. “It’s surprising how consistent the store is.”

"Still bad," he agreed, leaning against the wall, holding his own cup, looking entirely unbothered. He'd never minded the terrible hot chocolate. You'd written about that once. Letter seven. The way you seem genuinely content with things that aren't good. Like the contentment is the point, not the quality of the thing.

"You said you were going to say what you hadn't said."

"I was getting to it."

"It's been twenty minutes."

"I was working up to it," he said, and there was something almost shy in the way he said it, which was not a quality you'd had many opportunities to observe in him, and which was doing things to you that you weren't prepared for. "I've been working up to it for four years, give me another thirty seconds."

You giggled, but you still waited.

He looked at his terrible hot chocolate. Then he looked at you.

"I love you," he said. "I've loved you since I saw you performing on stage and I thought — I thought, that's her. That's the person. And I didn't say anything because you didn't, and I figured I was misreading it, and I kept not saying anything for four years and I had a phone full of deleted texts and a very long mental list of things I was not going to tell you, and then yesterday I walked into your room and saw my name on forty-three envelopes on your floor and I thought—" He stopped. Something moved across his face, somewhere between wrecked and grateful. "I thought: we are both absolute idiots."

"We really are," you said.

"We really are." He pushed off the wall and set his cup down on the machine and took yours out of your hands and set it next to his, and then he looked at you the way he had yesterday, with that decided, arrived quality, and said, "I'm done not saying it. I love you. Okay? I just — I love you."

You looked at him. This person you'd known since before you knew what it meant to know someone. This person who remembered your coffee order and picked raisins out of muffins and drove forty minutes in the rain and kept nine of your hoodies and showed up to every meet in every kind of weather and had, apparently, been composing and deleting texts to you since junior year of high school.

"I love you," you said. "I have loved you for a very long time."

He exhaled, slow, like something he'd been holding finally let go, and then he smiled — the private one, the full one, the one that had always felt like it was only for you because, you understood now, it had always only been for you — and said, "Yeah. We're definitely idiots."

"Monumental idiots."

"Historically unprecedented idiots."

"There should be a word for it."

"There probably is, in some language we don't speak." He reached out, and you let him pull you in, and he held you the way he'd held you before, the same arms, the same warmth, but with something different in it now, something that had been allowed to be what it was instead of being carefully kept at a certain size. You pressed your face against his shoulder. His chin dropped to the top of your head.

"We wasted four years," you said into his shoulder.

"Nah." His voice rumbled against your ear. "We just took the long way."

You thought about that. About the letters, and the bleachers, and the hot chocolate, and the forty-minute drives in rain,  the deleted texts, and the space between what you feel and what you're brave enough to say. About all the things that had happened in the gap.

"The long way," you agreed.

Outside the rink, the morning was getting started. Inside, it smelled like ice and rubber and cedar and something new.

—

The forty-fourth letter was the last one. Written that night, because some habits deserve a proper ending.

John. Logan. Or whatever name you want to be called–  The hot chocolate was terrible. The one near our old school was better (I’m lying, but you know that), but it’s not like you would drive an hour just to get there. Still, you know hot chocolate is always terrible from that machine. You bought it anyway because I said I wanted it and you cannot help yourself. I've been writing these since high school. I don't think I'm going to write another one. Not because I have nothing left to say — I think I'm going to have a lot to say, for a very long time — but because I'm going to say it to you from now on. Out loud. In real time. Without a box to put it in afterward. You told me today that you skate better when I'm in the stands. I wanted you to know that I run better when you're at the end of the finish line. I have never told you that. I'm telling you now. I love you. I have loved you since a Tuesday in junior year in High school when you offered me bad hot chocolate on an empty rink and smiled at me like I was someone worth skating across the ice for.I loved you through every year after that, through every letter I wrote and sealed and tucked away, through every moment I talked myself out of saying something because I was afraid of what it would cost. It turns out it didn't cost anything. It turns out you were over there deleting texts. We were both such idiots. Though I guess it does make sense with our track record. I'm done keeping it in a box, and I'll say it to your face from now on, and I'm sorry it took me four years and a broken latch and forty-three embarrassing letters, some of which you are never going to read, to get here. But I'm here. And so are you. That's enough. That's more than enough. — With love.

“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“

Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles

“Good girl.” He coos.

You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.

“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.

You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.

“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.

But you’re at an advantage.

Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.

You want him to give in.

So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.

Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.

His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.

“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”

You almost beam. Yes, please.

Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.

He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”

If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.

But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.

The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.

“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“

Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.

He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.

You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.

“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“

His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.

That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.

Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.

“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.

He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.

“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“

“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“

Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.

And he’s not even done.

The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.

You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.

He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.

You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.

Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.

“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.

You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”

You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.

They’re blue again.

“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.

He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.

“I’m back.”

 You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.

You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.

He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.

God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-

Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-

“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”

Oh.

Or that. That’s nice.

You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.

Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.

“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

The room is too warm.

Sheets tangled low around your legs, twisted into something that feels more like restraint than comfort. The air smells faintly of him—soap and something sharper beneath it, something you’ve never quite been able to name but have always associated with this: these visits, these nights, this version of yourself.

He’s beside you, chest rising and falling, breath still uneven. Spent. Satisfied.

And you—

You’re not.

The difference sits heavy in the space between you, unspoken but obvious. Your body still caught somewhere in the middle of something that never quite reached its end. A tension with nowhere to go. A quiet, unfinished feeling you’ve learned not to look at too closely.

James shifts beside you with a quiet exhale, like the moment has already left him.

There’s no lingering touch, no absentminded brush of his hand against your skin—nothing that suggests he’s still here with you in any way that matters.

He stretches. It’s casual. Unbothered. Like this is routine. Like you are routine.

The mattress dips as he sits up, running a hand through his hair before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The air moves with him, cool against your skin where the sheets have slipped too low.

“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” he says, voice rough but detached, already halfway somewhere else.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. Because then he glances toward the door. Just for a second. And that’s all it takes.

The rest of it settles into place like it always does—quiet, practiced, familiar in the worst way. He doesn’t tell you to leave. He never has. He doesn’t have to.

You know the pattern. You know your place in it.

You sit up slowly, the sheets dragging against your legs as if reluctant to let you go—or maybe that’s just you projecting something human onto something that isn’t. Wouldn’t be the first time tonight.

James stands, already reaching for his clothes. There’s no urgency in it, no embarrassment. Just efficiency. Like he’s completing a task.

Like you were one.

Your chest tightens—not sharp enough to hurt, just enough to remind you it’s there. That something is.

You gather your things from where they’ve been discarded, movements quieter than they need to be. Careful. Always careful. Like if you take up too much space, the illusion might break completely.

Like if you don’t, maybe it won’t.

A soft buzz breaks the silence. Not loud. Not intrusive. Just enough to fracture what little stillness is left.

James’s phone lights up on the nightstand.

You don’t mean to look. You really don’t.

But your eyes are already there, dragged by something instinctive, something tired and aching and quietly bracing for impact.

The screen glows in the dim light.

You don’t read the message. It's the wallpaper that gets your attention.

The girl in the picture is pretty. Effortlessly so. Long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, bright blue eyes caught mid-laugh. There’s a softness to her expression, something open and certain. Happy.

James' arm is wrapped around her waist, pulled in close—familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop.

He’s kissing her cheek. And she’s smiling. Holding up her hand. A ring catching the light.

Your eyes close.

Fuck.

It’s quiet in your head for a second. Completely, unnaturally quiet. Like everything just… stops. No thoughts. No rationalizing. No soft excuses you’ve been feeding yourself for months—years, maybe. 

Just that image. Burned in.

You inhale slowly, but it catches halfway in your chest. Stutters. Doesn’t quite settle.

Of course.

Of course there’s someone else.

Of course there’s always been someone else.

Behind you, James exhales like nothing’s changed. Like the room hasn’t just tilted on its axis. Like you aren’t standing there, half-dressed and suddenly very aware of how little space you actually take up in his world.

He reaches for the phone. The screen goes dark. Just like that. Gone.

“You good?” he asks, glancing at you briefly as he pulls his shirt over his head.

Casual. Offhand. Like he’s asking if you remembered your keys.

Your throat tightens. You nod anyway. Because of course you do. Because that’s the part you know how to play.

“Yeah,” you say, and it comes out softer than you mean it to. Thinner.

He hums, distracted already, fingers moving over his phone now that it’s in his hand. Typing something out. Quick. Easy. Unbothered.

You wonder if it’s her.

You don’t ask. You won’t ask.

That would imply something you’ve never been allowed to be.

You finish gathering your things, movements slower now—not hesitant, just… heavier. Like each small action carries more weight than it should.

Like something has shifted, even if nothing outwardly has.

Your shoes. Your bag. Your jacket. You pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing over the fabric before you pull it on.

Waiting.

For what, you’re not entirely sure.

For him to say something, maybe. To stop you. To explain. To choose.

But nothing comes. It never does.

James doesn’t look up right away.

His attention stays on his phone, thumb moving in short, practiced motions. Whatever conversation he’s stepped back into seems to take priority over the one he hasn’t even bothered to finish with you.

Then, like he remembers you’re still there—

“I’m slammed this week,” he says, almost as an afterthought. His tone is easy, unaffected. “Meetings. Late nights. The usual.”

You nod once. Of course.

He glances up briefly, just enough to check that you’re listening. Not long enough to actually see you.

“I head out Saturday,” he adds, tugging his watch onto his wrist. Adjusting it with a small, precise movement. “But Friday’s open.”

There’s a beat.

Then, like it’s already decided—like it always is—

“Eight work for you? Just come here.”

Not do you want to. Not are you free. Not even your name.

Just an expectation. A slot in his schedule. A space you’re meant to fill.

You nod again. Because that’s what you do.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter this time. It barely lands in the room.

He hums in acknowledgment, already moving on. Conversation over. Box checked.

You stand there for a second longer than necessary, like your body hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that there’s nothing left to wait for.

There never is.

So you leave.

The hallway outside is cooler.

It hits your skin in a way that feels sharper than it should, like you’ve stepped out of something thicker than air. Something that clung.

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound.

And that’s it.

No footsteps following. No voice calling you back.

Just quiet.

Friday comes anyway.

It always does.

But it feels different this time—not in any loud, dramatic way. Nothing that announces itself. Just a subtle misalignment. Like something inside you shifted a fraction to the left and never quite settled back.

You go through the motions of your day. Work. Conversations. Background noise. The steady rhythm of everything that’s supposed to feel normal.

The cursor blinks.

Steady. Patient. Indifferent.

You haven’t typed in—what, minutes? Longer than that. The document on your screen sits untouched, words from earlier staring back at you like they belong to someone else. Like they were written by a version of you that knew what it was doing. A version that wasn’t… this.

Whatever this is.

The office has shifted around you without you noticing. The low hum of conversation has thinned out, chairs scraping less frequently, the rhythm of people packing up settling into something quieter. End of day.

Your fingers rest lightly against the keyboard, unmoving. Your eyes fixed somewhere just past the screen, unfocused. The kind of staring that isn’t really seeing anything at all.

Eight o’clock.

The thought drifts through, uninvited. Lands heavier than it should.

Just come here.

Your jaw tightens—barely, but enough that you feel it. A slot in his schedule. A space. Something to fill.

“Are you coming?”

The voice cuts clean through the fog. You jolt.

It’s small, but sharp—your shoulders tensing, breath catching just enough to betray how far gone you’d been. Your head turns too quickly, like your body is scrambling to catch up.

Reid is standing a few feet away from your desk.

There’s a flicker of something in his expression—not quite concern, not quite surprise. More like confirmation. Like he’d suspected you weren’t really there long before he said anything.

His bag hangs loosely from one shoulder, one hand hooked around the strap. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way he does—too observant, too precise. It’s never invasive, exactly.

Just… thorough.

“The team’s going out,” he says after a moment, voice gentle but clear enough to anchor you back into the room. “Luke found a place a few blocks over. Apparently they have—” he hesitates, searching for the phrasing, “—statistically above-average reviews for their bourbon selection.”

A beat. His gaze doesn’t leave your face.

“We’re heading there now.”

There’s a pause—not empty, not accidental. Intentional. He gives you space to respond, but not enough to disappear into.

“Are you coming?”

The question lands softer than it should. Or maybe you’re just more aware of it.

You open your mouth—“Um”—but it doesn’t go anywhere. Your eyes drop instead, almost instinctively, to your phone where it sits on your desk.

Dark screen. Still.

He doesn’t comment on it, but something shifts behind his eyes—some quiet recalibration, pieces sliding into place. He’s good at patterns. Better at people than he likes to admit.

He’s seen this before. Not the specifics. Not the details. But the shape of it. Waiting. Hesitation. Obligation dressed up as choice.

You look back up.

He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t filled the silence. Just stands there, steady, patient in a way that doesn’t feel like pressure—but doesn’t let you hide either.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Sure.”

The bar is louder than the office.

Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that it fills the empty spaces in your head with something external—music threading through conversation, glasses clinking, laughter rising and falling in uneven bursts. Warm light spills across polished wood and crowded tables, the air carrying the sharp, sweet burn of alcohol.

Your phone glows dimly in your hand.

Thread open. Messages stacked one on top of the other, a timeline of something that always felt like more when you were in it than it ever looks like now.

Short texts. Late-night logistics. Half-finished conversations that never needed finishing because they always ended the same way.

You scroll.

Your thumb hesitates over one from a few weeks ago—You up?—and something in your chest tightens, small and familiar. Predictable.

It’s just after eight.

You glance at the time again like it might change if you look at it differently.

No new message.

No are you on the way, no where are you, no irritation at your absence. Nothing to acknowledge that you didn’t show. Nothing to suggest he cares that you didn't.

Your teeth catch the edge of your thumb before you realize you’re doing it.

Across the table, laughter breaks—Luke saying something you don’t quite catch, JJ swatting his arm, Rossi shaking his head with that low, amused huff. It’s easy, natural. Effortless in a way that feels… distant.

A glass taps down in front of you.

You blink, pulled back just enough to look up as Emily slides a shot onto the table with a small, decisive nod.

The glass catches the light—amber, sharp. You stare at it for a second like you’re deciding whether you’re allowed to have it.

Then you pick it up.

Everyone cheers.

It’s loud, overlapping—Luke’s easy grin, JJ’s bright laugh, Garcia already halfway to a dramatic “bottoms up!” before the rest of the table catches up. Even Rossi lifts his glass with a quiet sort of approval, something softer tucked beneath it.

Spencer raises his glass of water too.

His fingers curl loosely around it, the motion a fraction delayed—like he’s watching first, cataloging, before participating.

His gaze flicks briefly toward you, quick enough that no one else would notice. Long enough that he registers the way your grip on the shot glass is just a little too tight.

Then you drink.

It burns. Sharp and immediate, a clean line of heat down your throat that should anchor you, should pull you fully into the moment. For a second, it almost does—your eyes squeezing shut, your breath catching on the exhale.

But it doesn’t last.

It never does.

Soon, the group begins to scatter.

JJ and Garcia vanish first, drawn toward the dance floor like it’s a magnet, laughter trailing behind them—bright, unrestrained, a kind of joy that feels almost dissonant after the quiet heaviness of the week.

Emily and Tara drift toward the bar, conversation already picking up mid-thought, something low and conspiratorial threading between them.

Luke and Rossi stay, leaning in over the table—voices dropping into that familiar rhythm of debate, something about whiskey aging processes and whether it actually makes a measurable difference.

And just like that, the space shifts.

Your shoulders drop before you even realize you’ve been holding them tense.

The noise of the bar swells and dips around you, laughter rising somewhere to your left, the low hum of conversation weaving in and out beneath it—but it all feels… distant. Like you’re listening through a wall. Like you’re not entirely in the room so much as adjacent to it.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s subtle, barely noticeable over the music—but you feel it. Your gaze drops immediately, like it’s been waiting for the excuse.

James.

Your thumb hovers for half a second before you tap the screen. The message is a picture. You don’t open it. You don’t need to.

You already know what it is—his version of an invitation. A summons, really. A wordless where are you? wrapped in something that’s never actually been about you.

You turn the phone face down against the table, like that somehow dulls the weight of it. Like it isn’t still sitting there, waiting. Expecting.

Your fingers curl loosely around the edge of the table instead.

You could leave.

The thought slips in quietly, familiar as a well-worn path.

You could make an excuse—say you’re tired, say you forgot something, say anything at all. No one here would question it. They’d nod, tell you to text when you get home, maybe tease you lightly about being the first to bail. And then you’d go.

Back to the hotel. Back to him. Back to something predictable. Easy.

Your teeth catch your thumb again before you can stop yourself.

You don’t belong here.

The thought settles in, heavy and certain.

You grip the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, and for the first time tonight you notice how small the space feels around you. Everyone else is laughing, moving, drifting through their easy rhythms like they belong here. And you… you’re just a shadow at the edge of it, fresh out of the academy, six months in, surrounded by people who’ve been this team for a decade. You’ve been trying to fit. Trying to catch up. Trying not to be noticeable.

You’re just a shadow at the edge, watching everyone else move like they belong here.

“Hey… you okay?”

Your chest tightens, breath stuttering. You snap your head up, startled, and your eyes catch Reid’s. He’s standing there, calm, patient, his gaze scanning you like he always does.

“I’m fine,” you say, softer than you mean to.

He tilts his head, suspicion flickering in his eyes. You know he sees through you, and the thought makes your stomach twist. You need movement, something to anchor yourself. “I’m getting another drink,” you tell him. “Anyone want anything?”

Rossi shakes his head without looking. “No thanks, kid.”

You nod, forcing yourself to push away from the table. The chair scrapes the floor, the sound louder than it should feel, echoing in the hollow space of your chest. Step by step, you move toward the bar, each one deliberate, grounding yourself in the smallest act of choice you’ve taken all night.

The hum of conversation and clinking glasses feels distant, muffled by the tension crawling up your spine. You take a breath, shallow, careful, like the air itself might betray you.

A quiet shift to your left makes you glance over. Reid’s there. Close enough that the warmth of his presence nudges your awareness, but not so close that it feels like intrusion. His hands rest lightly on the bar, posture relaxed, shoulders squared. Calm. Steady. The way he always is.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” you say, voice half curiosity, half challenge, like it matters.

He shrugs. “I don’t.”

You just nod, not because it surprises you—because it doesn’t—but because you need the distraction. Something to ground yourself in the ordinary. You catch the bartender’s eye, raising a hand.

“Vodka cranberry,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “Double.”

The words feel heavier than usual, like the alcohol isn’t just going into the glass—it’s for you, to hold on to, to push the buzzing of your chest down just a little. You watch the bartender pour, the ruby-red liquid spilling over ice, the glass catching the warm bar lights.

Reid doesn’t comment. Doesn’t question. Just leans there beside you, quiet, presence solid and patient. You can feel him cataloging, observing, and it’s both comforting and infuriating. His gaze isn’t demanding, not interrogating—it’s just… aware.

You shift slightly, curling your fingers around the glass when it lands in front of you. Cold against your palms, weight real and grounding. You lift it to your lips, sip carefully, and let the burn of it anchor you to the moment.

You glance at Reid over the rim of your glass, letting the drink settle on your tongue for a beat before you speak. The words are sharp with a thread of sarcasm, more shield than truth.

“Did you… just follow me here to watch me drink?”

Reid blinks, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s subtle, quiet, like he’s trying not to let the joke slip fully free, but it lands anyway. The kind of smile that reaches only his eyes and leaves the rest of him calm, unreadable.

“No,” he says, voice low, even, measured. But the smile lingers, a small curve of humor in the steady precision of him. “I—I thought you looked like something was bothering you.”

You don’t know why his words sting a little. It’s not exactly the concern you wanted, but it’s the first thread of recognition you’ve had all evening that someone—someone who actually sees—might notice you.

You set the glass down, careful, deliberate. Eyes meeting his, something in your expression half-asked, half-daring.

“You… you didn’t have to,” you mutter, voice low, and maybe it’s a statement. Maybe it’s a question. Maybe it’s both.

He tilts his head, that same patient tilt, as if weighing what to say, how much to share.

“I know,” he admits softly. “But I—” He pauses, eyes scanning you again, lingering on the tension you’ve carried in your posture, the way you brace yourself in space. “I just wanted to make sure you were… okay.”

You stare at him for a second. Normally, you’d nod, mumble, “Yeah, fine,” and push him away with a wall built out of routine, out of habit, out of every self-preserving instinct you’ve honed. But now… now something else is threading through you, quiet but insistent.

You let your mouth open before your brain can catch up. “My boyf—This guy I was seeing… It turns out he's engaged.”

“And of course he—he doesn’t care,” you blurt, voice catching on the last word. “I mean, not like it’s supposed to matter to me, right? We had this sort of unspoken agreement that this thing wasn't serious. But I was thinking about how if it was unspoken, was it really an agreement?”

Your hands gesture helplessly, tapping, twisting, grasping for purchase in the air. You hate how much of this is spilling out. You hate how much of this is just you, raw and unfiltered.

“And the worst part is that I couldn’t even… I couldn’t even hate him properly “ you continue. “James has always been like this, I've always known what this was. It's my own fault, really. I started thinking it was something more than what I deserve.”

Reid frowns. Opens his mouth, something on the tip of his tongue, but the words never leave his mouth.

They don't get the chance.

“What the hell?”

Your head snaps around. Heart stutters. There he is. Standing too close to the bar, shirt untucked, hair combed back, angry eyes locked on you.

“James?”

“You—” he starts, then cuts himself, eyes narrowing, voice low but tight. “You blew me off… for him?” His gaze flicks toward Reid, and you feel your chest tighten at the way he says it, the edge in his tone: him—like the word itself is a judgment.

You open your mouth, but your voice barely rises above a whisper. “I—James, it’s not—”

“Not what?” he yells, teeth clenched. “Not what? You’re supposed to care about me! I waited. I actually waited for you tonight!” His chest heaves.

You feel heat rush to your face, your chest tightening. Words stick in your throat. You try again, voice weak, small. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you didn’t,” he spits, waving a hand at you, eyes blazing. “You never do. You just… just take. Always taking. And now you’re here, with some… some old nerd?”

You can’t stop it. The word nerd bouncing off James’ teeth makes you snort before you even realize it. Small, sharp, ridiculous.

His eyes flick toward you, narrowing. “What—what’s so funny?”

You tilt your head, letting the corner of your mouth twitch. “You. You actually said that. Nerd. That’s… kind of sad, actually.”

The laugh dies quickly in your throat when you notice how fast his expression hardens. His jaw clenches. Fingers curl, like he’s balancing between self-control and something darker.

His voice drops, low and dangerous. “You—you think this is funny?”

You glare, something snapping in your chest that’s been coiled too long. The last weeks, the tension, the weight of always being small in his world, the image of her burning itself into your mind.

“No, actually, it's not funny,” you spit, voice sharper than you intend. “Because unlike you, some of us actually care about other people. You know, like, your fiancée. Or does that not matter in your little world?”

James’ nostrils flare, the heat in his face rising. “That’s none of your business!” he hisses, stepping forward, closing the distance, chest nearly brushing yours. His hand lifts, threatening—like he thinks he can push you back with sheer weight.

You don’t even flinch. Not because you’re brave—there’s no room for fear, no time for hesitation—but because Reid is already there.

In one fluid motion, Spencer’s hand clamps around James’ wrist, yanking it behind his back. His other hand presses firmly to James’ shoulder, and suddenly the ex is face-down against the bar, pinned with a precision that leaves no room for argument.

“Don’t touch her,” he says, voice low, each word clipped and deliberate—the same tone he’d use when taking a violent suspect into custody.

James struggles, shoving lightly at first, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Hey—what the hell, man?—”

Then a flicker of rage crosses his face. His eyes narrow, jaw tightening, as he shoves and strains against Spencer with increasing force.

“Do you know who you’re dealing with? You have no idea—no—” James’s face reddens, frustration mounting. “Get—off—me! You little—!”

“Let him go, Reid,” you say. “It's not worth it.”

Reid’s grip doesn’t vanish all at once. It loosens in increments, controlled and deliberate. Like he doesn’t trust the space yet. Like he doesn’t trust him.

You can see it—tension coiled in Reid’s arm, the restraint it takes to let go at all. And then James wrenches himself free.

It’s messy and abrupt, a sharp pull that breaks whatever control Reid had just barely eased into. James stumbles a half-step forward before he catches himself, chest heaving, shoulders tight with anger that has nowhere left to go but outward.

He turns to you. And for a second, you see it. Not affection, nor regret. It’s not even the hallow imitation of either he’s always fed you

It’s pride, bruised and ugly.

“You know what?” he snaps, “I’m done.”

The words land harder than they should. They’re expected, sure, but they’re still his. They’re supposed to mean something, they’re supposed to matter. You’d feared hearing those words from him for months.

“I’m done waiting around for you,” he continues, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Done dealing with your bullshit, your—your games.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You want to throw yourself at—what, coworkers now? Fine. Have fun with that.”

Your throat tightens. You should feel something. You do feel something. Just not what you expected. You feel the sting you’d expect—the tinge of hurt. But beneath that, beneath the instinctive urge to apologize, smooth it over, shrink yourself into something easier to handle—

You feel relief.

James exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Whatever,” he mutters. “You’re not even worth it. This is pathetic.”

He turns sharply, shoulder clipping someone as he shoves his way through the crowd, muttering under his breath, anger radiating off him in waves that part people before he makes it to them.

It’s only then, in the space he leaves behind, that you realize just how many people were watching. 

The noise of the bar doesn’t stop, but it shifts. Warps around you. Conversations falter at the edges, eyes linger a second to long before pretending they weren’t looking at all.

There’s a circle. Not a full one, not obvious, but enough. Enough to make your stomach drop. Enough to draw your eye to the woman standing just a few feet away, brows drawn slightly together and a frown on her lips. 

Prentiss shifts forward when you make eye contact, and suddenly your chest caves in on itself.

She saw.

Every word, every crack in your voice. Your fingers curl in on themselves, nails biting into your palms. 

You want to disappear.

The thought hits hard and immediate. If you could just step back, just slip out, just vanish into the crowd and out the door—

You wouldn't have to see the way they’re looking at you. You wouldn’t have to feel it. The shame curling low in your stomach and sharp in your chest, worse than anything James said.

Your throat tightens, breath catching too high in your chest. You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong here.

You take a small step back, then another. Your vision tunnels slightly, the edges of the room blurring as your focus narrows to one thing: out. You just need to get out.

“Hey, what ha—”

“I, uh—I just need some air,” you blurt, the words tripping over each other. You don’t wait for a response. 

You turn too quickly, nearly bumping into someone as you push past, murmuring a half-formed apology. The door is right there. You don’t think, you just move. Push.

The cool air hits you all at once. It cuts through the heat clinging to your skin. You inhale hard, too fast, like your lungs forgot how to do it properly and are scrambling to catch up. Cold air floods in. Again. And again.

Your hands come up instinctively, bracing against your ribs like you can physically hold yourself together.

It’s quieter out here—the traffic is slow, the music is muffled. Less noise, less pressure. 

You bend slightly at the waist, dragging in another breath, slower this time. Trying to make it stick. Trying to make it work.

Your breathing evens out first, but your heart doesn’t get the memo as quickly. 

It keeps racing, thudding hard and uneven. You take another deep breath and lean back against the brick wall, the rough texture pressing through your clothes. Solid. Grounding, in a way.

Your knees give out before you really decide to sit.

You slide down slowly, controlled at first and then not, until you’re on the sidewalk, the cold seeping through the fabric of your pants. It bites, but you don’t move. Your head tips back against the wall. Eyes close.

For a second, you wish you were a smoker.

The thought is absurd. But right now… right now feels like it would make sense. Something to do with your hands. Something to focus on.

The door creaks open behind you. Footsteps follow, measured and unrushed.

There’s a small, stubborn part of you that hopes that if you stay still enough, whoever it is might just leave. Give you a second longer to exist in the quiet, nothing expected of you.

The footsteps stop anyway, just to your left.

You crack one eye open, lashes sticking slightly where they’d pressed too tight together. Your vision takes a second to focus, the streetlight catching on something glassy, red—your drink.

You open your other eye, gaze tracking up to the person holding it out to you. Reid. 

He’s standing in front of you, one hand holding out your vodka cran, the other tucked loosely into his pocket. His poster is relaxed, but there’s something careful to it—like he’s making a conscious effort not to crowd you, not to overwhelm you.

His eyes flick over your face quickly, taking in more than you’d like him to. The slight flush still lingering on your cheeks, the uneven way your breath settles, the way your fingers curl loosely against your knees like you’re not entirely sure what to do with them.

Your gaze drops back to the glass in his hand.

“You—” your voice comes out a little rough, like you haven’t used it in a while. You clear your throat. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to leave the building with alcohol.”

“What are they going to do, arrest me?” he winces slightly, like he regrets his own joke before he’s even fully said the words.

“Well, then I guess you’re a repeat offender now, huh?” The words leave your mouth before your brain can veto them. You wince, exactly the way Reid just did.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

But Reid just lets out a quiet, low laugh. Sudden and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to say something like that. “Don’t be sorry. I joked first.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and reach for the glass. Your fingers brush his as you take it, the warmth seeping through your skin. “Thanks,” you murmur.

He doesn’t speak, just tilts his head and slides down onto the curb beside you. You stiffen immediately. “Don’t,” you whisper, a little sharp. “You’re… you’re wearing a suit.”

He glances down at the neatly pressed fabric, then back at you, corners of his mouth twitching in that faint, crooked smile that somehow disarms all argument. “I can,” he says simply. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he does.

Reid shifts slightly, leaning back on his hands. “Are you… okay?” His voice is careful, gentle, like he’s handling something fragile.

You glance down at your knees, still gripping the glass a little too tightly. “I’m… embarrassed,” you mutter. Your throat tightens. “My boss… just saw me get berated by some guy in a bar.” The words taste bitter on your tongue. You imagine her eyes on you, all judgment and concern, and you want to crawl into yourself, disappear.

Reid lets out a quiet laugh, soft but impossible to ignore. “She actually saw me pin him to the table,” he says, voice teasing, but still calm, controlled. “Arguably, that’s a worse situation.”

A laugh escapes you, small, shaky, but genuine. You shake your head, a little of the tension leaving your shoulders. “Yeah… okay. I’ll give you that. Definitely worse.”

He tilts his head, gaze curious, unreadable. “Prentiss doesn’t care that it happened. She just wanted to know if you’re okay.”

You swallow, letting the words settle. Somehow, knowing that she’s not judging, not holding it over your head, makes the heat of humiliation fade a little. “I… I think I am,” you admit softly, letting your fingers relax around the glass. “Thanks… for defending me.”

“Any time,” he says. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way. Not by him. Not by anyone.”

Your breath hitches a little. The words settle in your chest, heavy and warm, threading through the lingering embarrassment. You glance up at him, half-expecting teasing, half-expecting judgment—but there’s none. Just… that steady presence that makes it feel like the world outside this curb has stopped.

“You deserve better,” he adds, more softly this time. “Not just protection from him, but someone who actually respects your time, your space, your… everything.”

"You really think that?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. The skepticism is instinctive, a reflex you've built up over years of being told you're too much, or not enough.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. "I know it.”

You take a sip of your drink to hide the way your mouth wants to twist, letting the vodka burn sharp and distracting on the way down. You stare out at the streetlights, watching the traffic pass, needing to look at anything but him.

"Well," you say, letting your head loll back against the brick to look at him, your voice dipping into that familiar, jagged sarcasm you wear like armor. "Let me know when you find someone who does that, will you?”

Reid doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. He just looks at you, eyes soft but intent, reading past the deflection like it’s written in a language he’s fluent in. The traffic rushes by, filling the silence between you, but he doesn’t look away.

"I know someone who’s willing to try," he says.

The air between you seems to still, the rush of traffic fading into a dull, distant roar. Your grip on the glass tightens automatically, a knee-jerk defense against something that feels dangerously like hope. You search his face for the punchline, the awkward hesitation that tells you he’s just being nice, but there isn’t any. Just that steady, calm regard, like he’s stating a fact as simple as gravity.

It’s terrifying. It’s the most genuine offer you’ve had in years, and it comes from the person you least expected to dissect the messy, jagged parts of you and still want to stick around. You force a short, skeptical breath of a laugh, trying to shove the moment back into the box labeled ' impossible' before it can crack you open. "You," you start, your voice rougher than you intended, "you realize I'm a disaster, right? That's—that’s what tonight was. That’s what I am."

Reid just shifts slightly, turning his body toward you so his knees bump yours, a deliberate, grounding point of contact. "I don't think you're a disaster," he says softly. "I think you’re a person who’s been treated like an option for too long by someone who didn't know what he had." He glances down at the drink in your hand, then back up, eyes catching the streetlight with a quiet intensity. "I know the statistics on recovery. I know it takes time to unlearn that kind of treatment. But I'm good at waiting. And I'm very patient.”

You nearly choke on your next swallow, the burn of the vodka suddenly nothing compared to the heat rushing up your neck. You pull away, shifting so you’re not pressed quite so close to his side, putting a fraction of distance between you on the concrete.

"Wow," you breathe out, shaking your head as you stare at the traffic passing on the street. "You really... you actually just cited statistics at me to try and get me to sleep with you." You turn back to him, arching a brow, letting your lip curl just enough to be sharp. "That is—that is impressively unsexy, Reid. I mean, truly.”

The words barely have time to hang in the cool night air before the regret hits you. It’s instant and sickening, washing away the cheap defense of sarcasm and leaving behind the raw ache underneath. You watch his face, expecting him to bristle, to get up, to mutter some logical comeback and leave you there on the curb to finish your drink in solitary humiliation.

But he doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. He just looks at you.

He holds your gaze with that same steady, infuriating patience. He saw the twitch in your hand, the way you spiraled, and instead of calling you out on the cruelty, he just waited. Like he knows you're already punishing yourself enough for the both of you.

"I didn't mean that," you blurt out, the words rushing together in a desperate attempt to take it back. You set the glass down on the pavement beside you, your hands suddenly feeling useless and trembling. "I'm sorry. That was—that was mean. I was just... deflecting."

"I know," Reid says softly. The forgiveness is immediate, absolute, and devoid of the hesitation you’re used to receiving. “But I mean it. I know it’ll take time. I know it won’t be easy to believe. But I want to be the one who proves that you deserve more. Who actually gives it to you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, words catching in your throat. Your voice is quieter now, softer. “And if I… if I push back? Or yell? Or—”

“You will,” he says, eyes locking on yours. “I know you will. And that’s okay. I’ll wait. I’ll listen. I’ll… handle it.” His gaze doesn’t falter, doesn’t waver. It’s steady. Enough to make the rest of the night, the bar, James, and everything else fade just a little.

Your laugh is small, shaky, like a bird testing the air for flight. “You’re… insane.”

“Maybe,” he admits, corners of his mouth twitching in that crooked, infuriating smile. “Or maybe I just think you’re worth it.”

You lift your gaze, meeting his steady eyes again. There’s a pull there—something magnetic, something dangerous in the way he looks at you—but it’s not reckless. Not threatening. Safe. The kind of safety that makes your chest ache with longing you’ve barely let yourself feel.

You shift slightly, closer, more instinct than conscious thought, just enough to brush against the warmth of him. Your hand hovers near his arm, and before you know it, it’s resting lightly against his sleeve. You almost pull it away, reminding yourself of restraint, of boundaries—but the warmth of him there, steady, grounding, feels… essential.

Reid’s gaze follows your movement, patient but intent. He tilts his head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You don’t have to be careful with me,” he murmurs, voice low, a rasp that makes the air shiver around it.

His hand shifts subtly, brushing against yours, fingers threading just slightly, testing.

“Do you…?” Your voice trembles, small and unsure, carrying the question you can’t quite form. “Do you… want this?”

“I want whatever you want,” he says simply. “I want you. But only if you want me too.”

That’s enough to tip the fragile line you’ve been teetering on. Impulsively, hesitantly, you reach up, tracing the edge of his jaw with your fingertips, memorizing the planes of his face, the way his skin is warm beneath your touch. He leans slightly into the gesture, breath hitching just enough to tell you he notices, that he feels it.

The world narrows. Just you. Just him. The faint buzz of the city, the distant headlights, the cold concrete pressing against your legs—they all fall away until there’s nothing but the hum of possibility between you.

Your lips hover near his, and you freeze, heart hammering. You’re not sure if you want this—if you want him, or just the safety, the closeness, the heat of someone who sees you and still wants you. But the thought of pulling back, of losing this chance, makes your chest ache.

He tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering against your cheek. “You can stop,” he murmurs. “Or you can try.”

Something in you unravels—the careful walls, the sarcasm, the self-protective reflexes. You close the last fraction of distance, lips brushing his. Soft. Gentle. A spark, a question, a yes whispered in the language of a kiss.

Reid doesn’t hesitate. He meets it, tilting his head to deepen the contact, hand moving to cradle your face, the other brushing along your arm. Safe. Warm. Patient, but insistent enough to let you know he wants this too.

His hand is warm where it cups your face. Steady. Intentional. Not demanding—never that—but there, present, like he’s giving you something solid to hold onto while everything else inside you threatens to tilt.

You expect it to feel overwhelming. It doesn’t. It feels… quiet.

Your lips move against his again, a little more certain this time, testing the shape of it, the reality of it. And he follows—carefully, like he’s reading you even now, adjusting in real time to every shift in your breath, every slight change in pressure. There’s no rush. No taking. Just… meeting you there.

Your fingers curl slightly where they rest against his jaw, and you feel the way his breath catches—not dramatically, not exaggerated, just enough to tell you it matters. That you matter.

It does something dangerous to your chest.

You lean in a fraction more, and this time the kiss deepens—still soft, still controlled, but warmer now. Real. His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek, a slow, grounding motion, like he’s reminding you that you’re here. That this is happening. That you can stop at any point and he’ll let you.

And somehow, that makes you not want to stop at all.

Your other hand shifts, sliding from his sleeve to his wrist, then up—hesitant at first, then more certain—until your fingers rest against the side of his neck. His skin is warm. Steady. You can feel his pulse there, quickening just slightly under your touch.

You like that.

The realization hits you quietly, but it lingers.

Reid exhales softly against your lips, and there’s something different in it now—something a little less restrained, a little more felt. 

“Hey…” you murmur, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Your voice is soft, a little breathless. “Walk me home?”

He blinks, just the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his features before it smooths into that steady, calm look you know so well. “Of course,” he says, the words low, sure, certain.

You stand, brushing the chill off your pants, and he falls into step beside you without hesitation. The city night feels quieter now, the hum of traffic and distant sirens softened by the rhythm of your walking. Your hand brushes his at first accidentally, then deliberately, and he doesn’t pull away—doesn’t need to. The warmth seeps through your nerves, that quiet shock that says you’re alive, that you’re wanted.

There's that look in his eyes again: steady, observant, but carrying a promise that he’ll meet you where you are. That he’ll wait, if necessary, but that he wants this, too.

Your chest tightens. The city lights stretch shadows across the sidewalk, painting him in sharp angles and soft curves. You wonder how it’s possible for someone to feel so steady and so incendiary at once.

When you reach your building, the air seems thicker, heavier with unsaid words and barely restrained energy. The lobby is empty, quiet, the distant hum of the city muffled behind the glass doors. You pause, hand brushing against the wall for something to hold on to, grounding yourself.

“You can… come up,” you murmur before your brain has time to talk you out of it. The words are uneven, hesitant, carrying all your insecurities. “If you want.”

He tilts his head, watching you carefully, reading every microexpression like he always does. “I do,” he says softly. And he follows you inside without hesitation.

You’ve done this before. Let someone follow you upstairs. Let it mean something it wasn’t supposed to.

This feels different.

The hallway stretches a little longer than usual, your footsteps echoing softly against the floor. You don’t look back, but you can feel him there. Half a step behind you. Like he’s giving you the space to stop. To turn around. To change your mind.

The key slips once in your grip before you manage to steady it, the metal clicking against the lock louder than it should be. Your pulse jumps with it. You push the door open and step inside, the familiar quiet of your apartment settling around you like something held too tightly.

For a second, you just stand there. Then, he steps in after you. The door closes with a soft click.

“You can still—” he starts, voice low, careful.

But you close the distance before he can finish.

Your hands find him first—fisting lightly in the front of his shirt, pulling him in like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t anchor him there. His breath catches, just barely, and then your lips are on his again. It’s different this time. Less careful. Less questioning.

There’s urgency in it now—something that’s been building, coiling tight all night finally snapping loose. You press closer, rising onto your toes, and he meets you immediately, hands coming up to steady your waist, your back—everywhere all at once, like he’s trying to keep up without overwhelming you.

You tug at him, guiding, half-walking, half-pulling him down the short hallway toward your room. He follows without resistance, but there’s a shift in him—something grounding, something deliberate beneath the heat.

The bedroom door bumps open. You barely register it before you’re turning back to him, hands already moving again, lips finding his jaw, his neck—anything you can reach. It’s a little messy, a little rushed, your breath uneven as it tangles with his.

And then—His hands catch yours.

“Hey—” he murmurs, voice low, breath warm where it brushes your cheek. “Hey… it’s okay.”

You blink, the moment stuttering. Your chest rises and falls too fast, your pulse still racing ahead of you, like you haven’t quite caught up to your own body yet.

“I just—” you start, but the words don’t land. You’re not even sure what you were going to say.

He doesn’t make you finish. “I know,” he says softly.

His thumbs brush lightly over your wrists where he’s still holding them, grounding, steady. Not restraining—just there.

“We can slow down,” he adds. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

The certainty in his voice disarms you in a way you’re not prepared for.

Your shoulders drop a fraction. Your breath stutters, then steadies, just a little.

“…okay,” you whisper.

The word feels fragile. New. But he treats it like something solid.

Reid’s hands loosen, giving you the space to pull away if you want—but when you don’t, when you stay right there in front of him, he lets his fingers slide more gently along your arms instead. Up. Slow. Intentional.

Like he’s learning you. Like he wants to.

His hands find the edge of your shirt, fingertips brushing the fabric where it clings to your skin. He pauses, lifting his gaze to yours, as if asking permission without a word. You nod, breath trembling.

His lips brush along your collarbone, soft and feather-light, following a trail only he seems to know exists. One hand slides up your side, fingertips pressing gently against your ribs, mapping the curve beneath the thin fabric. The warmth of him, the deliberate patience, makes your knees weaken.

“Do you… want me to?” His voice is low, rougher than usual, carrying that quiet certainty you’ve come to rely on.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, please.”

His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and then it’s gone—lifted slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving you time to change your mind even as it slides over your head.

He leans back in immediately, lips brushing yours, but your hands are fidgety, unsure, tangling in his shirt, pulling too hard, then too soft. Your fingers move to your pants, fumbling the button, and a tiny groan escapes you—half frustration, half embarrassment.

Reid chuckles against your lips, warm and low, the sound vibrating through you. It’s soft, not mocking, just amused, and somehow it makes you grin despite yourself. You can’t help it—a little laugh escapes between kisses, breathless and uneven.

You take a shaky breath and try again, dragging the fabric down with more determination, though you’re still clumsy, tugging at them too fast before pausing, then yanking them the rest of the way. They pool around your ankles, and you step free, kicking them aside—slightly off balance, but he catches you with a hand on your hip.

You tug him closer, heat building between you, and your hands find his, pressing them to the small of your back for a moment before slipping, guiding his fingers along the slope of your sides.

Your pulse hammers in your ears, and you can feel him stiffen slightly under your touch, a shiver running through him as you lead his hands upward to the clasp of your bra. The soft click of the hooks under your fingertips sends a jolt straight through your chest.

He pushes the straps off your shoulders, the soft fabric falling to the floor. 

The air feels cooler against your skin immediately. Sharper. You’re suddenly, acutely aware of it—of yourself.

Of him. 

You don’t give yourself time to think about it. Don’t let the hesitation creep in. Your hands are already reaching for him again, pulling him forward, chasing the warmth you just had—

“Wait,” Reid murmurs, voice low, threaded with something softer now. Something steadier.

Your breath catches, confusion flickering across your face as you look up at him.

“I—” you start, but the words falter when you see the way he’s looking at you.

Not rushed. Not hungry in that careless, consuming way you’re used to. Focused. Intent.

“I want to look at you,” he says quietly.

It lands heavier than anything else he’s said tonight.

Heat rushes up your neck instantly, blooming across your cheeks, your chest tightening as your instinct is to turn away, to fold in on yourself, to hide. You almost laugh it off—almost deflect, make a joke, cover the sudden vulnerability clawing up your throat.

But his hands are still there, resting lightly at your waist.

His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t flick away to give you an out. But it’s not trapping, either. It’s patient. Open.

Like he’s asking. Like it matters.

Your fingers twitch at your sides before you force them to still. You draw in a slow breath that doesn’t quite steady you but helps enough. And then you nod.

Reid’s eyes move over you then—not in a way that feels like he’s taking something, not like he’s cataloging flaws or comparing or measuring. It’s slow. Careful. Like he’s trying to understand something he’s been given permission to see.

His thumb brushes lightly along your side, a small, absent motion that somehow keeps you grounded while his gaze lingers.

“You’re—” he starts, then stops, like he’s recalibrating, searching for the right word and discarding the wrong ones before they ever reach you.

His jaw shifts slightly.

“—you’re incredible,” he settles on, voice quieter now, like it’s something meant just for you.

Your heart skips a beat.

It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. It’s a simple word. Easy. Overused.

But not like this. Not from him.

You swallow, gaze dropping for a second before you force yourself to look back at him, even as the heat in your cheeks refuses to fade.

Something shifts in your chest, a sudden, impatient flare that has nothing to do with words and everything to do with heat, want, the ache of waiting too long. You pull him toward you. Harder than planned. A startled breath escapes him, warm against your neck, and the sound alone makes your pulse spike again.

He stumbles slightly—both of you caught in the sudden motion—but instinctively, he catches himself. His hands land on either side of you, bracing against the bed, his chest hovering just above yours. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle tension in his arms, the deliberate strength that’s always been there but now feels dangerously immediate.

Your hands roam down his chest, fingers catching on each button as you work them open. The fabric parts beneath your touch, revealing warm skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing just a little less even than before.

Your hands drag down his chest, fingertips tracing the subtle lines of muscle beneath warm skin, feeling the way his breath shifts under your touch—just a little deeper now, just a little less controlled.

Then back up.

Over his shoulders, pushing the fabric down his arms, your palms following the movement like you don’t want to lose contact for even a second. The shirt catches at his elbows before he shrugs it off completely, letting it fall somewhere behind him without looking.

Your palms trace the warmth of his chest one last time before they drift lower, brushing the waistband of his pants. A rush of heat floods your chest, anticipation curling in your stomach. You inch your hands forward, imagining the weight and warmth beneath the fabric.

He stops you with a gentle but firm grip on your wrists.

“This… isn’t about me,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with something deeper. “It’s about you. I want to make you feel good first.”

You swallow, heat pooling between your thighs at the deliberate weight of his words. Your hands drop, and for a moment, you let yourself just be held, just feel him.

Then his hands are moving—sliding along your ribs, over your hips, brushing over the swell of your breasts, ghosting over your nipples.

Your chest lifts instinctively under the pressure, the featherlight friction making your pulse stutter.

He leans back just slightly, eyes locking onto yours, searching, reading every flicker of reaction. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, but the way he holds your gaze is unwavering—commanding but gentle. “Or not enough. I want to know.”

You arch, pressing into him without thinking, letting the heat of anticipation spill into something more tangible. “Not… not enough,” you whisper, voice low, trembling with want.

A small, satisfied sound escapes him—almost a growl, almost a purr—and his hands move with careful precision, cupping you fully now, thumbs brushing circles over your nipples, slow, deliberate, eliciting shivers that roll down your spine. You bite back a moan, but it escapes anyway, breathless, catching in the quiet of your bedroom.

His hands slide lower along your hips again, brushing teasingly over the swell of your thighs. 

“May I?” he murmurs, voice low, husky, as his fingers brush the waistband of your underwear. You nod, barely able to speak, breath hitching in uneven gasps.

He hooks his thumbs under the edges, letting his gaze lift to yours. No hurry, or shame. Just that commanding, attentive certainty that makes your knees weak.

He slides them down your legs, inch by careful inch, letting the fabric brush your skin, teasing, slow, patient, until he can discard them with the rest of your clothes. His hands drift back up your legs, tracing the curve of your inner thighs, stopping just shy of the place that’s already slick with need. You gasp, hips tilting instinctively toward him, heart hammering.

Finally, he lowers himself, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, feather-light at first, tracing circles that leave sparks behind.

The sensation travels inward, unhurried and deliberate, nothing like the frantic, selfish encounters you’re used to. When his mouth finally reaches where you need him most, the shock of it steals the breath from your lungs. It isn't rushed or performative; it’s attentive, his tongue moving with a focused precision that feels almost academic. One hand rests firmly on your hip, anchoring you to the mattress, a grounding tether as he begins to unravel you, lick by slow, devastating lick.

Your free hand finds its way into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft waves to hold him close, your hips lifting off the bed in a silent, desperate plea. He hums against you, a low, vibrating sound of approval that only sends fresh waves of pleasure rolling through your nerves, encouraging you to let go. Every flick of his tongue is a question he already knows the answer to, reading the tremor in your thighs and the broken cadence of your breath like data points on a graph, adjusting the pressure and speed until the only thing you know is the heat of his mouth and the rapidly tightening coil in your belly.

The pressure builds to a breaking point, overwhelming and sharp, and when you fall over the edge, you do so with a cry that you try to stifle against your own arm, a lifetime of conditioning making you shy away from being too loud, too much. But Spencer doesn't let you hide; he carries you through it, slowing his movements to draw out every last aftershock until you’re a trembling, boneless mess against the sheets.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his lips start a slow, deliberate ascent from your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin. It’s a reverence in motion, a silent worship that has your eyes fluttering closed.

The scrape of his teeth against the curve of your hip draws a sharp, hitching gasp from you, your hips bucking involuntarily. He just smiles against your skin—a dark, knowing thing—and soothes the sting with his tongue, his hands continuing their slow, grounding glide up your sides. He’s taking his time, mapping the topography of your body like he has all night, like he has a lifetime.

His mouth finds the dip of your navel, lingering there, his breath hot against your stomach. Your muscles jump and flutter under his attention, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts as the heat coils tighter, low and demanding. The sensations are overwhelming—every nerve ending feels raw, exposed, and terrifyingly alive.

He moves higher, tracing the line of your ribs with a devotion that feels almost holy. Your breath stutters, catching in your throat as the ghost of his breath feathers over your racing heart, the steady thump-thump-thump betraying just how undone you are. He presses a lingering kiss right over that frantic beat, as if trying to soothe the ache there with his own rhythm, his hands sliding up to bracket your waist, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your sides in a slow, hypnotic pattern.

He nips gently at the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and your head falls back against the pillow, exposing more of yourself to him in a gesture of surrender that feels foreign yet terrifyingly right. You can feel the tension in his arms where they cage you in, the tremor of restraint running through him as he takes his time, leaving a trail of fire in his wake that burns away the lingering memory of every cold, careless touch before him.

Finally, his face hovers above yours, blocking out the dim light of the room until he’s the only thing you can see. His lips are red and swollen, his breathing ragged as it mingles with yours in the scant space between you. He doesn’t kiss you immediately; he pauses, searching your eyes with that piercing, analytical gaze that sees too much, stripping away every last defense. Then he lowers his mouth to yours, slow and deliberate, and the taste on his tongue is you—salt and musk and a sharp, intoxicating proof of exactly how much he wants you.

He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still coming in ragged, syncopated bursts. The air between your bodies feels charged, electric with the lingering static of what just happened and the mounting pressure of what’s coming next. His eyes search yours, dark and intent, stripping away any last defenses you might have thought you had.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, the words low and rough, vibrating against your lips. His hand drifts down, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you can't look away, can't hide from the weight of the question. "I need to hear you say it."

Your pulse hammers against your ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm that matches the ache settling deep in your bones. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the deflective sarcasm or the practiced diffidence you usually hide behind. Not with him. Not like this. You force yourself to meet his gaze, to let the want show plainly on your face, raw and unvarnished.

"I want you to fuck me, Spencer. Please."

The words leave your lips in a rush, jagged and desperate, stripping away the last of your composure. You expect him to hesitate, to offer you another slow, sweet reassurance, but instead, his control snaps. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat—half-groan, half-growl—and his mouth crashes into yours, searing and demanding, swallowing the gasp that rises in your throat. There’s no patience left in him now, only a starving intensity that matches your own, his hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

He shifts above you, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that feels grounding rather than trapping. You can feel the hard, deliberate line of him against your thigh, the heat radiating through his clothes, a stark reminder of how much he’s been holding back. He makes quick work of his belt, the metal buckle clinking softly in the quiet room, followed by the hurried slide of fabric. Every movement is precise, efficient, but his hands are trembling just slightly, betraying the depth of his own need. When he finally settles back between your legs, skin against skin, the sensation is overwhelming—a perfect, frictional fit that makes your hips lift instinctively, seeking more.

He pauses for a second, tilting his head slightly as his hand drifts from your hips to brush along your lower stomach. “Do you… want me to use a condom?” His voice is low, careful, giving you the space to answer.

You let out a sharp curse, half-laugh, half-frustration. “I… I don’t have any. James always—I don’t have any.” The words stumble out, messy, just like your racing heart.

He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but you cut him off with a hurried shake of your head. “Just… pull out,” you murmur, voice a little breathless.

He blinks. “What?”

“Please,” you say quickly, looking up at him, heat in your cheeks, pulse hammering. “I‐if you’re okay with it.”

There’s a brief pause—a beat of hesitation—but you can feel it more than see it, that careful weighing of trust, of boundaries, of desire. Then his hands settle on your hips again, steady, grounding, as his lips brush yours in a soft, lingering kiss.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low and certain.

He pushes forward with a torturous slowness, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you, filling you so completely it steals the air from your lungs. It’s intense—a heavy, burning pressure that borders on too much—but it’s anchored by the way he’s watching you, his jaw tight with restraint, his focus entirely on the micro-expressions crossing your face. He’s waiting for you to adjust, treating your body with the same reverence he treats your mind, giving you time to catch up to the reality of him.

Your breath hitches, a sharp, uneven sound, and instinct overrides everything else. You surge up, crashing your lips against his, needing the distraction, needing the connection. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the skin as you pull him closer, deeper, and your legs wrap around his waist, locking him in.

The movement changes everything. It breaks the careful control he was holding onto by a thread. He groans low into your mouth, a sound you feel vibrate through your chest, and his hips snap forward the rest of the way, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden depth drags a cry from your throat, which he swallows instantly, his kiss turning hungrier, more demanding. He doesn't withdraw; he stays there, deep and pulsing inside you, letting you feel the weight of him, the sheer reality of being this close, before he finally begins to move—no longer slow, but deep and rolling, matching the desperate rhythm of your heart.

A sharp cry tears from your throat as he sets a rhythm that obliterates your ability to think, each stroke hitting deep and precise, dragging a desperate sound from your lungs that you can’t hold back. Your body reacts instinctively, legs tightening around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders to anchor yourself as the intensity builds, threatening to pull you under. It’s overwhelming in the best way, a tide rising higher and higher with every thrust.

"I've got you," he breathes, the words ragged against your mouth, punctuated by the sharp, uneven cadence of his breath. "You're incredible—god, look at you."

He doesn't stop moving, doesn't let up, his hips snapping into yours with a focused, driving rhythm that feels relentless and careful all at once. But even in the middle of it, he finds the air to speak, his voice a low, rough hum that vibrates against your lips.

"So good," he murmurs, his forehead pressing tight against yours, the words ghosting over your mouth in between the relentless, deep thrusts that make your vision blur. "You feel so good, taking me like this. You have no idea." His voice cracks on a groan, the restraint finally splintering as he buries himself impossibly deeper, grounding you with the weight of his body and the raw honesty in his tone. "You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect."

Your fingernails dig into the sweat-slicked planes of his shoulders, holding on for dear life as the coil in your belly winds tighter, threatening to snap. Every praise feels like a brand, searing away the old, jagged memories of being too much or not enough, replacing them with the undeniable reality of how much he wants you right now. "Spencer," you gasp, his name sounding broken on your tongue, and he captures the sound with a searing kiss, swallowing your cries like they're something precious.

"I know, I know," he soothes, though his hips are losing their rhythm, becoming erratic, urgent. He shifts slightly, changing the angle just enough to make you see stars, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you steady for the force of his thrusts. "Let go for me. I've got you, always." He presses his lips to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, worshiping every inch of skin he can reach. "Come on, baby. I want to feel you."

Your body arches off the mattress, seeking more of him, more of this grounding, overwhelming connection, and when the release crashes over you, it blinds out everything else. It’s a blinding whiteout of sensation, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of him inside you, the weight of his body pressing yours into the mattress, and the sound of your own cry echoing in the quiet room. You clamp around him, your inner muscles fluttering and gripping as the pleasure rips through you, leaving you trembling and gasping in his arms, your fingers still digging desperately into his shoulders.

The way you tighten around him tears a ragged groan from his throat, his control finally shattering completely. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing turning harsh and uneven against your sweat-dampened skin. "That's it," he chokes out, the words strained and low, vibrating against your collarbone. "You're beautiful—so beautiful like this." He chases his own high then, his movements becoming jagged and desperate, thrusting deeper, harder, his grip on your hip almost bruising as he lets himself go.

You can feel the tension in every muscle of his back, the way his movements are becoming less calculated, more desperate, driven by pure instinct. He’s right there with you, hovering on that precipice, and for a second, you think he’s going to let go completely.

But then his rhythm stutters. He gasps sharply against your skin, and with a herculean effort that seems to cost him everything, he tears himself away.

The sudden loss of contact leaves you feeling empty, cold for a fleeting second, but he doesn't go far.

He moves his hand, but before his fingers can close around himself, your hand is there, brushing his aside.

He lets out a shattered gasp, his eyes flying open to find yours, dark and wide with surprise. The heat of him is heavy in your palm, slick and desperate, and you don't hesitate. You wrap your fingers around him, stroking firmly from base to tip, taking over the rhythm he had denied himself.

"God—" The word breaks apart on a groan, his head falling back, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. His jaw goes slack, his lips parting on a silent exhale that turns into a low, guttural sound of pure surrender. He’s powerless to stop it, the tension in his body snapping like a wire drawn too tight.

The pleasure overtakes him in a rush, and with a guttural moan that sounds almost like relief, he spills hot and wet across your stomach. You don't stop; your grip stays firm and sure, thumb brushing over the sensitive head as you stroke him through every pulse, intent on wringing every last bit of pleasure from him. He shudders violently above you, his whole body bowing under the intensity, his hands fisting in the sheets on either side of your head to keep from crushing you as he rides out the aftershocks.

As the tremors finally begin to subside, the frantic energy leaves him, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. His arms give out, and he lowers himself carefully, mostly collapsing onto you but catching his weight on his elbows to keep from smearing the mess between you any further. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, cooling gusts against your overheated skin, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs that gradually begins to slow.

You let your hand release him, fingers drifting instead to the hair at the nape of his neck, combing through the damp strands in a slow, soothing cadence. The room is quiet now, save for the shared sound of your breathing, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

He presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, then another to the curve of your jaw, seemingly unwilling to break the connection just yet, content to simply exist in the warm, heavy aftermath of it all.

But eventually, he shifts, pressing one last lingering, soft kiss to your forehead, and pushes himself up. The mattress dips and lifts as he climbs out, the cool air of the room rushing in to fill the space he left behind.

You watch him, your body still thrumming, muscles heavy and liquid, but your mind instinctively bracing for the shift.

This is the part where the silence gets awkward. This is the part where he finds his shirt on the floor, pulls it on, and mutters something about an early morning or a meeting.

But he doesn’t even glance at his clothes. He turns, padding silently toward the bathroom in his bare feet, disappearing into the slice of light spilling from the open door.

The water runs for a moment—the sound jarringly domestic in the quiet apartment—before cutting off.

You blink, staring up at the ceiling, your heart rate settling into something resembling normalcy even as your brain struggles to catalog this deviation from the script. You’re still bracing for the sound of a zipper, for the click of a belt buckle, but instead, you hear the soft tread of his return.

Spencer comes back into the dim light of the bedroom, a damp washcloth in his hand. He isn’t dressing. He isn’t rushing. He sits on the edge of the mattress, the dip in the springs shifting you slightly toward him, and reaches out with a gentle hesitance, waiting for a flinch that doesn’t come.

When he touches the warm cloth to your stomach, the heat is shocking—not painful, but incredibly grounding, chasing away the chill of the drying air and the sudden, hollow fear that you were just a convenience.

He wipes the skin with meticulous care, his eyes focused on the task as if it’s a delicate procedure requiring his full attention. There’s nothing perfunctory about it; he cleans you up with the same steady reverence he explored you with, drying your skin with the corner of the cloth before tossing it onto the nightstand.

He leans in then, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips—soft, unhurried things—and then he simply pulls the quilt up over you, his hand lingering on the sheet as he looks down at you, making it clear that for tonight, at least, he isn't going anywhere.

The silence stretches, comfortable but fragile, and suddenly the vulnerability of the moment feels heavier than the pleasure did. You feel a ridiculous lump forming in your throat, a shy, terrifying question sitting on the tip of your tongue. It’s just asking him to stay, but it feels like asking for everything.

"Will you..." You start, then stop to clear your throat, your voice barely above a whisper. "Will you lay with me?"

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t look for an excuse or a clock. He just turns those soft, serious eyes on you, his expression softening into something so open it makes your chest ache.

"Of course," he answers immediately, as if it were the only logical conclusion, the only option worth considering. He shifts, sliding under the quilt with an easy grace, and the mattress dips under his weight as he settles in behind you. There’s no fumbling for space, no awkward negotiation of limbs; he fits against you like he was always meant to be there, his chest pressing flush against your back. The heat of him is immediate and grounding, seeping through your skin and chasing away the last of the lingering chill.

He reaches out, gathering you up with a gentle, insistent tug, pulling you back until you are completely cocooned in his embrace. One arm slides beneath your pillow, cradling your head, while the other drapes over your waist, his hand splaying wide across your stomach to hold you close. You can feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat against your spine, a slow, hypnotic cadence that anchors you in the present moment and makes it impossible to spiral into your usual doubts. 

You let your body relax into his, melting against the solid length of him, and for the first time in a long time, your mind goes quiet. The insecurities, the voice that whispers that you’re too much or not enough, the habitual shrinking you do to make room for others—it all fades into the background, silenced by the undeniable reality of him holding you.

Spencer presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there with a reverence that feels like a seal, a promise that you don't have to be anything but exactly who you are right here. Safe, wanted, and held.

The retail store is too bright and colorful compared to the stormy sky outside. 

You and your friends have been coming here ever since middle school. Back then, Yelena’s older sister was the only one with a driver’s license, piling all of you into her car to take you wherever you wanted to go. Halloween has always been your favorite excuse to spend time together, with Kate opening her doors for your annual sleepover: a night of mildly scary movies, gossip about the cutest guys in town, and enough junk food to leave all of you clutching your stomachs by midnight.

By the time you started high school, your older neighbor’s extravagant Halloween party had become the talk of the town. Hosted in her massive mansion, it was the kind of event people counted down to months in advance. You’d never considered yourself much of a party girl, but it was the perfect excuse to dress up and show off the elaborate costumes you and your friends spent weeks planning.

When college began, the four of you ended up scattered across different universities around the state. Nearly a year passed without shared laughter in the canteen and a morning dose of tight hugs to begin your days, until you finally agreed to reunite this October. It would probably be the last chance for you four to meet for a long time. With everyone caught up in their own schedules and studies, moments like this had become rare, that’s why you were determined to make the most of these three days together.

The store looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago: fake cobwebs dangling from the white ceiling, evil-looking pumpkins staring down at customers from the shelves, racks of masks and toys that once felt endless. Now, you swear everything seems smaller than it used to be.

The air still smells of dust and cheap plastic. Strangely, it’s that sharp, chemical tang coming from the latex masks lining the walls that makes the place feel so familiar.

The first room is completely devoted to rows and rows of children’s toys, while the second—normally a storage space—is crammed with costumes and accessories messily thrown together. From the ceiling, a dozen paper bats sluggishly sway in the cold draft slipping through the old windows, while somewhere on the counter, a motion-sensor witch clutches a plastic pumpkin-shaped bowl of sweets, cackling like a banshee every time someone reaches for a piece. The sagging orange letters spelling HAPPY HALLOWEEN are stuck to the front of the counter, crooked and peeling at the edges, and you’re pretty sure the owner has left them there all year round since you can remember.

The store definitely looked scarier and quieter when you were younger, the fact that it’s located in an isolated area of the town near the woods didn’t really help. Now, it’s just the kind of place that tries too hard to be spooky, only to end up looking a little tacky.

Wanda has been wearing a perpetual scowl since she started browsing through racks of angel wings and synthetic, overly lavish princess gowns, searching for something less glittery and darker. A few rows over, Yelena tries to give you a heart attack by silently hovering behind you, switching between different clown masks each time you turn around. Kate, on the other hand, is determined to find a Wednesday Addams costume—she’s been completely obsessed with the show lately.

You already have your outfit at home: a short skirt and a lace top paired with sparkling boots, the colors an homage to your favorite Barbie doll. You’re still bitter about missing Rachel’s Halloween party because of the chickenpox you caught from Kate in senior year. You had everything ready down to the smallest detail, that Barbie costume was flawless. Instead, you spent the night in fleece pajamas, curled under the covers as you peeked from behind your pillow at Art the Clown mauling people on screen, while the muffled music from the neighboring mansion made your walls vibrate.

Still, you decided to tag along for old times’ sake.

“Black or maroon?” Wanda holds up two identical dresses.

Kate hums, absently twirling a wig between her fingers as she studies the fabric. “Black.”

“Maroon,” you say without looking up, inspecting a bloodstained lab coat before placing it back on the rack with a grimace. “It suits your hair.”

“Lena?” Wanda turns to the blonde, who’s currently trying to stab her own palm with a fake knife to test how real it feels.

“Is that even a question?” She lifts her eyebrows, gaze landing on her dark red coat.

“I know, but it looks cute in both colors.” Wanda hesitates, eyes flicking between the dresses before finally putting the black one back with a sigh. “Alright, I’m done. Have you found anything interesting?”

“I can’t believe they don’t have a Wednesday costume,” Kate frowns, rifling through plastic bags for the third time. “It’s like, one of the most popular shows ever.”

“You know online shopping exists, right?” Yelena shoots back, tossing the knife into a display bin. “Just buy a black dress with a white collar.”

“But I wanted the school uniform, not some generic dress.”

The blonde rolls her eyes, already fiddling with a pair of popping-eye glasses.

“Hey, is Nathan coming to the party?”

You flinch, almost dropping the fake vampire teeth in your hand, not expecting Wanda standing so close beside you.

“Yeah. He has some things to take care of at his apartment first, so he’ll meet us at Rachel’s house.”

A disgusted ugh echoes behind you, and that makes your lips curl into a small smile despite the clear vitriol on the blonde’s features.

It’s no secret that Yelena can’t stand your boyfriend, Nathan. They’ve only met once, but that was enough for him to immediately pick up on her dislike. He often tried to get an explanation out of you, but you always brushed it off, claiming that your friend is just like that.

In truth, you know exactly why every word coming out of his mouth sounds like a fork scraping against a plate to her ears.

During the first months of your blooming relationship, Nathan had a habit of disappearing, ignoring your messages for days—sometimes for an entire week—only to come back with grand gestures as if nothing had happened. It left you confused and anxious, and Yelena more than anyone spent entire nights on the phone trying to calm you down, warning you about how unreliable he was. After a while, you convinced yourself he was just the type to get bored easily, the kind of guy who discards the “old toy” the moment a new, shinier one comes along.

Then, just before Christmas, he stood at your dorm room door with the biggest bouquet of flowers you had ever received, and an apology on his lips. He explained—almost shamefully—that his behavior stemmed from his parents’ toxic relationship. He didn’t go into details, only that their divorce had been messy, something that left him with a warped sense of commitment. Still, he insisted he liked you, that he was finally ready for something real.

Yelena had been furious. Not only did you let him off far too easily, but there had been little to no groveling—nowhere near enough to make up for the emotional whiplash he’d put you through. She was certain, deep down, that he would hurt you again someday. And your best friend didn’t want to see you that miserable ever again, especially for an asshole like Nathan.

You can’t really blame her for feeling so strongly. She was the one who comforted you during those sleepless nights, listening as you tried to make sense of his sudden distance when everything had seemed to be going so well.

It’s not like she brings it up all the time, but whenever his name comes up, she can’t help slipping in a sarcastic remark or two—ones that, despite yourself, make you laugh.

“Oh, so Casper finally decided to show up.”

That’s another thing: she refuses to call him by his name. Back when you used to cry over him, she’d come up with ridiculous nicknames just to lighten the mood. Casper is the latest, because of how little you see him these days. Always busy, always somewhere else. Fleeting like a ghost.

“His professors are giving him hell, cut him some slack, Lena. He’s practically living in the library nowadays.” Wanda glances at you with quiet sympathy, nodding along as you speak. “I always tell him to text me when he gets home, but some days he’s so exhausted he forgets. And the few times he does remember, it’s like three in the morning.”

Yelena’s eyebrows lift at your explanation. For once, though, she doesn’t argue. She just shakes her head with a resigned half-smile.

You met Nathan at the beginning of your first academic year. He and his dad had just moved to your hometown; apparently, his father had grown tired of the chaos of the city and decided to start working from home. Home, in this case, meant his mother’s hometown—the place where Mr. Barnes’ parents met years ago, during a summer visit to their relatives. After marrying, they moved to New York and never really came back.

When the divorce happened, Nathan stayed with his father and eventually enrolled in the nearest university to remain close. Once your relationship grew more serious, the two of you started traveling back and forth together, mostly because he had a shiny, fully functioning car, unlike you. And that’s when he finally introduced you to his dad, James Buchanan Barnes.

Now, Nathan is undeniably handsome and after meeting Mr. Barnes, you can clearly see where he gets his looks from. The difference is... his father is on another level. It’s not just that he’s handsome. The man is hot. Yes, there are streaks of white in his beard, and crow’s feet appear whenever his smile softens his features—but those details don’t take away from his looks. If anything, they only make him more attractive.

He’s big, too: broad-shouldered, towering over you with an ease that’s both intimidating and… not unwelcome. And he’s a real gentleman. Every time you stayed over for lunch or dinner, he served you first, firmly refusing to let you lift a finger, insisting his son is more than capable of cleaning up after himself.

The first time he pulled out a chair for you, your heart dropped straight to your stomach.

Since February, your boyfriend has been buried in projects and assignments, and you’ve often gone back home alone. Because of that, you stopped visiting Mr. Barnes—it didn’t feel right showing up when Nathan wasn’t there.

That is, until you ran into the older man at the local supermarket one day, and after his usual gentle hug, he looked at you with his kind, blue eyes, his voice as warm as a cup of hot, creamy chocolate, “You know you’re welcome to visit anytime, right? It doesn’t matter if Nathan’s home or not.”

Despite your initial hesitation, you went. And then you went again. More times than you’d like to admit.

Conversations with him drift so effortlessly from ridiculous stuff he sees on the internet yet doesn’t quite understand, to more serious topics. At some point, you even started confiding in him. No matter the problem, Bucky always seems to know exactly what to say to soothe your worries. More than anything, he treats you like an equal, an adult. He doesn’t tiptoe around your age, or reduce your personality to his son’s girlfriend. With him, you’re just… you.

It’s almost unsettling, when you think about it—how often he’s been there for you compared to your boyfriend. Nathan replies late, often too late. There’s always an excuse: a project he still has to finish, a study session that ran too late, outings at the bar with friends he supposedly never sees. The times you try to ask about his day, he brushes it aside, steering the conversation back to you after a two-word response, until eventually he disappears again for hours.

At first, you had your doubts, and you hate yourself a little for it now.

You never told anyone—not even your closest friends—but once, you went to his faculty library. Not to spy, you told yourself. Just to... check, to make sure he was actually there.

And he was. Completely absorbed in his books.

You left with shame burning hot on your cheeks. That night, when he texted you to let you know he was home, you couldn’t even bring yourself to reply. The guilt only got worse when you realized how often your thoughts drifted to Mr. Barnes throughout your days. Over something small, like seeing a cat minding its own business in the streets—because he once told you he used to feed the strays when he was a kid, but his chance to adopt one of his own is now long gone since Nathan is allergic—or when you need advice on an assignment. He’s always there. Even when he’s busy, Mr. Barnes still takes the time to send a quick message, apologizing for delayed replies. You told him he didn’t have to do that, you understood he had work, responsibilities... Yet he just smiled and kept putting you first anyway.

During one of your weekly video calls, Kate asked about Nathan, mentioning she hadn’t seen him in the background for a while. You brushed it off pretty quickly, explaining how busy he’s been with his studies, and the conversation ended there. 

Later, while talking about food, you casually mentioned a restaurant Mr. Barnes had recommended. He’d made a habit of suggesting places he’d tried with his colleagues, knowing how much you and your friends enjoy exploring new cuisines together.

The silence that followed was mortifying.

Your gaze slowly lifted from the blanket you were knitting to find your friends staring at you, half amused, half shocked. Promptly waving off their nosy questions, you insisted you just saw each other from time to time. That he’s kind, funny, easy to talk to. Still, they teased you about having a tiny crush on your boyfriend’s dad.

The joke got out of hand the following week, when you accidentally admitted the blanket you were working on was for him—Mr. Barnes had discovered your hobby and casually mentioned that he’d love to have something made by you some day.

Yelena nearly lost her mind. At one point, she actually dropped to her knees in front of her phone, dramatically begging you to leave Nathan and just sleep with his dad.

You awkwardly laughed it off, your face burning as you resisted the urge to hang up and disappear under your covers.

In the end, Wanda stepped in, declaring there was nothing wrong with being friends with your very attractive almost-father-in-law. That helped… a little. Because you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just two adults who get along, who often text each other for hours between a good morning and a good night. Who share an occasional cup of tea when you’re back in town that promptly turns into you staying for dinner because he is a great cook and always has a new recipe he found on Pinterest that made him think of you.

It just so happens he’s your boyfriend’s father.

You do like Nathan—a lot. And he wants you just as much. You’ve been together for two years now, for fuck’s sake! Life just… gets in the way sometimes. Things will settle down once he graduates in winter and you both understand where you want to go from there.

Every relationship has its ups and downs.

This is just a rough patch.

This year, your neighbor truly outdid herself. Rachel was the ultimate popular girl: indulgent parents, cheer captain of the only high school in town, and glossy dark waves that every girl tried so desperately to imitate. Everyone wanted to be her, but few had the privilege of sitting at her table. She wasn’t the stereotypical mean girl—just ambitious and filthy rich. Her pretty features had sharpened since the last time you saw her. After enrolling in one of the most prestigious law schools in the country, many thought her days of excessive drinking and wild nights were behind her.

Apparently not.

The rumors of her Halloween parties had spread far beyond your town. Everyone counted on her keeping the tradition alive, and now she returns each year, bringing more and more people with her, to host the biggest party in the county.

One look at the claustrophobic living room, now a dance floor, makes your lungs constrict, the strobe lights not helping at all as they blind you while flashing across the sticky floors. Costumes blur together: you saw at least a dozen demons, three cowboys, and Rachel and her two best friends as the iconic Plastics. Though every time you think you see the flash of Nathan’s leather jacket, it turns out to be a stranger. He had texted an hour ago that he’d just parked, having thrown together a leather biker jacket and black trousers to pass as Danny Zuko from Grease, but so far, no sign of him.

Laughter ripples through Rihanna’s Disturbia from a group leaning against the kitchen counter, the walls of the lavish mansion rattling along the pulsing bass. Someone spills a drink in front of you, narrowly missing your top. Your temples pulse with an excruciating headache when a group of guys holler like animals after completing a keg stand: they each wear a plastic bag with a condom sign attached to their chest, hugging each other in victory. Yet you can’t help but imagine how Nathan would’ve laughed at the scene.

Right. Nathan. Where the fuck is he?

“Hey!” Your shoulders jump at the shout over the beginning of Thriller. Yelena and Wanda appear at your sides, pulling you toward the open patio windows overlooking the huge backyard without much ceremony.

“Have you seen Nathan?” You ask while scanning the crowd by the punch bowls.

“Nope.” Yelena mutters something else under her breath, but you decide to ignore it. It must be another one of her tailored nicknames for your boyfriend.

The cold air sharply hits your face as they lead you outside, goosebumps prickling your skin.

“Why are we here? It’s freezing and I still need to find Nathan. He got here an hour ago and—”

“I’m starving!” Wanda cuts in, practically skipping across the grass. “C’mon, they’re grilling sausages! Hot dogs! Want one?”

You squint at her, confused. Her rambling is classic Wanda, nervous energy spilling out at a mile a minute.

“Wanda, stop, for fuck’s sake.” Yelena snaps, planting her feet on the ground firmly.

“What’s going on?” You glance back and forth between the two of them, but they are too busy staring each other down to acknowledge you, a silent conversation you can’t follow unfolding in frowns too subtle to catch.

Wanda shakes her head, addressing you with a polite, closed-lip smile. “It’s nothing. Let’s just eat.” She reaches for your hand, but you step back, glancing at the other.

“What’s going on, Lena?” Her jaw clenches.

“There’s no need to make a scene right now.” Wanda hisses.

“There’s no need—” The blonde sputters outraged. “This is fucking insane, what is your problem?”

You step between them, grabbing their wrists. “Hey! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, guys, but I need you to calm down and tell me what’s up.” You bark. “Kinda feeling left out here.” Your attempt to lighten the mood is entirely overlooked as Wanda tilts her head, silently begging the blonde to be patient.

“She deserves to know.” Yelena grits out.

“Not now! It’ll just make things worse for her.”

“You think it’s better if we wait?”

The argument draws a few stares from the patio. Kate, watching from the door, clumsily invents a story about a lost lipstick to defuse tension, quickly making her way to you as most people shrug and return to their drinks.

The air suddenly feels heavier, tension crawling up your spine and settling in your shoulders.

“Someone tell me what the fuck is happening. Right now.” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Is Kate okay? Did Nathan do something?”

Yelena simply exhales a long breath, pushing her tongue into her cheek in annoyance. Wanda takes your hand at once, her eyes pleading.

“It’s not about Kate. She’s fine. We’ll explain later, okay?”

“No,” you snap, wrenching your wrist free. “Explain now.”

Yelena huffs. “You’re just making it worse.”

Wanda’s auburn hair swings as she faces her, her voice turning serious. “Me? We know you hate his guts, Lena. You’ve been waiting for him to fuck up since the moment they started dating. But could you please put your fucking ego aside for once and think about her wellbeing? We’re in the middle of a party and you’re ruining her night.”

“Oh! I am ruining her night? You have been kissing his ass since the very beginning. And you talk about my fucking ego? You’re such a bi—”

“I saw Nathan upstairs making out with a girl!” The words pierce through the booming music like thunder.

Yelena and Wanda go abruptly still, all their annoyance vanishing at once as they slowly turn to face you with wide eyes. Kate is standing behind you, half-squirming as she watches you with something akin to desperation.

The ominous pit of nervousness you’ve been carrying in your stomach for the last hour suddenly doesn’t feel so irrational.

“I’m so sorry.” Kate whispers after a heavy pause, fingers fidgeting.

“Upstairs… where?” The words taste bitter on your tongue.

“In one of the bedrooms. The one closest to the bathroom.” She looks mortified, unable to meet your gaze.

You shove past her before you can even fully digest what’s going on, barreling through drunk students and ignoring their startled stares.

The strobe lights fracture the room into flashes of color—violet, red, sickly white—laughter spiking through the air in uneven bursts. The sharp tang of beer clings to everything, mixing with the artificial sweetness of fake fog that curls low around your ankles. It should feel alive, electric. Instead, it dulls to a distant, muffled hum as Kate’s words settle heavy and cruel deep in your chest.

Step after step, heavier than the last, your chest tightens, each breath catching halfway in, sharp and fast. For a moment, it feels like the world simply... pauses. It’s just you and the growing ache in your throat, threatening to spill over.

You hear Yelena screaming your name as you burst into the bedroom on the left. It’s empty, dark, and the bed is intact. Heart hammering painfully against your ribs, you storm into the next room, scaring a couple of people lingering nearby for a moment of intimate quiet. The door slams against the wall with a splintering bang, and in that moment you swear your heart stutters—one missed beat, maybe two—before it kicks back in, pounding wildly like it’s trying to break free. The sound rushes up into your ears, a violent, dizzying thrum that makes your head spin.

You stand there, frozen in the doorway, not knowing whether to scream, to run, or to crumple right there and let the floor open up and swallow you whole.

Maybe throwing up seems the best option as you take in the disgusting scene before you.

Nathan turns, confused by the sudden commotion. A girl is straddling him, but the light is too dim to recognize her, though you can clearly see how her skirt is bunched at her hips, exposing her lower half. The moment his eyes meet yours, he roughly shoves her away, causing her to squeal as she falls on the other side of the bed. Nathan’s weak voice calls out your name, but you are already turning away. 

The scene is quite pathetic, Yelena thinks, as Nathan clumsily tries to run after you, but he keeps stumbling into the pants creased around his ankles.

“Wait—fuck, baby wait! It’s not what it looks like!” He shouts as he runs in the living room, fingers clumsily trying to zip up his pants.

“Shut up, Barnes.” Yelena’s voice cuts sharp from the stairs, Wanda and Kate close behind her. The music fades further, letting nearby partygoers witness the drama.

With a sharp inhale, you stop right in the entryway, fingers curling into fists at your sides to steady the chaos inside you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction to see you cry.

In the spur of the moment, you decide to turn around, lips parted to tell him to go to hell, but a shriek erupting from the top of the stairwell stops you.

“You’re an asshole!” The girl stands there, mascara smeared and skirt hastily pulled down.

“Jesus Christ.” Wanda tiredly rubs the bridge of her nose.

The girl’s face seems familiar, but you can’t place her. Maybe she used to go to high school with you? One of the many forgettable faces of your past.

“You’re a fucking liar, Nathan Barnes. You promised you’d tell her about us. You promised me you’d leave her.”

Someone in the crowd gasps, but it barely registers.

“What the fuck, Nathan?” You grimace, repulsion tightening your chest.

“I—I didn’t…” His voice falters, head turning back and forth between the two of you, a mix of shame and panic flashing across his features.

“I’ll tell you what he did, since he’s too much of a coward.” The girl interrupts, slowly stepping down the stairs. “We’ve been dating since March and he kept promising me he’d break up with you. He told me he did it as soon as he got here... But apparently it was just another lie.” She throws him a look of disdain, arms crossed to her chest.

Since March.

He’s been dating another girl for eight months. No. He’s been cheating on you with another girl for eight months.

The floor crumbles under your feet.

The constant busyness, the unanswered texts, the lack of intimacy, all the weekends you decided to come back here and he never once seemed to care about tagging along, not even texting you to make sure you had safely arrived, knowing your car is literally a jalopy.

The image of her straddling him flashes behind your eyes over and over again, cold sweat rushing down your back as you realize how many times they have acted like that undisturbed, how Nathan was about to have sex with her while his girlfriend was in the same house, waiting for him downstairs.

You refuse to meet some stranger’s pitiful eyes, or worse… their small smirk, the amusement dancing in their eyes. Somewhere nearby, people keep laughing, dancing, kissing, while you stand there, in front of the person you wasted two years of your life on, feeling like the butt of a scornful joke. 

Guilt has been eating you alive since you doubted his words that day, yet he has been betraying your trust all along. Something shatters inside you at the realization that maybe everything you shared at first—the whispered plans for traveling the world together, the way his hands always found yours under the table, the warmth of him wrapped around you late at night—was never real at all.

You feel exposed, far beyond anything physical. The rawest parts of you burn under all these curious eyes, laid bare in a way you can’t hide from. You need to cover yourself, to disappear behind something—anything—a blanket, a jacket, a closed door.

Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you force out one last question.

“All the assignments, the projects—were they real at all? Or were they just a cover to fuck another girl behind my back?”

Nathan opens his mouth but doesn’t answer. His pleading brown eyes only stoke the fire in your veins, looking at you like he deserves your sympathy.

Shaking your head, you sprint toward the door, ignoring your friends’ desperate calls of your name. They try to reach you, but there’s too many people gathered there to watch the scene like a movie. By the time Yelena, Wanda, and Kate get to the front yard, you’ve long vanished into the dark.

Yelena curses out loud in Russian, stomping back inside to give that asshole a piece of her mind, and Wanda and Kate can only hurry after her, trying to stop the blonde from sending Nathan to the hospital.

Walking in the biting October cold clears your mind a little, even as the tears keep flowing. You hadn’t even noticed them until you had to slow down, your feet hurting in those damn boots. Sniffling, you keep your head down; despite being alone in the dark, that mix of humiliation and disbelief still makes your skin burn in shame. You didn’t do anything wrong, yet thoughts of how stupid you’ve been cloud your mind.

How could you have been so blind? All the signs were there, and you chose to ignore them.

That girl… she went to your university, which is why she felt so familiar. She’s pretty, you can’t deny it. And yet, was that enough for you to deserve that? Was she funnier than you? More caring? Better in bed? What were you lacking? You’ve always considered yourself average-looking—decent, sure, but not someone guys have ever fought over. You flirted, went on a few dates, but it never went beyond that. Maybe someone had a crush on you at some point, but you never knew.

It hurt your confidence, of course, but then Nathan happened, and that was your first mistake, probably—tying your self-worth to the way he treated you.

And now you can’t even go home and cry yourself to sleep. Kate was the only one with a purse, so you left all your belongings with her, except for your phone since you were waiting for Nathan to text you.

Going back is not an option, it feels like walking into a cage full of starving lions, especially since Nathan will probably be there still—either with her, or already laughing the whole thing off. She didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by his betrayal. If you were in her place, you’d be questioning him, wondering if you’d be on the other side as well someday.

You’ve seen it before. Your aunt was miserable after forgiving her cheating husband. He begged, cried, swore it was a moment of weakness. She was too busy with her job and he needed her, that’s how he justified himself.

So he fell into another woman’s vagina.

Your mom refused to speak to her for a while after her decision to not divorce him. Your dad then eventually convinced her to change her mind: that good-for-nothing was likely to do it again, and she couldn’t risk leaving her sister alone and vulnerable. Four months later, your aunt came home early from a work trip to surprise him—but she was the one whose heart fell to her feet.

He was in their bed with one of her closest friends.

After witnessing and experiencing that kind of pain first-hand, you can’t bring yourself to wish the same hurt on her. Even if she knew Nathan was already taken, even if she willingly started a relationship with him. But why would a single girl like her worry about your relationship when your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—didn’t seem to care in the first place?

You sigh, thinking of your parents. They’re out of town for your dad’s birthday. You can’t call them at one in the morning to tell them what happened. It wouldn’t be fair; you know they’d drop everything to come home if they knew and you can’t ruin the rare time they decide to treat themselves. After working so hard, this trip is the only moment of peace they are willing to indulge in once a year.

The back of your hand brushes over your raw cheeks in a useless attempt to clean yourself a little, tears still clouding your vision as you stare down at your phone screen, your finger hovering over that one contact that could save you, but shame pins you in place.

How can you face Mr. Barnes? Calling him now doesn’t just mean worrying him, but also possibly interrupting his night with… well, a woman. He’s a single, attractive man with a big house all to himself. Nathan was supposed to stay over, so who knows what the older man had planned for tonight?

It also means telling him about what happened.

The possibility of him defending his son makes a lonely tear slide down your cheek. No, Mr. Barnes would never justify a cheater. He’s too smart, too emotionally intelligent for that, even if the cheater in question is his own child.

Taking a deep breath, your mind races, torn between desperation and hesitation. The thought of disturbing him like a little kid makes you want to crawl into a hole and never get out, but it’s freezing outside and you are starting to not feel your toes. Your finger trembles with indecision above the screen, until reflex takes over. It presses the call icon.

You gasp, quickly bringing the phone to your ear when it immediately comes alive with his muffled voice.

“Sweetheart? Are you okay? Do you need something?” His deep, serene voice eases the wild thumping in your chest at once.

Right, another thing about Mr. Barnes. He calls you sweetheart, and seldom, other cute pet names slip by that make your traitorous heart flutter and your cheeks burn.

When you sniffle, he calls your name urgently.

“Are you busy?” You swallow, biting your trembling bottom lip.

“No. Never for you. What happened? Do you need me to come get you?”

You nod, then let out a frustrated huff when you remember he can’t see you. The faint clink of keys reaches your ears, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. You haven’t even replied and he’s already getting ready to come for you.

“Please… if you’re not busy.” You mumble.

“I told you I’m not. Don’t worry.” You hear a door close. Moments later, his voice returns. “Are you alright? Are you safe?”

You glance around, telling him you’re sitting on a bench in front of Ms. Garcia’s house. From his silence, you can gather his shock—you’re almost thirty minutes away from Rachel’s place.

“Why are you there, sweetheart? Is Nathan with you?” His words are slightly distorted by the rumble of the car engine.

“No, I’m alone. He’s still at the party.” You shiver as the cold metal of the bench presses against your bare thighs. “And I’m alright. Just tired.”

He doesn’t need all the details right now. The least you can do is explain in person.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” he murmurs under his breath. “You’ve been crying.”

You simply hum at his statement, expecting him to hang up, but instead he waits, respecting your silence, keeping the line open rather than leaving you alone in the dark.

When the familiar black SUV pulls up in front of you only a few minutes later, your body reacts instinctively. You hang up and watch as Mr. Barnes steps out. Before you can even find the right words to thank him, he’s around you, holding you close against his broad chest. Your lips part to whine out a pathetic apology, but the sound dies in your throat. Tears fall again, soaking his shirt.

“I’m so sorry… I didn’t know who to call,” you sniffle, swallowing an embarrassing sob. “My parents are out of town and Kate has my keys, but I didn’t want to go back there—”

“Hey, hey.” He gently pries your head away with a hand on your cheek, enough to examine your devastated eyes. “I’ve always told you I’m here if you ever need something. Anything. So don’t you dare apologize. I’m so proud you remembered that and called me, sweetheart.”

Your gaze drops at once on a random spot on his neck, unsure what to say next.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His other hand cradles your left cheek now, thumbs brushing away the lingering tears at the corners of your eyes. You shake your head lightly, jaw tightening at the thought.

“Alright, alright. We’ll go at your pace.” He frowns. “Do you want to come home? It’s freezing and you’re—”

The next words die in his throat as his blue eyes sweep over your body like they are acknowledging the rest of you for the first time that night. Now you feel so foolish for not bringing a jacket. Despite the cold, you’d known Rachel’s house would feel like a furnace, packed with sweaty dancers and drinkers. A dramatic escape in the middle of the night was not in your plans and yet here you are.

Even in the middle of your internal scolding, you can easily notice how Mr. Barnes blinks, seemingly snapping out of whatever thought had caught his entire attention, only to quickly glance back up at your face. Being under the lamppost, it’s easy to spot the blush creeping across his cheeks.

You’re his son’s girlfriend, of course he would feel awkward with you so close and barely covered.

“I guess you didn’t want to hide your pretty outfit.” He comments instead, amusement lacing his tone. Your eyes widen. “You’re always beautiful, by the way. A jacket wouldn’t have ruined it.” He winks as his hand comes to rest on your back, guiding you toward his car. You’re still processing his tone and its meaning as he opens the passenger door to help you inside.

He’s never explicitly called you beautiful before, compliments used to stop at your outfits or your makeup.

Once inside, the engine hums to life, but before he takes care of anything else, he makes sure to turn on the heat. You shiver, muscles slowly loosening as the warmth seeps through your chilled body.

“Better?” He glances at you, receiving a simple, grateful nod as answer.

“Fuck, should have thought about bringing you one of my jackets.” He was probably talking to himself but you catch it anyway, pressing your palms lightly to your thighs. It’s just a jacket—nothing grand—but the thought behind it makes you breathe slightly more easily.

Bucky maneuvers the vehicle on the roadway, unhurriedly driving back the way you came from. A sense of dread abruptly washes over you at the realization that you are about to pass by your neighborhood, right in front of Rachel’s house. You try to be as subtle as possible when you slide down the seat, at least to not be completely recognizable from the outside, your head turning toward the window as if that could be enough to disappear completely. Bucky notices anyway, keeping a careful eye on you as you drive by the mansion looming chaotic in the dark.

“I saw Nathan with another girl.” You blurt out once Rachel’s house is at a safe distance. The car swerves slightly, your stomach twisting with a hint of fear as your hand instinctively reaches to grab the edge of the seat. Your worried eyes fly to Bucky, meeting his shocked gaze.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He clears his throat. “How…”

You take a deep breath, eyes back on the road, feeling too ashamed to face him.

“Kate caught him in one of the bedrooms upstairs. When I opened the door… a girl was straddling him. They were kissing, and… probably about to do other things.” Another lump swells in your throat. “Apparently all those assignments and projects were just an excuse.” You scoff out a humorless laugh, the back of your hand already brushing a lonely tear away.

“They’ve been together since March, and he promised her he’d break up with me soon.”

Each word feels like biting broken glass.

From your peripheral vision, you see his body stiffen, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Apologies form on your tongue as a reflex, but why? For calling him to pick you up? For having to be the one to reveal such a horrible thing about his son? You don’t even know, yet his crushed expression is enough to make you feel terribly guilty.

Then, something happens that completely catches you off guard.

His hand reaches across the console, covering yours, fingers intertwining.

Mr. Barnes is good with words, yet that simple gesture is worth more than any speech right now. Tears come back with such a violent speed that shocks even you, but you try your best to bite them back, mortified about the whole situation.

Confused, you watch the car steer, eventually coming to a stop at the roadside. Bucky exhales heavily once the engine is turned off, plunging you both into darkness. His body then turns toward you as best he can in the cramped space.

“Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?” His voice is barely a murmur, fingers squeezing yours gently. Reluctantly, you lift your chin, catching him in your peripheral vision. “Thank you.”

“I know you’re hurting right now, and words might feel meaningless in the face of this betrayal, but please… listen to me carefully.” His blue eyes burn fiercely. “Sometimes people don’t know how to treat something good the way it deserves, but that says nothing about its worth. I’m deeply disappointed in Nathan. I didn’t raise him to behave like this, and believe me, I will have words with him. Very strong ones.” You squeeze his hand back, the corners of your lips lightly lifting despite pain stabbing your chest.

“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Barnes. Your words are never meaningless to me,” you murmur, frowning at your knees. “He is an adult, responsible for his own actions, and still chose to do this. He could’ve ended things with me before starting something with her, but instead took the easy way out without remorse.”

Bucky slumps back against the seat with a slow sigh, staring absent-minded at the dashboard. Eventually, a humorless laugh falls from his lips. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Your eyebrows jump up at the bitterness in his tone, and he allows a rueful smile. “My ex-wife cheated on me. That’s why we divorced.”

Your jaw drops.

“Nathan was thirteen and he still had to witness how much his mother’s choices affected me. It wasn’t easy for him. I never spoke badly of her, never kept him from seeing her... but he still chose to stay with me.” He sighs tiredly, head softly falling back against the headrest. “They only went back on speaking terms a couple years ago. Nathan felt like she betrayed him as well… refused to even text her at Christmas.” His neck turns just enough to look at you. “Has he ever told you that?”

You shake your head, swallowing.

“I’m—I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes. I didn’t know… Nathan never talks about his mom, much less about your divorce.” Your words are not louder than a whisper.

His hand squeezes yours. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. The scars are there, but they don’t hurt anymore.”

Mr. Barnes straightens up after that, looking more resolute. “My point is, I’ve been through that kind of betrayal. For a long time, I was miserable, frustrated with her for ruining what we had, and with myself for missing the signs. And Nathan… he was the only good thing to come out of that marriage.” His gaze is fixed on yours with newfound strength, his voice tender. “Some days you’ll be angry at the world. You’ll stay in bed and cry your heart out, you’ll even miss the happy moments with him. But it won’t last forever.”

You clear your throat at that, staring down at the glove box for what feels like minutes. “Is it wrong,” you start quietly. “That I’m more upset about him betraying my trust than actually losing him?”

“What do you mean?” He tilts his head slightly, the simple gesture letting you know he’s here for you, ready to listen.

“He was always busy, and deep down I knew something was off. I guess… unconsciously, I’ve been trying to distance myself emotionally so I wouldn’t get hurt.” Your eyes widen at once, quickly trying to correct yourself as you realize you are still talking to his dad. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked Nathan and I’m shaken by what he did. He built a whole, new relationship behind my back. But…” You sigh, shoulders falling in dejection.

“I’m not actually sad about losing him.” You whisper. Saying that out loud only makes you feel more uncomfortable, causing you to shift your weight in your seat in a last attempt to ground yourself. “I don’t even know if I’m making any sense right now.”

“You’re angry because he made you doubt your self-worth.” He says softly.

“Yes!” You exclaim, facing him with surprise.

Bucky nods pensively. “And you’re upset because he betrayed your trust.”

“Exactly.” The dam breaks. “I’ve been feeling guilty since that day I followed him to the library to see if he was actually there to study. I felt awful for a whole month! I was doubting all the work his professors piled on him while he was breaking his back on those damn books. But in reality he was just fucking someone else the whole time.” Your hand flies to your mouth as you hear him chuckle, eyes wide at your own honesty. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so crude.”

“Don’t you dare apologize. I feel so bad whenever I curse around you.”

You share a soft, meaningful laugh, before the car falls into a comforting silence.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You murmur, taking a deep breath. He returns your smile, squeezing your fingers once more before starting the engine.

“You know I’m here for you. Always.”

He claps his hands lightly, and somehow it feels like that dark cloud pressing on your head has finally lifted. “C’mon, let’s get you home so you can get more comfortable and rest. You had a long night.”

“Are you sure you’re not busy? I don’t want to crash your free night—”

“Are you kidding? I love your company. And you didn’t interrupt anything, I was just watching a movie and eating some leftover candy, waiting for a text that you got home safely.”

Once the car is parked in its usual spot, Mr. Barnes is quick to get out and jog to your side to open your door. You whisper a shy thank you, still not used to all these caring gestures.

“Alright, here we are.” He breathes out, shoulders relaxing as if the familiar smell of his home alone is enough to soothe any worries. He leaves his sneakers in the shoe rack by the entrance and you follow suit, placing your boots neatly in the space he vacated for your shoes long ago, back when Nathan had started bringing you over more frequently.

“Are you hungry? Wanna shower first?”

You press your palm to your temple, eyes closing briefly. “A shower would be perfect. I feel sweaty from the party and I’m pretty sure my clothes still smell of weed.”

He doesn’t ask if you drank—he knows you despise the taste of alcohol, but also any type of substance that could make you lose control. He simply leaves a glass of water and some Advil on the kitchen counter, then jogs upstairs to grab some clean clothes for you. You take your time finishing the glass, savoring the simple act of rehydrating after walking and crying for so long in the cold.

Once you are alone in the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror makes you flinch. Your makeup is completely ruined: lipstick smudged at the corners, eyeshadow streaked under your eyes, mascara melted. The thought of Mr. Barnes seeing you like this has you shuddering in shame, but you push the embarrassment aside for now. You’re too drained.

A sealed bottle of micellar water and a package of cotton pads on the counter catch your eye immediately. With a relieved sigh, you remove the ruined makeup, silently making a mental note to thank him for his thoughtfulness.

The warm water cascading over your skin and the floral scent of the products tidily lined up on the shower caddy are enough to ease the strain in your muscles. Once dry, you pull on the black shirt he left on the small stool and a pair of boxers, adjusting them according to your comfort. You are actually so relieved he provided you with his own clothes, instead of Nathan’s. Making sure you’re presentable enough before heading downstairs, you glance at your reflection in the mirror one last time, before you have to take a second look. Because on the far left of the counter sit unopened some products you recognize too well: a moisturizer for your skin type, a gentle cleanser, some neutral-smelling deodorant, and a purple toothbrush. All pristine and unopened.

Did he buy all this for you? Even after nearly a year since the last time you slept here?

Your chest tightens at the thought of someone caring enough to remember such simple, forgettable things about you, taking a deep breath before diving into your skincare routine.

When you enter the kitchen, the breathtaking sight of Mr. Barnes’ broad back makes you pause momentarily. The domesticity of it all—him cooking for you, the quiet familiarity of being surrounded by his smell in his home—fills you with a strange fuzzy feeling that leaves your skin pleasantly warm and tingly. You’ve never been here at this time of the day, alone with him, clad in his clothes.

Turning around, he places the plate he was previously arranging on the table, before he glances up at you. Smiling, his lips part as if he wants to say something, but the words die on his tongue when his blue eyes fall on your naked legs. Clearing his throat, the man abruptly turns back around to swipe the counter.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah. Thank you for the clothes.” You sit, eyeing the plate with interest. “And the sandwich.” You add with a smile. Your stomach aches a little from all the sugary soft drinks, so a proper meal will only do you good.

“They look good on you.” He mumbles, glancing down. Then, with a playful smirk. “Still, I miss the Barbie outfit.” You giggle, unsure whether he’s teasing or truly means it.

“Oh, and the hygiene products—thank you for those as well. When did you get them?” You quip, devouring half of the bread as if you haven’t eaten in ages. 

“I’ve been stocking them since you started staying over, just in case you forgot something.” He shrugs with another effortless smile.

Bucky knew you were going to spend multiple nights here and wished for you to be comfortable and safe in his home. Simple as that.

You had to pack an overnight bag with all your things whenever you went over to Nathan’s apartment. It never occurred that you could just leave something behind, because it was so sporadic for you to spend the night there. Plus, he lives with three other people, so you didn’t want to intrude. Yet, now that you’re realizing how much Mr. Barnes has been going out of his way to take care of you, you can’t help but think about how many things Nathan took for granted.

Your own boyfriend.

Only when you finally settle on the sofa do you realize how much your body has been hurting from all the dancing and the walking. It instantly becomes one with the cushions.

Your phone lights up once on the coffee table, half of Wanda’s message visible from here. You texted the group chat to let them know you’re safe with a friend. Yelena will understand immediately, you are certain of that. Your eyes mindlessly catch a really sorry, but you don’t have the energy to deal with the situation right now. They know you’re alright and sheltered from the cold, and that’s enough for tonight.

The TV drones on in the background; a mediocre horror movie is playing on cable, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on it—or anything else, for that matter. Not when Mr. Barnes is sitting comfortably beside you, the warmth of his body tempting you to move closer. For a moment, it feels like he’s glancing at you as intently as you’ve been watching him.

The moment you properly look up and he doesn’t shy away, the air between you hums with an unspoken, charged tension. You must be imagining things, half delirious from exhaustion, because he keeps glancing back and forth between your eyes and your lips, something akin to desire burning hot in his eyes.

You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly the space separating you disappears. The first touch is tentative, a timid brush of hands, and then, as soon as the tips of your noses touch, he is pressing against you like he’s been craving your lips for ages. One of his hands cups the back of your head, guiding you closer until your fingers tangle in his shirt.

It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this right. It shouldn’t...

It shouldn’t happen.

“Wait—” You gasp, abruptly pulling back. Your eyes snap open, staring at him with horror dawning on your features. “W—What… what are we doing?”

“Shit,” Bucky mumbles under his breath, chest heaving as he tries to regain a crumb of control on his raging heartbeat. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”

“Oh my God, I’m a terrible person!” You slump forward, hiding your face in your hands as hot tears threaten to spill again.

“Hey, c’mon now sweetheart.” His shaky palm smoothes over your back. “Why would you be a terrible person? You did nothing wrong.”

Your head snaps towards him, regarding him with red and glassy eyes.

“I just kissed my ex-boyfriend’s dad!”

“If anything, I kissed you.”

“We both leaned in!”

Bucky moves closer, taking your other hand in his. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a deep breath now—”

“Oh God, if Nathan finds out—”

A firm call of your name has your shoulders fall down in defeat. Bucky’s hand travels to the back of your neck, gently turning your face until you are forced to look at him.

“You know you don’t owe him anything, right?” His voice is grounding, calm, but it’s not enough to quell the storm in your head.

“Why are you so calm? You’re his dad! I shouldn’t feel—” You pause abruptly, swallowing thickly. The way his eyes are wide with hope makes you want to sob in his arms.

“Feel what?” He urges, squeezing your hand.

“I…” 

“Feel what, sweetheart?” Shame keeps your throat closed, physically unable to utter any sound. So Bucky takes the matter into his own hands, cradling your cheeks with both rough palms.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you ran in here, smiling about your A on that paper about online language evolution you spent weeks stressing over.” Bucky admits softly. Your breath hitches.

“You looked at me with stars in your eyes,” he continues with a proud smile. “And I felt so lucky to be part of such a happy moment for you. And then you hugged me and believe me, I tried to ignore it, but I just felt… complete.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “I felt like a dirty pervert whenever my eyes fell on the curve of your waist. Whenever I imagined the adorable sighs you’d make against my lips. Whenever you strutted here in my house with those damn revealing shirts, jealous that the whole neighborhood got the chance to admire your beautiful cleavage.” Sighing, his eyelids flutter shut for a second, as if trying to focus.

“You were Nathan’s girlfriend and here I was, resenting my own son for getting to have you like this. For being the one to call you his.”

He lets his words hang, heavy with honesty. “I promised myself I’d keep my distance. But no one ever compared to your pretty eyes, your passion, your energy.” He swallows, kind eyes flicking once between your eyes and your parted lips.

“Nathan had his chance and failed to take care of you, to love you like you deserve. He was so cruel, baby, and I can’t allow myself to stand by and watch you suffer when I’m right here, begging you to let me show you how much I am enamored of you. Let me be the man you deserve by your side. Someone who knows what you need just by looking into your eyes.”

“And what do I need now, James?” His breath hitches, not expecting his first name to sound so right on your tongue.

Bucky, James, Jamie… He doesn’t care. He just needs you to demolish that already fractured wall of propriety that has kept you apart all along. 

“My lips on yours.” His blue eyes shine, smitten, and that is enough to give you that confidence boost you’ve been looking for a while. Your fingers graze his jaw for a fleeting moment, before they grab his shirt to pull him forward.

You meet him in an urgent kiss, your other hand tangling in his hair, pulling just enough that the guttural sound clawing out of his throat has your thighs squeezing close. His tongue roams freely in your mouth, until oxygen leaves you entirely. You kiss for what feels like a lifetime, your lips fitting together like the final two lost pieces of a puzzle.

His palms fondle the curve of your waist until he finds the courage to guide you on his laps with a hand on your thigh. A moan is muffled against your mouth when your covered core comes into contact with his crotch, his bulge the proof that you’re not the only one affected. One hand sneakily trails up your torso, resting ultimately on the side of your breast, a gentle squeeze of your flesh eliciting a gasp out of you, so you take the chance to grind down on Bucky, the teasing movement leaving him moaning under you.

When you separate, he regards you with blown pupils, his chest raising and lowering with ragged breaths. 

Your fingers finally allow themselves to do what they’ve secretly wished for since the moment you sat on this couch: starting from the gentle creases on his forehead, they tenderly trace down his dark brows, until they reach the sharp profile of his nose, his blushing cheekbones, the trim stubble on his jawline. His mouth parts just a fraction when your thumb strokes his bottom lip, his next breath shaky, frightened to interrupt this sublime, quiet connection. 

“You’re stunning, James.” You utter softly with a faint smile. His eyes flutter shut with a sigh when your fingers move then on to his collarbone. Shivering, the older man wraps one muscular arm around your back, bringing you close, until he can comfortably lean in to return the favor, lavishing the column of your throat with wet kisses. Your head falls back, brokenly gasping each time his teeth gently graze your skin.

“You’re driving me crazy with all these cute, sinful sounds.” He growls, a grin blooming on your mouth at his poorly concealed desperation. The hand firmly resting on your ribs slowly travels down to your side, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; then over your half-bare thighs, until it lands on your covered ass. Your gasp gets promptly swallowed by his mouth when he hungrily squeezes the flesh, encouraging the circular movements of your hips against his erection. The sound of his low groan makes your pussy throb, suddenly shifting your focus on the embarrassing dampness of the boxers you’re wearing.

When was the last time someone touched you as if you were their most precious treasure?

This time your kiss is more animalistic, all teeth and tongue, than the ones you previously shared, a testament of your growing arousal. 

“Baby,” he breathes out, cradling your cheek to assure you’re making eye contact. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know that, right?”

“Mmh?” Your movements are a little more lethargic after the way his hands have gently played with your curves, your fingers weakly curling into the fabric covering his broad shoulders. The ghost of his palms on your chest and thighs still tingles on your skin, and you slightly tilt your head when he starts talking again, regarding him with half-lidded eyes.

“We can do whatever you want. You wanna watch a movie? I’m already opening Netflix. You wanna sleep by yourself? I’ll make the bed in the guest room right away. We can cuddle all night if you’d let me—” 

“What if I want you to fuck me?” The words feel like cotton candy in your mouth, yet you don’t miss the way his eyes widen.

There is a brief, meaningful pause.

“Are you sure?” His voice shakes a little as his hands squeeze your hips. 

“Please.” Your sigh almost has him maneuvering you on your back to see what other sweet sounds he can coax out of you. Just for him.

“Yeah? You’ve been thinking about it, sweetheart?” You simply hum, slowly nodding. “About all the ways I could make you come on my tongue?” He whispers, towering over you as his firm fingers keep your chin raised, preventing you from hiding.

Squirming in his lap, you are forced to look him in the eye as your slick steadily soils his boxers, cheeks scorching hot with a hint of mortification.

“Did you think about me when you were fingers deep into your sweet pussy? Imagining it was my cock making you scream?” He continues calmly. “Did you come like a good girl with my name on your lips, mmh?”

You whimper, nodding jerkily. “I was... so lonely.”

“Well,” he chuckles smugly. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore, pretty girl.”

A squeal claws out of your throat as Bucky lifts you without much of a fuss. You keep your legs tightly wrapped around his waist, your arms circling his neck with newfound strength. Moaning, he has to stop multiple times on the stairs as you can’t resist leaving small pecks all over his jaw, teeth softly biting the most sensitive spots.

It’s the first time you cross the threshold of his bedroom, yet it doesn’t feel as awkward as it should. 

You completely ignore the big walk-in closet and his en-suite bathroom as soon as you are placed in the center of the large bed, his six-foot frame covering yours without actually resting his full weight on you. Your lips meet again and this time, his palm travels under the shirt you are wearing, finding your bare chest. 

“James, wait—” You moan, hips twitching up as his fingers graze your already erect nipple. You’re now fully lying on your back with his hard body straddling you, but a weak push against his chest is enough for Bucky to immediately lift his torso up. 

“Are you oka—”

“More than okay, I feel so good. I just—I need to make something clear.” This time it’s you who cradles his jaw, swallowing thickly. “I like you, James. I think I have for a while, actually. It wasn’t just... pure admiration, or friendship. And this,” your finger wriggles between the two of you, pointing at your chests. “It’s not a one-night stand for me. I don’t want you to think you’re... some sort of revenge; much less a rebound.”

“This is a dream come true.” He mumbles against your lips, caressing the back of your head in awe. 

“I’m gonna make this right, okay sweetheart?” Bucky kisses your forehead, then focuses on both cheeks. “I’m gonna take care of you.” His mouth trails south, on your neck. “Play with your sweet pussy until you are nice and ready to take me.” Your eyes roll back, shuddering at his low voice whispering right in your ear.

“Worship your body until you are left shaking and gasping in my arms, orgasm after orgasm.” The fingers trailing up your thigh finally reach the inner part, his thumb stroking the wet fabric right where you need him the most.

“Then I’m gonna fill you up,” your hips buckle up, causing him to huff out a chuckle. “Yeah? You like the sound of it, angel? Like the idea of me stuffing you full with my cum until you can’t take a step without it sliding down your thighs?” 

“Bucky, please.” You breathe out, trembling fingers squeezing his forearm. 

His shaky exhale gives his excitement away, despite his confident and collected behavior. He makes sure to look in your eyes for his next words.

“Gonna take you on a date tomorrow, alright?” You simply nod, swallowing as his other palm traces your bare stomach, lifting the shirt up and up, until your ribs are exposed to the warm air of his bedroom. “Give you everything you deserve and more.”

His smirk grows when you whine at his hands moving away to take off your top. A low groan falls from his lips when your naked chest is finally exposed. His large hands cup your tits without much thought, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your nipples, eliciting another whimper out of you. You finally look up at his face, biting your bottom lip when you notice the way his eyes have turned darker, just like the ocean abyss, as they marvel at your breasts, perfectly fitting inside his palms. 

“Such gorgeous tits, sweetheart.” Your cheeks instantly heat up at the praise; overwhelmed by the sudden attention on your naked torso, you try to turn your chin away, but Bucky is faster. Cradling your cheeks, he turns your head until you are forced to stare right at him.

“None of that hiding shit.” He mutters against your breasts between kisses, your back arching the moment his tongue starts lavishing your nipples, until they are both raw and turgid. 

“You’re going to lie back and watch me as I ravish you, darling.” 

The boxers are suddenly discarded on the floor. It’s electrifying, being so open for Bucky to freely admire you. You’re quivering under his devoted gaze and tender smile, your breath hitching each time his fingers stroke a patch of burning skin as he takes his time in appreciating every single curve, every aspect that you might consider a flaw. To him, they’re new features to cherish. A way to learn you in the most intimate of ways.

You don’t even notice your eyelids fluttering shut. The rustling sound of fabric is what drives you to open them, just in time to catch Bucky throwing his shirt somewhere on the carpet.

He truly is handsome, with his strong physique and his muscles still defined, even with the small layer of fat covering most of it. 

With a lewd twist of his lips, his hands guide your legs up until your feet are firmly planted on the mattress and your knees bent. You are certain your heart is going to come out of your chest if Bucky doesn’t hurry up, rather focusing on pressing sweet, delicate kisses from your ankle to your thigh, just stopping short of where the skin turns wet with your arousal. His smirk is devilish when your breath hitches in frustration, taking his time in giving the same reverent treatment to your other leg.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

By the time he finally lies between your spread thighs, you are a shaky, sensitive mess, palms instantly covering your face when his nose almost touches your clit as his thumbs delicately part your folds.

Bucky lightly gasps. “Look how pretty you are. Already so wet for me, pretty girl?”

To be fair, you think this is the most aroused you’ve been in your whole life.

It’s mortifying how quickly your first orgasm approaches, it only takes Bucky a few languid circling movements on your clit and you’re already clenching, shivering against the beige bedsheets. 

Breathy moans and whimpers fall from your parted lips as his fingers toy with your nub some more. “You’re so responsive, darling.” He marvels, licking his lips. “But not yet.”

Your pathetic whine once he focuses on your hole only fuels his teases.

“I know, sweetheart.” He soothes, a thick finger gently tracing up and down the seam of your entrance. “Just a little more. I promise it’s going to feel so good later.”

And just like that, one of his digits is inside you. Your limbs go rigid, before his other arm comes up to rest on your belly, his thumb finding a leisure yet firm rhythm as it rubs your clit, grinning when your body melts at once against the cool sheets.

You sigh at the heavenly sensation, and Bucky feels the exact moment it starts feeling good, your hole slowly making room for another finger.

“There we go, pretty girl. Is that the right spot? You are gripping me so tight, darling, bet it feels so good, right?”

Your eyes squeeze shut as you can only manage a nod, your own hand shooting down to anchor itself to one of his shoulders as the tip of his tongue replaces the finger taunting your nub. The first swipe makes your head fall back. 

“Bucky!” A loud moan resounds through the dimly lit room, making his cock twitch. 

“Jesus Christ.” His growl vibrates pleasantly against your tender core. “Has anyone ever tasted you, baby?”

“No!” You sob at his fingers pushing against your sweet spot. 

“Fucking fools.” He snarls. “I’ll take care of you from now on, sweet girl. You won’t have to worry about anything.” He rasps out, feral with the thought of you making a mess on his face now that he has been blessed with your taste. “Just need to sit back and be good for me.”

You sniffle, the muscle of your stomach clenching to keep your orgasm at bay. You’re completely enraptured by his gentle yet solemn voice, not so different from the way his fingers play with your body. You subtly rock back on them, drawing him deeper and deeper.

“Oh I know, I know baby. I can feel you want to come.” Your hips twitch up, but the arm blanketing your belly keeps you nice and still as he enjoys his meal. His stubble leaves crude marks on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the rough friction causing your back to arch as high as his heavy arm allows.   

“You know, sweetheart felt like the safest option.” He pants, coming up for air, his lips glistening with your arousal. “Now I can finally call you whatever I want.” 

“Baby,” he leaves a kiss on your mound, half-lidded eyes fixed on your crumpled features. You couldn’t be more grateful for Nathan to have his mom’s eyes. “Darling,” his lips move on your clit next, sucking harshly. “Pretty girl—oh.”

You hoped he wouldn’t notice the way you clenched at that, but of course the smug bastard does. 

“You like when I call you pretty girl?” You toss your head back as his thumb goes back to flick your nub. He can only coax out an embarrassed squeak that vaguely resembles a yes, but it’s enough to make Bucky smirk with pride.

“Yes, my pretty girl?” He relishes in the way you clench again, knowing you’re at your limit now. 

“Give it to me, angel. C’mon,” he growls, ravaging your clit with steady suckles. “I’ve been too well-behaved and patient.” 

Your head falls back against his pillow as your eyes fall shut, your first orgasm of the night hitting you hard and leaving you whimpering and dizzy under his palms. Your body tightens as wave after wave of pleasure seeps deep into your bones. Bucky groans at the sight of your pussy practically swallowing his damp fingers. You have never felt so good you could cry, the added sensation of his coarse beard against your sensitive core making your thighs tremble precariously around his head.

“Gorgeous.” Your nails cling onto his shoulder as you ride it out, humping his face with abandon under his soft grunts of encouragement. Bucky’s hips have been twitching against the mattress for a while now, unable to stay stoic in front of a goddess like you unraveling so sweetly before him. With a final teasing kiss to your clit, his thick fingers finally pull away.

You’re still breathless when Bucky lifts himself up, enough to pull you into another hungry kiss. Tasting yourself on someone’s tongue is definitely new, but not unpleasant. Not when a pathetic sound—half moan, half whine—claws out of your throat at your tongues dancing.

“Wish I could stay between your thighs all night.” He mumbles against your lips. Kissing Bucky… It’s just so lovely. Particularly like this, when he is towering over you, so close that the trimmed hair on his chest softly brushes your nipples as it heaves against yours. Your body lurches at the light stimulation on your raw nubs, completely missing the way one of his hands abandons your hip to swiftly discard his boxers. 

It’s only when Bucky gets into an upright position that you can finally catch a proper glimpse of his body. Even his cock is beautiful, for fuck’s sake, all flushed and thick, proudly curving up toward his belly. You gulp thickly at the sight of how majestic he looks, naked and kneeling for you, before you promptly shy away at the amusement twinkling in his eyes. His strong arms wrap around your thighs without a word, dragging you closer to him until his length lightly nudges your core. His tongue is inside your mouth before you can even let a full gasp out. Whining, your fingers slip into his hair as he teases the seam of your entrance with the tip. 

“So impatient.” He chuckles at your eager hips, before extending his arm towards the night stand.

“No!” Your fingers shoot forward and wrap around his bicep, causing Bucky to freeze entirely.

“I’m clean, got tested last month, and I’m on the pill.” You wheeze out, suddenly fearing your implicit request will be rejected. 

Bucky scrutinizes you with open surprise, before a long, pensive exhale slowly leaves his nostrils.

He places a sweet peck on your forehead. “I’m clean too. But are you sure, sweetheart?” His brows furrow in worry.

“I’ve never let anyone else do it without.” You swallow nervously, taking his hand in yours to guide it to your cheek, unconsciously leaning into his palm.

“Want you to be the first.” You whisper. 

“Fucking hell.” He grits out, letting his forehead fall on your shoulder. It’s your turn to smirk now, until you feel the bulbous head of his cock insistent against your hole.

“Oh.” You squeak out once he slides in halfway without much resistance on your part. The sight of your glassy eyes rolling back has him groaning.

“Feeling alright, doll?”

“Fuck—yes, fuck, it’s just—big!” You gasp, stiffening at the burning stretch. “More... More, I need more please.”

Despite your begging, Bucky feeds you his cock gradually, fearing he could hurt you and possibly scare you away forever. Once he bottoms out, his jaw clenches at the mere realization of finally being inside his girl. Attempting to calm the both of you down is difficult, yet he finds the strength to still, his lips finding yours at once. His self-control weakens precariously the more your body grows pliant under his, your walls hugging his cock so tightly he can feel every little, eager movement. The lewd, wet sounds of your mouth moving against each other only spur him on as his hips involuntarily jerk forward.

“Bucky.” 

“Yes, yes, I know sweetheart.” He coos at your ragged breaths. “Gonna make the ache go away, mmh?”

Dragging his hips back slightly, Bucky carefully studies your expression, and only when he finds no sign of discomfort he lets himself slip right back in, harder. 

“Oh, sweet girl.” He grins at you clinging onto his shoulders. “That feels good, right? Hear how she sings for me?” Leaning in to plant his lips right over your damp brow, he allows his hips to slowly move back, biting back a loud groan at the squelching sound.

“Need to see you fall apart on my cock.” He grunts.

“Please, need—harder.” You cry out, eyes rolling back as the tip nudges your sweet spot. Your moans grow higher and louder once he starts pounding you earnestly, your slack body trapped under his broad one, sliding up and down the mattress with each brutal thrust. 

Bucky loses himself a little the moment he buries his nose in the damp skin of your neck, licking and kissing away the salty tang of your sweat, finally fucking you properly. The slapping noise of your skins meeting shamelessly fills the bedroom, mixing with your labored breaths and desperate moans. 

“Shit, doll.” His growl vibrates against your pulse. “Need this all the time, need to hear your sweet squeals as I carve a place for my cock inside your cute little pussy.”

The way he kisses your mouth like a starving man, and how his cock fits so perfectly inside you, stirs a warm feeling inside your chest, far too tender compared to the throbbing ache in your belly. 

“Such a good girl for me, taking all of me so well.” He gushes deliriously, smiling at your connected lower half. “My girl. My pretty, sweet girl.”

“Come with me?” You whimper, your nails digging into his soft skin as pleasure threatens to swallow you whole.

“Want to give you another one.” He pants, slowing down just enough to properly look you in the eye. “I’m not so young anymore, sweet thing.” The back of his hand brushes your cheek with such tenderness you almost forget the hard length plunged deep inside your pussy, before Bucky resumes his punishing pace, coaxing moan after moan out of you. 

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body tensing as your back arches, finally letting yourself go.

“That’s it!” He draws the words out, keeping his eyes firmly on your face. Your legs feel like they are falling to pieces, sore but still squeezing helplessly his waist.

“So tight, so good for me. You look like an angel, sweetheart. A pretty, fucked-out angel. Wish you could see how beautiful you look with a big cock giving you exactly what you need.” He can hardly fend off the devastating orgasm threatening to make him fall apart; yet he keeps going, wanting to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. It’s only when your whimper borders on painful and your palms shoot down to push at his chest, that his hips gradually come to a stop.

“Holy fuck.”

Your lower half is pleasantly aching by the time you are coming down from your earth-shattering climax. Bucky is still trying to dominate his instincts, jaw clenched and nose lightly tracing the soft skin of your collarbone, breathing in your scent. The primal urge to make you his violently rattles at the cage of care and protection that Bucky scrupulously crafted day by day, just to keep it contained. He’s at his limit, yet he always makes sure to take such good care of you first... your stunning, kind Mr. Barnes. 

But now it’s your turn to have your fun with him.

“Get up.” You mutter, pressing on his pecs. Panic briefly crosses his features as he clumsily lifts up on shaky muscles. You don’t let him go too far though, gently pushing him until he’s laying on his back. When you land directly on his crotch, cock still snuggled inside you, his eyes widen in astonishment. 

Everything feels more sensitive like this.  

You don’t care about your aching joints, nor about your sensitive and sore body still going through the aftershock, immediately setting a fast pace. You bounce up and down, biting your bottom lip as you stare at his parted lips. Your combined ragged breaths make you clench around his length, loving the way you sound together. Bucky is too busy pawing at your hips with one hand and groping your breast with the other to rationally think about something clever that would surely turn this debauched doll in his laps into the timid sweetheart he likes teasing.

You’re not sure how long it has been, but what makes you still is definitely not the sudden uncomfortable stiffness in your lower back, but rather a loud, muffled noise.

Like something falling, or... a door slamming shut.

You stop at once, your wide eyes meeting Bucky’s astonished gaze. His shock, though, has short life, as his hands land on both of your thighs with a resounding smack, encouraging you to go on.

“Bucky!” You reprimand him, gasping at the abrupt stimulation against your sweet spot. The older man under you slowly lifts his torso up, encircling your waist as he gently guides you down with him, until your forehead rests against his.

“We have already established that we like each other and that this,” he points between you two just like you did before. “Is not a one time thing.” You nod quickly, still panting and alarmingly aware of all the noises coming from downstairs: bare feet thumping against the tiles, a cabinet closing, a small sigh of relief after drinking some water.

“Don’t you want to give him a taste of his own medicine?” You can’t believe the shadow of malice falling over his eyes.

“He’s your son!” You whisper-shout, partial to his proposal but still too timid to go along with it.

“And you are my girl.” He growls with the same heat, his fingers digging into your skin bruisingly. “The same girl he cheated on for eight months.” 

Something shatters inside your chest. You don’t know if it’s the reality finally catching up to you, or the humiliation gradually mutating into a fiercer, hotter thirst for vengeance. Or maybe it’s the way this absolutely lovely man just defined you his girl so easily. No shame, no reservations.

Your palms press against his shoulders, urging him to fully lie back down. The slow smirk forming on his lips matches your playful smile.

“Fuck.” Your hips resume their pace with a newfound strength. 

“You’re doing so well, angel. Look at you, taking all my cock in your tight little pussy. My pretty girl, all mine.” His dirty words only spur you on, taking his hands to guide them back on your curves. In the meantime, the stairs creak under careful yet not-so-silent steps, as Nathan warily makes his way up. 

“Oh my God. Mr. Barnes, ’s so big.” You gasp, completely forgetting about your ex probably standing just outside the door. You don’t miss the way Bucky’s breath hitches at the name you used to softly utter with so much admiration and respect, now sounding so beautifully obscene as you cry for his cock. Faintly grinning down at him, you squeeze the hand fondling your breast, Bucky immediately looking up from your core engulfing his length so well. 

“Yeah? And whose pussy is this, mmh?” His fingers settle on your clit with determination, careful to put the right pressure, and you respond at once, riding him faster. 

“Yours! Fuck, always been yours!”

"Good girl.” He groans, using every bit of self-restraint to not succumb to the heavenly feeling of you desperately gripping his leaking cock.

“That’s it.” His jaw locks. “Come for me, my beautiful girl.” Your third climax of the night is the most intense. You shatter with a breathy shriek, collapsing against Bucky’s chest as he promptly catches you. The urgent noise of footsteps climbing down the stairs and the final bang of the front door slamming shut are completely disregarded as you fall apart in the most delicious of ways.

“Fuck, you just tightened so fucking hard, baby girl. Feel so fucking good coming all over my cock, you were made for me.” His head falls back, exposing the refined line on his throat. “Taking it so well.” You cling to his large frame, shaking and whimpering as his hips ruthlessly chase his own pleasure. 

“’M gonna ruin you for anyone else, angel.” The crack in his voice tells you he’s close, his hands keeping you nice and still as you try to relax, letting him use you.

“Bet you’ve never looked this lovely with him,” he hisses, his thrusts frantic and sloppy. “Never came this hard—shit, you’re gonna be leaking my cum from now on.”

With one last effort, your chin lifts enough for you to whisper right into his ear, “’M yours, Mr. Barnes. Always have been.” 

His grip around your thighs borders on painful, but you don’t care as long as his filthy groans turn louder and needier. His hips thrust up once, twice, and then he is holding you down as rope after rope of his cum reaches the deepest part of you. Your content sigh at the surreal sensation of finally being filled soothes Bucky a little, his body finally falling back against the mattress as his cock keeps twitching inside you.

“Shit,” his next exhale is harsh, tired eyes staring dumbfounded at the ceiling. “I’ve never come this hard in my life, sweet girl.” His palms trace a slow path up and down your back, and you silently thank him for staying inside you. You are not sure you’d react well if Bucky were to part from you at once after what you just did.

Your weak body settles on his little by little, until you are completely pliant in his arms.

“C’mere and give me a kiss, I miss my pretty girl.” His mouth moves against your temple, before his thumb and index finger tenderly hold your chin to coax you out of your hiding place.

You lazily yield, meeting him in a languid kiss that is more tongue than lips. 

“The best.” Kiss. “Prettiest.” Kiss. “Girl.” Kiss. “You’re so good to me, took it all inside and didn’t waste a single drop.” He playfully growls against your jaw, eliciting a tired giggle out of you.

“Bucky, it tickles.” You squirm slightly, wrinkling your nose when he leaves a gentle peck right on the tip. He couldn’t be more proud of how serene you look, safe and thoroughly fucked as you lie drowsily on his chest.

“So,” he sighs after a while, arms squeezing your waist as he beams up at the ceiling. “About that date…”

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💕

I mentioned it before but the inspiration for the title comes from this spectacular meme, of course lmaooo

Exhaustion lines his face as he watches you putter about.

“You’re still working,” he says. His tone is mild, but the observation lands somewhere between accusation and concern.

You stack two champagne flutes carefully in one hand and look at him over your shoulder.

“I’m not working,” you say, straightening. “I’m tidying.”

“That’s the same thing,” he replies.

“It absolutely is not,” you say, walking past him toward the catering tray. The glasses clink softly as you set them down. “Working involves spreadsheets and donor follow-ups. Tidying involves making sure no one comes in tomorrow morning and assumes we had a frat party in here.”

He glances around the room, at the abandoned olives, the extra pamphlets and the lonely half-bottle of champagne.

“I’ve seen parties,” he says thoughtfully. “This is considerably more organized.”

You snort before you can stop yourself.

The sound seems to surprise him. His mouth tilts slightly at one corner.

You clear your throat and turn away quickly, gathering another cluster of glasses from the table.

The overhead lights have dimmed automatically into their nighttime setting, leaving the room in a softer glow. The windows reflect the Capitol’s pale light across the dark glass, and somewhere down the hallway a security guard’s radio crackles briefly before going quiet again.

You balance the glasses in your hand as glance at your watch – 12:47 am. That explains the dull ache behind your temples.

At some point in the last half hour you’ve traded your heels for the commuting flats you keep in your desk drawer. Your hair, which had been professionally pinned for most of the evening, now hangs loose over your shoulders after the quiet surrender of approximately fourteen bobby pins. The effect, you suspect, is less “capable Hill staffer” and more “person who has survived a natural disaster involving canapés.”

“Did we at least hit the fundraising target?” you ask, reaching for another glass.

“We exceeded it,” Bucky says.

You pause. “Seriously?” you ask, turning.

“Seriously,” he replies, leaning one hip against the table.

You blink at him.

“Apparently the speech about veteran housing played well with the venture capital crowd,” he adds.

“That is extremely depressing,” you say.

“You wrote it,” he says with a shrug.

“Still depressing.”

You turn with the glasses in your hands – and nearly run straight into him.

He has crossed the room without you noticing.

For a moment neither of you move, caught in the awkward dance of proximity.

His presence catches you off guard enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes. Up close, the evening has left its usual marks on him: the faint crease between his brows from concentrating too hard on conversations he doesn’t trust, the slight flush across his cheekbones that means enough people have convinced him to accept more champagne than he should have.

Your grip shifts instinctively to keep the stack of glasses balanced.

At the same moment, he reaches out.

Your fingers brush.

It is brief. Barely a touch.

Still, the contact feels like a small electric current.

“Careful,” he says quietly.

You clear your throat.

“I’ve been carrying trays since I was six,” you reply, handing him two glasses. “I promise I know how glasses work.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says.

“If you’re going to stand in the middle of the floor looking intimidating,” you say briskly, “you could at least make yourself useful.”

His eyebrows lift.

“You’re assigning me chores now?” he asks.

“I’m delegating,” you say, already reaching for the next glass. “A very important management skill.”

“Pretty sure I’m not one of your staffers.”

“Pretty sure you also said you wanted to help.”

“That was before I realized helping involved manual labor.”

He takes the glasses anyway, and you carefully track his movements as he places them somewhat cautiously onto the tray. They clink together in a way that suggests a man who has not spent much of his life stacking fragile objects.

“You’re terrible at this,” you say.

“Good thing I have a competent Chief,” he replies mildly.

You roll your eyes and turn back toward the table.

For a few minutes the two of you work in relative silence – he gathers napkins and you consolidate the remaining glasses.

The quiet settles around you in a way that feels oddly companionable. The evening’s earlier noise – donor chatter, polite laughter, the endless rhythm of political conversation – has drained away, leaving only the soft sounds of movement across the carpet and the occasional faint clink of glass.

When you straighten again, Bucky is leaning against the edge of the conference table, the abandoned champagne bottle sitting beside him.

He watches you with the same thoughtful expression he wore earlier in the evening while a hedge fund manager attempted to explain blockchain currency to him for ten uninterrupted minutes.

“You know,” he says slowly, “most offices would leave this for the cleaning crew.”

“Most offices,” you reply, reaching for another glass, “have the budget for proper cleanup.”

“A budget.”

“Yes, the thing that we were fundraising for tonight.”

Your hands reach for the champagne bottle, but before they reach, Bucky picks it up and examines the remaining liquid with mild interest.

“There’s still some left,” he says.

“That’s because it’s been sitting out for two hours,” you reply.

“So?”

“It’s disgustingly warm.”

He considers this.

Then he reaches for one of the empty flutes and pours the last of the champagne into it.

“You cannot be serious,” you say, staring at him.

“We can’t waste taxpayer money,” he replies calmly.

“Congressman,” you ask, folding your arms, “are you drunk?”

“Unlikely,” he says.

“That’s not reassuring.”

Nevertheless, he takes a sip.

“Well?” you ask.

He swallows thoughtfully. Your eyes follow the bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Still champagne,” he says.

You sigh and lean back against the table across from him.

“Congratulations,” you say. “Your donor event was a success.”

He tips the glass slightly toward you.

“Your donor event,” he corrects.

“I’m not the one who had to charm three venture capitalists and a retired senator.”

“No,” he says quietly. “You’re the one who organized the entire evening, coordinated the guest list, wrote half the talking points, and prevented me from accidentally offending a pharmaceutical executive.”

“That was a near miss,” you agree.

“He started it.”

“You asked if his company had ever tried making insulin affordable.”

“Valid question.”

“Not at a fundraiser.”

He smiles faintly, and for a moment, he says nothing. Then his gaze shifts back to you, lingering a little longer than necessary.

“You look exhausted,” he says.

You blink.

“That’s flattering,” you reply dryly.

“I mean it,” he says.

“Congressman – ”

“Bucky,” he corrects gently. “Just Bucky, now.”

You hesitate.

Then you tilt your head. You’re tired enough that you don’t argue.

“Bucky,” you say slowly, the name feeling strange on your tongue.

His expression softens. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground,” he says.

“Just doing the job,” you reply.

“Three people’s jobs.”

“That’s how this works.”

He doesn’t argue with that, but his eyes stay on your face, like he’s trying to read something there. After a moment he sets the empty champagne glass down.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

You eye him warily. “That depends,” you finally reply.

“On what?” he asks.

“On whether it’s about warm champagne.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Not about the champagne,” he says.

“Then sure,” you say, leaning against the table just slightly.

He hesitates briefly. Then he asks, with a casualness that doesn’t quite convince you, “What would make you the happiest right now?”

For a second you assume he means tonight; you glance automatically at the disaster still spread across the event hall – the empty glasses (why are there still so many glasses), the messily stacked chairs, all those scattered pamphlets.

“What would make me happiest right now,” you repeat.

“Yeah,” Bucky huffs and folds his arms.

You push a loose strand of hair behind your ear and don’t even need to consider your answer. “My bed,” you reply instantly.

He snorts softly. “That’s the first honest answer I’ve heard all night.”

“I’ve been awake since five,” you reply. “And I had to listen to a venture capitalist explain blockchain to you for twenty minutes.”

“I was being polite.”

“You were blinking in Morse code.”

He shakes his head with a smirk and for a moment, the tension drains out of the room again.

You pick up another glass and carry it to the tray, stacking it carefully with the others.

When you turn back, he is still watching you. Not in the absent way he sometimes does when he’s thinking about three different policy problems at once, but in the focused way he gets when something has caught his attention and he’s turning it over carefully in his mind. You notice immediately.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says.

You narrow your eyes. “Really, now?” you ask.

He shrugs slightly and looks down at the empty champagne glass in his hand.

“I just meant generally,” he says after a moment.

You blink. “Generally?”

“Yeah.”

You put the glass in your hand down and fold your arms. “That’s a much bigger question,” you say.

“I know.”

“And you’re asking it at…” you glance at your watch again, “One in the morning.”

“Technically twelve fifty-three.”

“Very different.”

He smiles faintly, but he doesn’t let the subject drop.

“So?” he says.

You study him for a moment. The loosened tie, the rolled sleeves, the faint pink flush across his cheekbones that means the champagne did, in fact, get to him a little.

“You’re very interested in my happiness all of a sudden,” you say slowly.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“You’re just procrastinating cleaning up the olives.”

“I already got to the olives,” he says mildly.

You glance toward the windowsill.

The plate is, in fact, gone.

You frown. “When did you – ”

“While you were judging my glass stacking technique.”

You sigh. “Which was terrible.”

“It was passable.”

“It’s a liability.”

He laughs quietly.

Then the laugh fades, and the quiet returns. You realize, a little belatedly, that he’s still waiting.

“You don’t have to answer,” he says after a moment.

“No,” you say. “I can answer.”

You reach for one of the empty chairs and pull it closer, sitting sideways in it with one arm draped over the back. You cross your legs and your flats tap lightly against the leg of the table.

“What would make me happiest,” you mutter. Your eyes flick up toward the ceiling for a moment.

“Probably a week where there’s no crisis in my inbox,” you say.

“Ambitious,” he murmurs.

“A good meal,” you add. “Somewhere that I can actually savour the food instead of making conversation.”

“Even more ambitious.”

“And,” you say, tilting your head thoughtfully, “maybe eight consecutive hours of sleep.”

“That sounds suspiciously like your earlier answer.”

“I’m consistent.”

He nods slowly, but something in his expression remains thoughtful.

“You’re dodging,” he says.

You blink at him. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“You asked what would make me happiest,” you say. “I answered.”

“You answered what would make you less tired.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“Not really.”

You sigh and lean your head back against the chair. “Okay,” you say. “What about you? What would make you happiest right now?”

“Nice try.”

“You asked first.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to answer.”

“Coward.”

“Strategist,” he corrects.

You roll your eyes. “Fine,” you say. “What would make you happiest generally, Congressman?”

He winces slightly. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“The ‘Congressman’ thing.”

“That is your title.”

“Yeah, but you only call me that when you’re annoyed with me.”

You consider this. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he says.

You shrug. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head with quiet amusement, and then he glances down at the table between you. For a moment he seems to be deciding something.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says.

You frown. “I’ve been busy.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You shift slightly in the chair. “What did you mean?”

He uncrosses his arms and rests his hands on the edge of the table, fingers loosely clasped.

“You’ve been…” He searches for the word. “Tired.”

You huff a small laugh.

“I thought we already established that.”

“Not just tired.”

You tilt your head. “Then what?”

He hesitates. The pause stretches just long enough that you start to feel a small, uncomfortable knot forming somewhere behind your ribs.

“It seems,” he says carefully, “like you’d rather be somewhere else.”

The words land quietly in the room. You stare at him.

“That’s a dramatic interpretation of my wanting to go home,” you say.

“I’ve heard a couple things,” he says.

Your stomach drops a little. “What things?”

“Just…” He shrugs. “That you’ve been getting calls.”

“Calls.”

“Other offices.”

You sit up straighter in your chair. “And who told you that?” you ask.

“Does it matter?”

“It absolutely does if people are gossiping about my career behind my back.”

“They’re not gossiping,” he says. “They’re recruiting.”

You rub your temple with two fingers. Of course they have been.

“You’re very in demand,” he adds.

“You don’t need to flatter me.”

“It’s true.”

You look down at the table for a moment, willing this conversation to stop right now. “People move around on the Hill all the time,” you say finally.

“I know.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe not.”

The quiet returns again. Outside the event hall windows, the Capitol dome glows softly against the dark sky.

You realize suddenly that you are both still sitting there, well past midnight, discussing your career like this is a normal conversation to have with your boss over leftover champagne.