junie

The commute from the building where your last lecture was held to your off-campus department was 25 minutes on a regular day using your bike. In Bucky’s case, he took 15 minutes due to his way of driving his restored car.

You knew that.

Your roommate knew that.

That knowledge made it easier to predict when the other would arrive at the apartment. It helped to avoid awkward encounters, like the time he had found you making out and half naked, with your classmate on the couch. Or when you saw him butt-naked as he got out of the shower because he had forgotten his towel in his room.

The only flaw in this?

Yelena.

Yelena, your classmate and best friend, had started seeing a girl who lived near you. This meant that she could drive you home on her way to meet with her new fling.

The day that changed everything had been one of those days. Your lecture would be cut short, and Yelena had been texting Kate as soon as the professor had announced that the class would wrap up early. Leaving at that hour meant less traffic, and to your luck, every traffic light had been green.

“Is this our lucky day? Should we buy a lottery ticket?” Yelena exclaimed after the third green light.

Inside your building, your luck continued because Mrs. Park held open the elevator for you the moment you crossed the front door.

You arrived at your door 10 minutes before your class usually ended. You had just opened your mouth to let out your usual “Hey, Buck” to announce your arrival when you heard it.

A moan coming from down the hall.

You widened your eyes; your keys slipped from your grip, landing on the rug with a dull noise. You knelt to pick them up, eyes scanning the living room frantically.

You noticed Bucky’s books were scattered over the dining table. His reading glasses were there, forgotten by his economics book. A single can of soda was near it.

There was no sign of any other person inside the apartment.

Another moan.

You should have turned around and left, given him the privacy he needed, and come back later. But you didn't. You stood up, and with your keys in hand, you padded silently down the hallway to your room.

The door of his room was slightly open as you passed.

More whimpering, followed by a curse.

You should have ignored it, continued your path, and hid in your room. Instead, you froze, turning to the source of the noise.

Spread over his bed, Bucky was lying down over his covers; his sweatpants and boxers were rolled down to his knees, and his shirt was forgotten on the floor. His fist was gliding up and down his cock, neck exposed as he pushed his head back. His eyes were closed, mouth open, letting every whimper out freely.

Heat pooled in your stomach, your breath turned shallow and rapid as you watched him jerk off.

This was wrong.

You shouldn't be standing there, watching him, and much less getting worked up because of it.

He was your roommate. Your friend. Bucky wasn't even your type for fucks sake — he wasn't an athlete, with a chiseled body comparable to a Greek statue; he wasn't the most confident man out there either, smugly flirting with every skirt with legs.

Bucky was a textbook nerd. Always with his nose buried in a book, a cute stuttering mess, he triggered your cute aggression, not the I want to climb you like a tree and bounce on your cock type of aggression.

“Please, please —ngh,” He begged, tearing up.

You didn't know why you did it, but hearing his pleas broke your control. Carefully, you crept into his room until you were standing a few feet away from the foot of the bed.

In bed, his phone went off with an alarm he had set up before he had fallen into his lust. He reached his hand blindly, turning the alarm off, lost in whatever fantasy he had conjured behind his closed eyes.

You’ll be home in 10 minutes.

“Fuck, I need to — ah, please.”

“Do you need help?” You said softly, in the same tone you always used with him. Warm. Open. Sweet.

His eyes snapped open, finding you standing near him. Your name left his lips, neediness laced with each letter.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't — You're here early, you were supposed to…” He stuttered, covering his dick with his hand and reaching behind him to take a cushion.

“I can help you.” Your tote bag, filled with books, landed on the rug next to your feet with a thud, and your keys followed. He froze. “You said you needed something.”

His throat bobbed.

“Bunny…”

He said your nickname, the one he had started using after he had met you at Yelena’s birthday party in your first semester. You had been wearing a last-minute costume — white bunny ears with a simple white short dress — because your original one had gotten ruined early that day. Bucky had been hiding out on the second floor, nursing a can of beer and hoping that his friends wouldn't find him after dragging him to the party already. Since he couldn't register your name over the loud music, he had called you Bunny the entire party. From there, it had stuck.

“Tell me, Bucky. What do you need?”

“I—” He shook his head.

You tutted. “House rules, remember? Hmm? Always be honest with each other. Tell me.”

“I need… I need to cum. So bad…”

“Thank you for telling me.” You placed a knee on the mattress between his legs, and slowly, you climbed the bed. “Now, let me help you.”

“Bunny.” He whimpered when you removed his hand from his crotch.

“Let me. That's what friends do, right? Help each other out. Always.” You said, tracing your fingers along his leg, getting higher and higher. “Can I?”

“Bunny…”

“Bucky.”

“Please.”

You smiled, and then moved your hand over his length; his cock twitched in respond of your touch, beads of pre cum leaked out of his reddish tip.

“Tell me if you want me to do anything different, okay?”

He nodded, but he was still tense.

“Hey, you can close your eyes and imagine I’m someone else; I don't mind. This is just to help you finish.”

Bucky took a deep breath and threw his head back, closing his eyes. You leaned in, taking his cock in your hands; you began peppering kisses on its tip. Bucky moaned in response.

You dragged your tongue along the vein on its underside, and then you guided it into your mouth.

Bucky cursed, digging his hands into the mattress.

You bobbed your head up and down, slowly taking him inch by inch until you could take most of him into your mouth comfortably.

Bucky was big, with a girth that made your pussy clench in wonder at how it would feel inside you, stretching you until you were a babbling mess.

“Shit, I’m close.”

You hummed with him still in your mouth, agreeing with him since you could feel him throbbing. His hips jerked up in search of the warmth of your mouth; you increased your movements, your hands giving attention to his balls and stroking the rest of his cock.

“Bunny, bunny, I’m…” He groaned, and for the first time, he reached his hand to tap your shoulder.

You removed your mouth with a pop, and kept stroking him as you said: “It’s okay, you can finish in my mouth.”

Before Bucky could reply, you took him into your mouth again and down your throat until your nose touched his pubic bone. Tears gathered in your eyes at the intrusion, but you didn't care; you kept bobbing your head until he spilled inside your mouth with your name on his lips.

You kept sucking him until you swallowed the last drop of his seed, and he was too overwhelmed after who knows how much time he had been working himself up. You took him out of your mouth, feeling him softening in your palm as his breath steadied.

Once you were on your feet, you knelt down to take your stuff up and took his shirt with your hand. When he opened his eyes, he saw you wiping the fabric of his shirt on your mouth, cleaning every remaining fluid from your face. Then you turned around and walked to the door.

“Bunny, wait!” He rushed to put his boxers and sweats back on.

You looked at him over your shoulder, “Yes?”

“You can't go.” You raised a brow.

“You needed to cum, and you did. I helped you out, didn't I?”

“Yes, you did. But, don't you want to… talk about it?”

Even if his skin was all flushed, his pupils still blown, and his clothes were poorly on him, he looked at you with pure worry.

You smiled fondly at him. “We are friends, Bucky. Nothing has to change.”

“You sure?”

“Positive, now… can I go?”

He exhaled in relief. “Yes, you can. Thank you, Bunny.”

“Any time.” You grabbed the door to close it. “It’s your turn to cook dinner, by the way.”

“Right! Uh, pasta? My mom’s recipe?”

“God, yes, please. I’ll take a shower in the meantime; see you in a bit.” You closed the door behind you after hearing his goodbye and then rushed to your room.

Luckily for you, your room had its own bathroom, away from the door that led to the hallway, which meant that while Bucky cooked dinner, he didn't hear you masturbating in your shower under the sound of the running water.

Even if you tried to push the memory into a box and forget it in the back of your mind, you couldn't avoid replaying the scene in his room, nor the way he had moaned your name as he came. And you definitely ignored the way you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning his name as you fucked yourself with your fingers.

Once you were satisfied and clean, you left your room wearing your pajamas. During dinner, things were a little bit awkward, but it slowly got better as you fell into your familiar dynamic. He yapped about his next exam, and you ranted about your lecture that day. The conversation moved to the kitchen, as both cleaned before going back into your rooms.

You and Bucky just clicked together; you had done so since you met. Living together, even if it had been by pure luck — a month into your friendship, you had ranted that your landlord had raised your rent, and he had confessed he was looking for a place off campus; it had been a no-brainer to accept becoming roommates — had amped that. As the months and years progressed, you had gotten to a point where you understood each other and knew exactly what the other needed without the need for words.

He knew when you were stressed and needed silence, reassurance, or when you needed space. But he also knew when you were feeling homesick and needed a hug or a cuddle.

Two days after you gave him a blowjob, you learned that he also knew when you were needy and how to make you cum in record time.

You had been lying on the couch, reading a book on your e-reader after you had been stressing out over an exam. Bucky looked at you from his spot on the other end of the couch, where he had been playing a game on his phone.

“Everything okay there?” He asked, looking at you up and down.

You swallowed, shifting your legs again. “Yeah, why did you ask?”

“Bunny, house rules.” He rolled his eyes and put his phone on the coffee table.

“I'm not lying.” You scoffed.

“You are. You had been sitting there for the past five minutes, rubbing your legs together, and sighing like you're out of a romantic soap opera.” Bucky grinned. “Oh, my lovely Bunny, what are you reading? Is it one of those smutty books of yours?” he wiggled his eyebrows.

“Shut up.” You attempted to kick him with your leg, but he grabbed you by your ankle, stopping you from hitting him.

“You are.” His eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. “Are you horny, Bunny?”

You shut up, locking eyes with him as he angled his body towards you.

“Do you need help with that?” He lowered his voice.

“With what?” You croaked, mouth dry.

“To get off. I can return the favor right now.” His fingers, that had been wrapped around your ankle, moved up, stroking your leg. “Besides, you know what happens when you orgasm. How the neurotransmitters that are released when you climax help you reduce your stress, sleep better, and help you relax — we share a wall, Bunny. I can hear you on the other side, still up in the middle of the night.” He called you out.

He continued moving his hand up your thigh until his fingertips grazed the hem of your shorts.

You didn't stop him.

“So, can I? You can imagine it's one of the characters of that book… You can keep reading it while I taste you.”

“You’re joking. Making fun of what I said and did that day.” You huffed and shifted your eyes away from him.

He shook his head. “It's just me. We're just friends, right? Helping each other out. I love helping you, you know that.”

You met his eyes again and then nodded, “Okay, make me cum.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He joked and then positioned himself between your legs. “Go back to your book; you can even read it out loud. Guide me if you want to try something out.”

“Shut up.” You chuckled, and then returned your eyes to the screen.

Bucky grabbed the waistband of your shorts and pulled them down your thighs until they were dangling off your ankle. He leaned in and started kissing your now exposed skin until he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath and his nose bumping over your panties.

You kept reading, pressing your lips together to avoid making a sound. He kissed over your panties, and then he removed them. The first drag of his tongue made you open your mouth in a silent cry.

Bucky held you open; his hands were under your hip, in full control of the angle. You had been wet as you read your book, wondering if the main character in your book would be a whimpering mess like Bucky was as the female character rides him; now you were dripping, clenching around nothing, begging in your mind to be fucked on your couch.

No.

No.

It's the hormones talking. I'm just horny.

Having his dick inside you would be too much. If the line in your friendship had blurred, penetration would mean total erasure. But to be honest, it wasn't as if his dick wouldn't be doing something much different than what his tongue was doing right now.

Oh God, where had he learned to do that?

“Fuck, Bucky.” You groaned. Loudly. Throwing your head back.

Bucky removed his head from between your thighs to stare at you when he heard your e-reader hit the ground.

“Is something wrong? Want me to stop or change something?”

You looked at him as if he had grown another head out of his neck, and with your hands, you pushed back between your legs.

“Shut up. Keep doing that. Don't stop.” You panted, treading your fingers in his hair as your hips jerked against his mouth. He lapped his tongue over your sensitive clit, alternating with sucking it and shaking his head to add more depth to his attacks. “Oh fuck, mmm, yes, yes, Bucky, that's so good.”

He shifted, sinking his knees on the couch. Then he grabbed your legs and placed them over his shoulders; after that, he pulled your hips up, half-strengthening his back. He pressed your thighs together against his face, suffocating himself.

The new angle made you gasp; you braced yourself on the arm of the couch. You were now openly mewling. Your loud moans were barely overpowered by the obscene sound of his mouth on you.

You came not too long after that, panting and with your legs trembling over his shoulders. Before he let you down, he grazed his teeth with a playful bite and then kissed the spot.

Your breath was still ragged when you accepted his bottle of water that he had offered. You took a sip of water and then looked back at him.

“Why the fuck did Dot break up with you if you could do that?” You asked, stunned.

He had the decency of looking shy, scratching the back of his neck.

“She broke up with me because I wasn't very social, you know me; she wanted me out with her every single week to a party, and that drains me too much. I can only handle too much socialization.” He explained with a shrug.

“What an idiot, believe me, I’d have compromised my social life if my amazing boyfriend could make me cum as hard as you just made me do. And with only your tongue!” You exclaimed as you put back your underwear and shorts. You would have to run back to your room to take a shower and change in a minute because the stickiness between your legs would drive you crazy.

He took a thrown pillow and hit the side of your leg. “Shut up, Bunny!”

You snorted. “I’m serious. I already knew she had lost a great guy; this just adds more stupidity on her side.”

“Thank you, I suppose.” He blushed.

“Just take the compliment, Buck. It's house rules.” You returned the hit with the thrown pillow and ran to your room, squealing and dodging another hit from him.

The agreement was made that same week, officially getting added to the house rules. You would help him take the edge off, and he would help you, too. Easy. Efficient. Complete trust and free use in the apartment unless stated otherwise.

There was one catch, though: no penetration, no kissing. You were friends at the end of the day, and you didn't want to mess that up.

So you let him do everything else, except put his cock inside you.

He would fuck your tits after hitting a wall while doing an essay, eyes closed as he fought the urge to come on the spot at the sight of your glistening skin and your eyes looking up at him as you pushed your tits together. He had made the mistake of looking down the other day, and after batting your eyelashes to him in an oh-so-innocent way, you had put your tongue out just as he pushed in and took an experimental kitten lick over his tip. He had come in that moment, painting your face and tits with his seed. Laughing, you had continued stroking him until he was overstimulated.

One particular time that you had been stressing because your teammates were useless, you were ranting about it with him sitting next to you after you had finished eating dinner while watching a series.

“Do you wanna forget about it?” Bucky asked after you had finished ranting, and he had already tried to cheer you up, given you his advice, and even offered to help you with your project.

“Please.” You sighed.

“How do you need me?” He asked.

“Just stay still.” You said, climbing into his lap.

“I can do that.”

“And stay quiet.” You added, narrowing your eyes.

“Oh, I thought you liked it when I talk dirty. I felt you clench on my fingers when I talked like that and when I praised you.”

You slapped his chest. “Since when are you this smug? What did you do to my best friend?”

“Since you complimented my oral skills.” His grin widened.

You rolled your eyes.

“What? You had been trying since we met to boost my confidence; it's finally working.”He said, putting a strand of hair behind your ear. “Take the win, Bunny.”

“Fine, you can talk. Can I hump you now?”

“I’m all yours.”

You chuckled and braced your hands at each side of his head, grabbing the back of the couch.

You rolled your hips, feeling him getting hard under you.

“Fuck, Bunny, why do I feel this is helping me more than it's doing for you?”

“Believe me, it is helping.” You whimpered with eyes closed, leaning towards him. “So much.” Your voice cracked.

“You’re doing so well.” He praised.

“Thanks for the help, Bucky.” You huffed a laugh.

“I can help you even more, if you want.”

You straightened your back and stared down at him. “How?”

Bucky guided his hands and grabbed the hem of his your oversized shirt, taking it off and leaving you half naked, since your bra had been removed earlier that day.

“I can put my oral skills to use.” He cupped your breast and guided your nipple to his mouth, just brushing his lips against it. “I’ve been wanting to give them the attention they deserve since I noticed how… sensitive they are.”

With the tip of his tongue, he circled your nipple, keeping eye contact with you. You stared down at him, biting your lip to hide your smile, shaking your head slightly at his smug behavior.

You liked it.

Confidence suited him well.

He blew air over your wet skin. “Keep going, Bunny.”

You whined when he took your nipple into his mouth, sucking at it while playing with his tongue over it. You leaned into him and continued dry-humping him.

“Turn around.” He ordered after a few minutes.

“Huh?”

“You still have that frown on your face; you're still thinking about it. Let me help you.”

You sighed and then turned onto his lap, his hard cock snuggled under your ass.

“What now?”

He placed his hands on your waist and pulled you to him. “Lean back, Bunny.” You did so, until your back hit his chest, and your head could rest over his shoulder. “Now relax.” He kissed your naked shoulder.

He returned his attention to your breast, alternating to not leave any too long neglected. With his other hand, he traced lazy figures on your navel and, slowly, oh so painfully slowly, he guided his hand under your clothes.

Your hips jolted at the feeling of his fingers grazing your clit.

“Open your legs, let me touch you.” He mumbled in the shell of your ear, and you complied, spreading your legs over his, his knees under you, locking you in place. “That’s it, good Bunny.”

You whimpered, responding to each movement of his fingers with a roll of your hips, grinding on his cock. His ragged breath on your neck gave him away as to how worked up he was, so you decided to give him a hand. Literally.

You shifted forward to give enough space for your hand to sneak between your bodies, and began stroking him under his pants.

“Fuck, Bunny, this is about you.”

“I want you to feel good too.” You muttered.

He pushed two fingers inside you, matching each stroke you gave his cock with the pumping of his fingers. In. Out. In. Out. Each time you rubbed his tip, he curled his fingers, pressing them on your sweet spot.

“Oh, that feels good.” Your head lolled back, eyes fluttering shut as you got lost in the sensation.

“Yeah, bunny? That's good, you're doing so well.” He cooed.

Your free hand gripped the couch, as fireworks went off inside you; the lewd sound of his fingers inside you increased when you gushed around his fingers.

“That’s it, Bunny, let go.”

As you squirmed over his lap, your hold on his cock tightened; his hips jolted forward, fucking himself on your fist, and seconds later, he came.

Your breath was still uneven when you let out a soft chuckle, resting your head on his shoulder.

“You okay?” He asked, puzzled by your sudden laugh.

“Why was I even stressed about?”

He mirrored your chuckle. “I dunno.”

You turned, your nose slightly brushing his face. He did his best not to kiss you right there. To his surprise, you kissed his cheek.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

“The pleasure is mine, literally.”

You giggled and peeled yourself off him. You reached for the tissue box that you had placed on the coffee table since all this started, and cleaned your hands, as well as your inner thighs. When you were done, you passed the box to Bucky to clean himself.

“Shower and a movie in a few minutes?” You suggested, standing up and stretching, still topless.

“Of course.” He said, keeping his eyes down.

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Don't make it weird; you're acting as if you didn't have your mouth attached to my chest like 5 minutes ago.”

“If I look up, I’d want to do it again.”

You thought he was joking, so you slapped his arm playfully. “Of course, Buck, whatever you say.” Your shoulders were still shaking with laughter as you walked to your room, leaving him in the living room to contemplate if all of this had been a mistake.

It became a regular thing then.

You got better at it, reading each other and finding stolen moments to get each other off. Trouble, of course, appeared sooner rather than later — because obviously, none of you had told any of your friends.

Steve was the first to almost catch you, and it had been your fault. That day, on your way home, you had texted Bucky, asking him if he was home after a stressful day. You made the mistake of not reading his text, and when you got to your apartment, you had walked down the hallway straight to his room.

“I’m home,” you said, removing your jacket and throwing it to the floor. You began undoing the buttons of your shirt as you pushed his door open. “You won't believe the day I had. I’m gonna need you to— Steve! Hi!” You widened your eyes and quickly covered your already exposed bra when you found Steve sitting at Bucky’s desk.

Steve blushed and said your name, gesturing a hello. You thanked God that you hadn't entered his room without pants, as you two had begun to wander inside the apartment in your underwear with nothing more than an oversized shirt in your case or sweatpants and a shirt in his.

“Bucky didn't tell me you would be here.” You said under a fake smile.

Bucky got back into the room, finding you standing by the door.

“I guess you didn't get my text,” Bucky mumbled in equal shock to you.

“I did not.” You turned on your heels, giving your back to Steve. “I’ll be in my room.”

Bucky mouthed sorry to you, and you quickly scrambled out of the room. When you took out your phone, his text mocked at you, reading that Steve had come to the apartment by surprise since he needed some tutoring, and that he would be more than happy to help you out as soon as he walked out.

Another time, not as embarrassing as that one, had occurred on campus. You and Yelena were eating some ice cream that the student committee had been giving out when Bucky found you.

“Hi, Bunny.” He greeted you, standing right in front of you.

“Hi! Want some?” You offered your cone as you had done multiple times in the past. He nodded, but instead of taking the cone from your hands, he leaned in, covering your hand with his as he licked a strip of melted ice cream and then sucked some more, all while staring right at you.

“Mmm, my favorite.” The tip of his tongue peeked out of his lips, collecting any residue of the cold dessert, as he kept eye contact.

Fuck me.

You might as well have combusted in the spot; you were horny as fuck since you hadn't had any action since your period started, contrary to him, who had been on the receiving end of your blowjobs.

“I’ll be staying after class at the library. Text me what you want me to get to dinner, okay?”

You hummed, still staring at his mouth. He dared to smile.

“Good.” He finally turned to see Yelena, who had watched the whole exchange like a hawk. “Yelena.” He nodded at her. “Catch you later, Bunny, thank you for sharing.”

And then he was gone.

“The fuck was that?” Yelena exclaimed.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” You busied yourself back into finishing your ice cream, ignoring the way her eyes were burning the side of your head.

“Are you guys fucking in your apartment? Is that why we haven't done a sleepover recently?” Yelena accused, making you choke on your ice cream.

“What the fuck, Lena?” You coughed. “We haven't done any sleepovers because you have been sleeping at Kate’s since you started hooking up.”

“Hey, we sometimes stay at mine. And don't change the subject; you didn't answer.”

“We’re not. We’re roommates, and he's my best friend.”

“I’m your best friend too, but you don't look at me like that, do you?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “If that wasn't sexual tension, I don't know what it was.”

“Maybe you're projecting."

She slapped your arm. "Shut up. But you might be right; thankfully, my period is over, so..." she grinned, already thinking of her date night with Kate.

"Lucky girl."

"Going back to you and Bucky. Why the hell does he even keep calling you Bunny?" She scoffed. "It sounds so… sexual, you know?"

"I already told you, he has been calling me that since your birthday. He couldn't hear my name over the music, so he called me by my costume."

"I know that, but that was during the first semester, ages ago, before you two lived together. He knows your name by now."

"It's just a cute nickname. I like it." You shrugged, but you couldn't lie; the nickname had begun to sound more intimate the last couple of weeks, especially since each time he said it with a much more sultry voice than he did before, it took you back to not-so-innocent moments.

"Dot and every guy you had dated hated it, which reminds me — Do you want to go out on a double date with Kate and me? She has this friend that I'm sure is your type. Who knows, Bob might give you a hand and break your dry spell."

You scrunched your nose at her suggestion. Something about someone else touching you in a sexual context made you sick. "I'm fine, Lena. I'm good with my own hands and toys, thank you very much."

"Ugh, you're no fun." She groaned. "The offer is there. Bob is a great guy, but Bucky isn't a bad choice either, if you two decide to finally start dating."

You gave her a shoulder check and resumed your walk towards your next lecture.

If only she knew.

You two were just having fun, helping each other out. You reminded yourself frequently.

You made each other get the edge off… in the kitchen, in the dining room, in the living room, in the hallway, in his room, in the laundry room, in the hallway, in his car. While, after, and before studying or going to work.

His gaming sessions weren't an exception.

Usually, even before you started this, while he was playing video games in his room, you would find your way there and read on his bed or play one of your cozy games on your portable console. Sometimes you would grab popcorn and other snacks, sit next to him, and watch him play.

It stopped being innocent one time you were reading another smutty book that got you so worked up that you ended up touching yourself on his bed. Bucky had looked over his shoulder after you let out a whimper before covering your mouth. He muted himself and asked you to approach. Once you were next to him, he patted his thigh and asked you to sit facing his setup.

“Grind, Bunny. Make yourself feel good.” He muttered before he lowered his mic again and unmuted, going back to his game. You rolled your hips over his thigh, leaving a wet spot on his skin. You leaned on his desk and buried your head in your arms to muffle your cries.

Since both of his hands were occupied, he gave you his attention by kissing your shoulder from time to time. Whenever he was killed in-game and had to spectate his teammates, he took you by the hips and aided you in your movements — sometimes he would die on purpose early on the match so he could play with your clit with one hand and cover your mouth with the other.

When you were close to your climax, he muted his mic, and with his warm mouth in your ear, he praised you as you came, ignoring the trash talk from Sam and Steve about how shitty he was playing that day. In return for the favor, you had sunk to your knees under his desk and suck him off while the other match started, making him lose again and bark an excuse to his friends to disconnect, and then took you to his bed to make you sit on his face while you kept his cock deep in your throat.

The first night Bucky slept with you in your bed after this agreement started hadn't been planned. You had slept together before; naturally, after so much time knowing each other, you had taken naps on the living room couch, or in his bed if you fell asleep there, but your room had been the exception — until that night.

"Hey, are you still awake?" Bucky asked from the other side of your door.

"Come in." You replied with a yawn.

"Did I wake you up?" He peeked his head out, opening the door slightly.

"You didn't. What's up?"

He was standing by the door, visibly nervous.

"Bucky?"

"Can I lie down with you?" He sounded tired. You knew he hadn't been sleeping well, too stressed about his projects. He always pressured himself; you had called him out many times, but he had been raised this way, and old habits died hard.

"Of course you can."

He climbed into your bed and lay down under the covers behind you since you were on your side. His arms quickly wrapped around you, one tucked under your head and the other around your waist, pulling your back into his chest.

You stayed silent in that position, caressing his arm around you, feeling his warm breath on the back of your neck.

“They will still love you if you don't get straight A’s, you know?” His hold around you tightened.

“I'm not so sure about that.” He replied, his voice sounded so… small.

“Well, I do. Because I don't care if you get an A or a C. You're still you, and I love you for that.” You said. “You’re kind, gentle, and yeah, you're a little awkward, and sometimes you forget how to socialize properly—”

You smiled triumphantly when he chuckled.

“Shut up.”

“You are funny, smart, and the best human being that I know of — not because you are perfect, but because you get up every morning and just… try.”

“Bunny…”

“And if your parents don't see that, fuck them, seriously. You don't need to go back there during the break. You can stay here, or go with me to my hometown, or even better, we can both take that trip you always tell me about.”

You couldn't see him, but you felt him melting around you, embracing you close as his breath eased.

“I'm so lucky to have you as a friend.” He mumbles

“Of course you are. I'm amazing.” You chuckled.

“Yes, you are.” He kissed your shoulder over your pajama shirt. "I hope you know all those wonderful things also apply to you. In fact, let's add it to the house rules.”

“What do you suggest?”

“No more stressing over school; we are allowed to fail. How about that?”

You hummed, “I like that. Took us long enough, but it's a good rule now that it's our final year.”

“Let’s try to sleep, Bunny.” He said, closing his eyes.

“I'm trying, but a big nerd came into my room in the middle of the night and won't stop talking.”

“Shut up.” He kicked your leg.

You returned the kick. “You shut up.”

“Shh.”

Stillness lasted almost an hour; you both were already drifting in your sleep when you shifted your hips slightly, brushing against his front. You stayed like that until you fell asleep.

In his sleep, Bucky jerked his hips forward in a sloppy rhythm, which woke you up eventually. Your eyes adjusted to the dark of the room, unable to move since he had you trapped against him.

“Mmm, Bunny.” You heard him whine; his hips were thrusting against your ass, his cock hardening with each movement.

You blinked away sleep and turned over your shoulder; to your surprise, he was asleep, mouth slightly open and chest rising in a steady rhythm.

He moaned your name, and you wouldn't lie, having him basically humping you from behind and moaning in your ear was making your panties wet.

His hand, that had been resting heavily over the curve of your waist, moved down, resting lower, dangerously close to your pussy.

“Bucky, wake up.” You managed to say, biting back a whimper from your part. “Bucky.”

“Mmm?” He hummed, keeping his eyes closed.

“You’re…” You squeezed his arm, but he didn't let you finish. As soon as he regained consciousness, his throbbing cock called his attention; the need to cum ran hot all over his body.

He tensed when he realized what he had been doing.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry, Bunny.” His voice was thick with sleep. He moved his hips away from you, but yours followed. “Bunny?”

“Wait. Do you need help with that?” You whispered, wiggling your ass against him.

He choked a moan.

“Bunny…”

“I can help.”

“We said no penetration.” He sounded pained.

You bit your lip and then shifted, angling yourself so his cock was nuzzled right below your ass cheeks.

“You don't need to put it in. Just… use my thighs.” You offered.

He was speechless.

“Did you read that in one of those books?” He teased.

“Shut up. Do you want to try it or not?” You wiggled your ass again, making him jolt forward.

“Fuck, wait, don't we need lube or something?”

You looked over your shoulder. “Bottom drawer, behind you.” He looked at you. You rolled your eyes. “I use it with my sex toys, dumbass.”

He would definitely ask about it later, maybe even ask you to give him a demonstration.

Bucky peeled himself from you to reach the drawer. When he opened it, he saw some silky bags of different sizes, a bottle, and a small towel. His curiosity won over, and he took one of the smaller bags, as well as the bottle of lube and the towel.

You turned on your back when you heard the shuffling behind you; he had turned on the lamp on your bedside table.

“I told you to grab the lube.” You scolded him.

“Which one is this?” He held the silky bag high so you could see it.

Your eyes trailed from the bag to his eyes. “My vibrating bullet.”

You saw the devilish grin that appeared on his face. He could picture you perfectly, on your back in your bed late at night after he had fallen asleep next door, holding the vibrator under your panties, your mouth hanging open in a silent cry, brows knitted in the expression he had come to learn like the back of his hand.

His cock twitched.

“Can you use it while I fuck your thighs?” He asked, even if the warm soft light only lit one side of his face, you noticed his heavy-lidded dark eyes; the bright blue was only a slim ring around his blown pupils.

You sighed through your nose, but nodded. The idea sounded really, really good. You lifted your hand and gestured for him to give you the bag.

Bucky let out a happy noise and then proceeded to free his hard cock. He put some lube on his palm and then smeared it along his length. He positioned himself back into position and then slid his cock between your thighs.

You were looking down, watching as his wet tip peeked between your plush skin. You lowered your hand and teased his tip when it peeked out.

“Fuck, Bunny.” He groaned behind you, resting his forehead against your shoulder as he rolled his hips. “Use it, make yourself good, please.”

You complied, taking out the vibrator from the bag after he handed you the lube.

The moment the added stimulation registered in your body, your hips jolted back, meeting his thrust and making both of you moan in unison.

Bucky gripped your hips, keeping you steady as he fucked himself between your legs. With the angle you held your hips, the bottom side of the vibrator brushed his tip when he rutted in.

“Fuck, Bunny, you're taking me so well.”

You whimpered his name, turning your head slightly and kissing his arm that was still tucked under your head.

“Keep going, don't stop.” You encouraged him, tightening your hold around his cock by crossing your legs.

He cursed, digging his fingers into your hips.

“Oh God, I’m not gonna last.”

“It's okay, cum Bucky, cum for me.”

He came with a groan, his hips jerked in sloppy thrusts until every drop dripped between your thighs. With his hand, he turned your face, and keeping eye contact, you came undone, with hot pleasure ripping you apart and pulling you back together for his eyes only.

Mouth hanging open.

Lips trembling.

Brows knitted.

Bucky really wished he could've kissed you in that moment. Muffle your cries with his lips, drink up your moans, and your taste.

But he didn't.

He just stared at you in awe, and if he hadn't just come, he was sure he would've reached ecstasy the moment your eyes locked in his.

He held you in his arms until you came back into your body, and after a few minutes, he got up with the towel in his hand. He emerged from your bathroom after cleaning himself, with your towel now warm in his hand.

Bucky climbed the bed, and mumbling praises, he cleaned the residue of his spent and lube from between your thighs, then he removed your soaked panties, and cleaned the evidence of your arousal.

He discarded the towel, and after roaming in the drawer you pointed out, he took a new pair of panties and, to your surprise, he put them on you, leaving a kiss on your inner thigh when he was done.

Back in your bed, he took his place behind you and cuddled you, holding you in his arms as sleep took over.

Those nights repeated, especially once the semester got to that point where both of you lived and breathed projects and heavy assignments.

Sometimes he would find his way into your room, giving you an orgasm or two before falling asleep. Morning with him also meant waking up with his mouth on you, kissing down your body, or tongue deep in your pussy.

“I like to taste you first thing in the morning. Works better than caffeine.” He had said the first time you had woken up with him under the covers.

You returned the favor, of course, waking him up, stroking him, or with his cock deep in your throat.

The mornings in your room together led to a shower together — only when your shower routine allowed it — and then to the kitchen, where both worked on breakfast. It was easy, the domesticity of all; it made your heart gallop and stop at the same time.

You knew things had changed; god, they probably changed before this whole agreement, somewhere between doing groceries and movie nights with your roommate.

Of course, you weren't the only one who had noticed that change.

“Okay, spit it out, tell me what's going on?” Yelena asked, rolling the grocery cart.

Bucky’s birthday was the following day, and you had been working on his surprise party, which meant an express grocery visit to buy all the last-minute items.

“I don't know what you are talking about.” You muttered, taking several bags of chips and dumping them on top of the napkins.

“Oh, but you know. You had been glowing this past week, and I know you; I know when you're hiding something.”

“Lena, just drop it; nothing is going on.”

She hummed.

You thought she had, in fact, dropped it. She didn't.

“You know,” she said once everything was loaded in her car, and she got ready to drive out of the parking lot. “Jason asked about you.”

“Jason?”

“Tall guy, huge biceps, dreamy eyes. You hooked up with him during first year.” She detailed, keeping her eyes on the road.

Oh.

Jason.

The one Bucky had found you tongue deep in his throat.

That Jason.

“I remember.”

“Well, he is a friend of Kate. I met him at a reunion with her group of friends.”

“Sounds like you're finally going steady.”

“Stop deflecting.” She said, giving you side-eye. “He recognized me, asked about you, and I invited him to Bucky’s party, so you can reconnect.”

You widened your eyes. This was the last thing you needed.

“Yelena Belova.” You scolded.

“Wow, full government name.”

“Why the fuck did you invite him? He doesn't even know Bucky!”

“Kate also doesn't know him, and she's going.”

“That's different! She's your girlfriend.” You slapped her arm. “Uninvite him! I don't care! He's not coming.”

“Jesus, woman, I’m just trying to help you out! Exams had been stressful; maybe you need to fuck the stress out, you know.”

“Well, don't. I'm totally fine, I do not need more help.” The words spilled out of your mouth, blinded by the successful rage bait that your friend just did.

Yelena grinned.

“So you are getting help with that. I knew it. You looked extra chirpy these last months.” You widened your eyes in horror. “So who's the lucky guy?”

She glanced at you for a second, a quick read of your face, and then her jaw dropped.

“Oh, my God! Are you and Bucky finally together? Is this why I haven't been at your apartment? You don't want me to disrupt your love nest!”

You buried your face in your hands. “Shut up.”

She squealed.

“That’s not a no!”

“Lena, we are not together… we are just having fun.”

“You don't sound like you're having fun.” Her brows knitted with concern. “Babes, what’s the problem?”

“We are fuckbuddies. But I’m not sure if he wants more.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No. Well — I suggested some rules at the beginning; he agreed.”

“God, babes, for someone so smart, sometimes you do be an idiot.”

“Excuse me?”

“Haven’t you stopped to think that maybe he agreed and you put those rules, because both of you thought that was the only way the other would agree to be that close to actually being something real?”

You shook your head.

“Babes, that guy has been head over heels for you since that night you met. And you had been too!” You opened your mouth. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

You rolled your eyes and huffed a breath out of your nose. “I actually was about to agree with you.”

“That's a first. Continue.”

“I’m such an idiot, but how do I even start undoing it?”

Yelena parked her car right outside your building.

“Maybe start undoing all those rules of yours.” She shrugged.

And you took it literally.

Maybe it was a mistake, and you should have stopped to think about it more clearly, but you were desperate.

Yelena left after she helped you take all the groceries upstairs and hide everything out of Bucky’s sight — which, in retrospect, wasn't necessary since Bucky knew you always threw a party for him. The only surprise was the theme.

And this year, the last birthday being a college student, the theme was costumes.

Just like the day you met.

Bucky arrived at the apartment a few hours later, coming back from hanging out with Steve, who, as every birthday week of his, was tasked with keeping him busy and out of the apartment if needed.

“Bunny! I’m home!” Bucky exclaimed, peeling off his jacket.

“In my room!” You shouted without peeking out.

You heard him padding around the apartment, and just as you predicted, he opened your door seconds later.

“Bunny…” Bucky mumbled, flabbergasted.

You were standing just outside of your bathroom, resting with one hand extended towards the wall. You were wearing a white lacy set of lingerie, paired with an open silky translucent robe that framed your body. On top of your head, like a crown of a queen, were the same bunny ears that you had been wearing the night you met.

“Happy early birthday, Buck.” You said with a smirk.

“Angel…” He said, mouth dry.

“Wasn't I your Bunny?” You pouted.

“You look like an angel.” You chuckled, walking barefoot towards him. “I have died, and I’m in heaven.”

“Easy, you're not dead yet.” You stopped in front of him, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. His hands shot to hold your naked waist to keep you steady; he didn't remove them even when your heels touched the floor. “This ain't your birthday gift, though; this is a sneak peek at your party tomorrow. You have to pick a costume.”

His eyes widened. “You’ll be wearing this tomorrow?”

“The bunny ears. But this will be under the dress.” You winked at him.

And he whimpered.

He actually whimpered.

“That's torture. Do you know how hard it would be to keep my hands away from you, knowing that?”

Maybe you don't need to. You wanted to say.

“Someone will have to restrain me so I don't end up giving a show out there.” He added.

You laughed.

“Yeah, maybe you should keep that for the bedroom.”

“Or at least until we are alone.”

“Smart.”

“Is that why you're showing me now?” He asked, his hands pulling you closer to him, forcing you to look up to meet his eyes. “To taunt me.”

You nodded. “That, and because I wanted to try out something.”

“What?” He scanned your face, stopping for several seconds at your lips.

You took it as a green light.

You stood again on your tiptoes, resting your hands over his shoulder and the nape of his neck.

And then you kissed him.

He gasped in your mouth, but then he melted in the kiss, cupping your head to control the angle, deepening the kiss.

Heat spread all over your body, overheating you to the point you felt like you were on fire. Without leaving his lips, you removed your robe and then pulled him from his collar, guiding him to your bed until he was lying over you.

“Bunny… the rules.” He said, pulling himself away from your lips, a pained look on his face.

“Forget them.” You guided him back to you, and he surrendered.

Your hands traveled around his body, touching whenever they could reach, pulling at his clothes to remove them.

“I want to feel you.” You whimpered.

“Okay.” He nodded, kissing your neck. He removed his shirt; his jeans followed shortly after, landing near his shoes and socks.

“Boxers too.” You mumbled against the crook of his neck.

Kissing and nipping the tender skin and making him groan.

He lay naked over you, your legs parted and hugging his hips, pulling him close until he could feel the growing wetness in your panties. Bucky moaned in your mouth, as you bucked your hips; the friction over his erection made him see stars.

This was new.

You knew it. He knew it.

Even when he fucked your thighs, he was never that close to your pussy. And when you were in a similar position, there were always at least two layers of clothes between you.

His hips rutted against you, and then you guided your hand between your bodies, pulling your panties to the side.

He gave you a puzzled look.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

“More than anything. I want to feel you.”

He whimpered, and after a nod, he resumed his grinding. You mewled as his heavy cock glided between your folds, kissing your clit with each dive.

“More, I need more.” You moaned. “Please, Bucky, give it to me.”

Bucky sat on his heels, looking down at your squirming figure, but you followed him up, meeting his lips in a passionate kiss. He got distracted, lost in your lips, to the point that when you pulled apart to lie back down, your panties and bra were gone, your glistening pussy exposed, weeping to have him inside.

The groan that left him was borderline animalistic. Knelt before you, he grabbed his cock with his fist and began rocking his hips, the tip of his cock hitting your clit with more pressure and precision. You spread yourself open for him, with your hands hooked behind your knees and holding your legs up.

“Bucky, please.” You groaned.

“What do you need, Bunny?”

“You, please, inside.”

He whined, “Bunny, no…”

“Why not?” You cried out.

“The rules.” He said simply.

“Fuck the rules.” You groaned. “I want you, all of you. Please, Bucky.” You begged.

He stilled his hips, needing to focus and think with his brain and not his other head. Because he wanted to feel you, too, bury himself in your heat.

“What if you regret it?” He searched your eyes, his concern only confirming what you already knew.

“I won't.” You worked to steady your breath. “Because I’ve been wanting these since I met you. Especially once I realized how much I love you.”

He shifted, too lost in his mind to realize he had done it, making his cock nuzzle between your folds and kiss your clit. You swallowed your moan.

“You love me?” His blue eyes, obscured by his desire, were bright with unshed tears.

You nodded frantically, and a chuckle escaped you, letting go of the strain of your legs but keeping yourself open. “So much it made me scared to lose you and stop myself from saying it out loud.” You confessed.

“Bunny —” He looked at you with a bright smile. “You don't have any idea of how much I love you.”

“I think I might have.” You smiled. “And I’m pretty sure that anyone who has met both of us knows how much we love each other.”

“Do you think that me gifting you flowers, any chance that I had, was too on the nose?” He scrunched his nose, leaning in and placing a hand next to your head.

You laughed, throwing your head back, making the bunny ears — that until that moment were forgotten — shift, and dig into your skull. Bucky noticed the discomfort in your face and reached out to place the bunny ears back in place.

“Yeah, probably. But me throwing myself in your arms right after might have contributed.” You said, lost in the tender way he looked at you.

“So we are both idiots, keeping each other away from what makes us happy.”

“Pretty much.”

“What now?” He looked at you.

“Well, right now we can continue what we were doing.” You bucked your hips, feeling the delicious drag of his cock against you. “After that, we can talk more about it, but let me tell you, I’m tired of the rules, tired of being a dirty secret, tired of loving you in the shadows.”

“I agree.”

“Do you want to be—” You clamped your hand over his mouth.

“Don't you dare ask me to be your girlfriend when we are about to have sex.” You threatened, and then you removed your hand.

“Later then.” He smiled. “Where were we?” He knitted his brows, feigning ignorance.

“I don't know, where do you think we were?” You teased.

“I think, Bunny.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours with each word he said. “I was about to fuck you.” His smug smile was bright when he pulled back enough to see your reaction. “Am I right?”

“Mhm.”

“Tell me if you need me to stop or change anything.” He instructed, lining himself with your entrance.

“Wait.” You gasped when you felt his tip tease your opening. He stopped, pulling back away from you. “Slow, please… You are big.”

He nodded, and then he pushed inside. Your mouth gaped, feeling your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth inside you.

“More.” You whined after a few shallow thrusts with only his tip inside you.

He sank deeper, your slick adding to the intrusion. Your hand shot to grip his forearm next to your head.

“You’re taking me so well, Bunny.” He praised. “My pretty Bunny, so wet and tight for me. Breathe, baby, you can do it.”

You mewled, feeling him reach deeper until he was buried to the hilt.

“That's it, so good, such a good bunny.” His voice cracked, pleasure ripping down his spine after a few thrusts.

Your legs returned to the initial position. Spread open, legs up. You felt him reach deeper, each drag adding pressure to your sweet spot.

“Oh fuck, right there.” You whined.

His pace fastened, tightening the coil in your belly with each drill of his hips. He rocked your entire body, making your breasts jiggle with each movement that made your ass hit his thighs, to the point that if he hadn't been holding you in place, he would've already pushed you out of bed.

You were creaming around him, mixing with his precum, forming a ring of slick at the bottom of his cock. The wet clap of skin against skin was loud, mixing with your moans and cries.

“Oh, Bunny, you feel so good. You're gripping me so tight, you don't want to let go, don't you? You want me to stay right there, nuzzled inside you.”

“Yes, ah, yes!” You cried out, wrapping your legs around him with a leglock, heels pressing his butt.

“Bunny, baby, I need to pull out,” Bucky said, groaning.

“Cum inside me, please, breed me.”

“Oh, Bunny.” He whimpered, his self-control snapping like a twig. “Is this why you said no penetration before — mmm, because you knew how much you'll want my cum inside you.”

You nodded.

“Please, I need it.”

His pace grew more erratic; he leaned in, arms braced so he could piston harder. Your arms wrapped around him, nails digging in his skin.

He knew very well that you were on the pill since long before you met him; still, the fantasy of getting you pregnant, marking you as his for the world to see, was making him dizzy in pleasure.

You were babbling now, too cockdrunk to even speak without slurring words that weren't yes, please, Bucky, fill me.

“Such a needy, Bunny.” He taunted you. “Come for me, baby, let me feel you.”

He felt you coming around him first, then he saw your pretty face contorted with pleasure.

Mouth hanging open.

Lips trembling.

Brows knitted.

Your legs trembled as you came, gushing around his cock. Your back arched.

And finally, he achieved what he had only been dreaming of. He kissed you, swallowing your moans.

Your climax triggered his, milking him as he spilled his seed inside you, filling you to the brim. His hips jerked; shallow thrusts made to pump his cum inside you and make it stay there.

“That’s it, Bunny. Take every drop.” He groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” You slurred, still on the peak of your climax that had prolonged with the joy of being bred.

You came down slowly, falling back into his arms as he cooed praises. He stayed buried inside you, just shifting enough to make you moan, and making sure not a single drop was wasted.

“That was…”

“Intense.” Bucky completed.

“Very much. When can we repeat?” You joked, making him laugh over you.

“My bunny and her jokes, I swear.” He kissed your lips. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you more.” You giggled when he kept peppering kisses all over your face and neck.

He pulled back slightly so he could see your whole face. “Are you okay?” he asked, straightening the bunny ears again.

“Never have been better, but I think my legs are cramped now.”

“Shit, Bunny!”

Bucky quickly straightened his back, bringing you up with him until you were sitting in his lap; the shift made some cum drip around his cock and down to the sheets.

“Better?” He kissed your shoulder, and as you got comfortable with your arms around him, he placed one hand on the curve of your ass, and the other caressed down your spine with lazy strokes.

You nodded, feeling sleepy and satisfied.

“Happy early birthday, Bucky.” You mumbled, reciprocating the caresses on his broad back.

“Thank you, Bunny. Best birthday present.” You nuzzled into his neck. “We are gonna have to explain a lot tomorrow.”

You considered lying, but you knew it would eventually come out.

“Yelena already knows.” You confessed. “She rage-baited me today until I spilled it out. I didn't tell her all the details — but she inferred we were sleeping together. She also helped me see how stupid I was not to tell you how I feel.”

He hummed.

“Why do you look so calm about it?” You narrowed your eyes at him, meeting his eyes and watching him blush. “Barnes?”

“Sam and Steve also know, superficially, nothing in detail. They've been nudging me to confess how much I love you for the past year, but I didn't want to risk our friendship.”

“Oh God, I can't believe our brain cells canceled each other.” You whined, mortified.

“If it helps, you're way smarter than I am; you at least made us progress — I was about to take my feelings to my grave.”

You slapped his arm. “Dumbass.”

He laughed.

“Ready to move?” You nodded against his shoulder. “What do you think about a bubble bath, soaking there until we look like raisins, and then we watch that movie you told me last time? I bought that ice cream you love.”

“Fuck me, you know me so well.”

“Of course I do, I’m your best friend.” He kissed your temple. “And your future boyfriend.”

“Yes, you are.” You smiled at him, and before he helped you stand up, you kissed him.

You were getting addicted to his kisses, you realized, which in part was great because you had so much time to make up for that you would be surprised if you ever were more than a few minutes without feeling his lips on you.

Time for new house rules.

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You had been an Avenger for three days.

Technically, you had been an Avenger for longer than that, if he counted the months of files, interviews, mission assessments, and cautious deliberation that had led Fury to finally put your name on the team roster. You had enhanced reflexes, a combat record that even Natasha raised an eyebrow at, and the kind of public image Stark’s media people had described as “valuable but chaotic.” You were a model, an occasional actress when a director could afford your schedule, a fixture at fashion weeks, charity galas, beach clubs, magazine covers, and gossip columns. You were also a very competent fighter with a worrying talent for making people underestimate you until they were already on the floor.

Bucky did not underestimate you.

That was what he told himself, anyway, watching you open every cabinet in the kitchen like you were personally offended by storage.

“Where do rich people hide mugs?” you asked.

Sam, who had been leaning against the counter with a bowl of cereal and the grim, protective posture of a man guarding the last of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, looked at you over his spoon. “You mean cabinets?”

“I checked cabinets.”

“You checked one cabinet.”

“It disappointed me.”

“There’s a difference.”

“This kitchen has seven ovens,” you said. “That feels excessive for people who eat protein bars like they’re being punished.”

“That’s because we are,” Sam said.

“You poor thing. Do you want me to call someone?”

“God, you’re worse before coffee.”

You gasped. “I haven’t had coffee?”

“You’re standing in the kitchen.”

“I’ve been betrayed by architecture.”

Bucky had not meant to laugh. It escaped him before he could stop it, barely more than a breath against the rim of his mug, but you heard it. Of course you heard it. Your attention snapped to him with terrifying precision.

Your sunglasses slid down your nose.

“Oh,” you said, with the pleased interest of a cat finding a glass too close to the edge of a table. “You laugh.”

“No,” Bucky said.

Sam snorted into his cereal.

You smiled at Bucky as if he had personally made your morning. “That was definitely a laugh.”

“It was a cough.”

“You should see a doctor about that. It sounded handsome.”

Bucky stared at you.

Sam put his spoon down. “And there it is.”

“There what is?” you asked, all innocence, which made it worse.

“The thing you do.”

“I do many things.”

“Yeah, and most of them are illegal in at least three states.”

You drifted closer to the counter, apparently unconcerned by the fact that Bucky had looked less startled the last time a man had pulled a knife on him in a parking garage. You rested your elbows on the marble and propped your chin in one hand, turning the full force of your attention on him.

“What’s your name again?”

“You know my name.”

“I know lots of names.” You smiled wider. “I wanted to hear you say it.”

Bucky took a sip of coffee. It bought him three seconds and no dignity.

“Barnes,” he said finally.

“Barnes,” you repeated, like you were trying it on. “Cute.”

“No.”

“Strong. Classic. Slightly broody. Very marketable.”

“I’m not marketable.”

“That’s what makes you marketable.” You lifted your sunglasses from your face and pushed them up into your hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll win you over one day.”

Bucky blinked.

Sam closed his eyes as if in prayer.

You said it so easily, so brightly, that for a second Bucky did not know what to do with it. People flirted with him sometimes. Not often, not casually, and never with the delighted confidence of someone announcing tomorrow’s weather. The flirting he noticed usually came wrapped in caution, curiosity, or the strange, hungry attention people gave the Winter Soldier when they had read too much, understood too little, and wanted to see what a ghost looked like up close.

This was different. You were not looking at the Winter Soldier. You were not even looking at Sergeant Barnes, the tragedy, the history lesson, the man out of time. You were looking at Bucky, annoyed and under-caffeinated at the kitchen island, with his hair still damp from the shower and his left hand curled around a mug someone had bought as a joke because it said “I survived another meeting that should have been an email.”

“I’m not something to win,” he said.

Your expression changed only slightly. The smile stayed, but something behind it softened with recognition, like you had heard the line he had not said and decided not to touch it in front of Sam.

Then you leaned across the counter, stole Sam’s coffee, and said, “We’ll workshop the phrasing.”

Sam made a wounded noise. “That was mine.”

“You called me ‘worse before coffee.’ This is justice.”

“I called you worse before your coffee.”

“Details.”

Bucky left the kitchen before you could catch the second laugh.

That was where it started.

It should have ended there, but you treated restraint like a rumor and Bucky’s sanity like a hobby. Within two weeks, you had settled into the compound as if you had been born under Stark-grade security lights. You learned where Tony hid the expensive snacks, which elevators were fastest when FRIDAY was not pretending not to judge you, and which training rooms had the best lighting for the occasional sponsored workout post Pepper pretended not to know about.

You were good at being watched. That was the thing Bucky noticed first, even before the flirting became a problem with a schedule. Cameras loved you. Rooms adjusted around you. People tracked your movements before they knew they were doing it, drawn by the easy glamour of someone who knew exactly how she looked and had decided to make that everyone else’s issue. You could turn your head half an inch and change the temperature of a photograph. You could laugh at a reporter’s question and make it sound like an answer.

Bucky understood performance. He had been made into one. The difference was that yours belonged to you. He respected the precision of it. The public saw sparkle, flirtation, lazy smiles, and a model who sometimes saved the world and somehow emerged from the fight with her eyeliner still intact. The team saw more. They saw the hours in the gym, the quick reads you made in the field, the way you listened when Steve gave instructions and ignored him when you had a better plan. They saw that you could play dumb in four languages and threaten someone in six.

Bucky saw all of that.

He also saw the way you looked for him when you entered a room. That was harder to ignore.

At first, he assumed you did it to everyone. You were friendly with Sam, outrageous with Tony, conspiratorial with Natasha, affectionate with Wanda, and shamelessly dramatic with Thor, who adored you after you once told him his arms looked like a horny Renaissance sculptor had carved them. You flirted like breathing, lightly and often, always with enough humor that nobody had to take it seriously unless they wanted to.

With Bucky, you made it personal. You found him in the gym one morning while he was working through a knife sequence alone. The compound was quiet, still blue with early light, most of the team asleep or pretending to be. He caught your reflection in the mirrored wall and kept moving, blade turning between his fingers as he shifted his weight, stepped, struck, pivoted, and reset.

“Morning, future husband.”

The knife stopped in his hand.

He looked at you through the mirror. “No.”

“You’re right. Too soon.” You set your water bottle on the bench. “Morning, future emotionally unavailable boyfriend.”

Bucky resumed the sequence. “That’s worse.”

“Morning, handsome man who definitely missed me.”

“I didn’t know you were gone.”

“That’s hurtful and untrue. You stared at my empty chair at dinner.”

“I was looking at the door.”

“Because you hoped I would come through it.”

“Because I was considering leaving.”

You pressed a hand to your chest. “God, the passion.”

He turned, knife loose in his hand. “Do you ever get tired?”

“Of you? Never.”

“Of talking.”

“Also no.”

Bucky pointed the knife toward the door. “Some of us are training.”

“Wonderful. I love a man with discipline.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not training in that.”

You glanced down at yourself, as if surprised to discover you had arrived dressed for exercise. “This is athletic wear.”

“That sweatshirt has no back.”

“It has some back.”

“It has sleeves and ambition.”

You grinned. “You noticed.”

Bucky made the mistake of looking. The sweatshirt dipped low between your shoulders, leaving a long line of bare skin above the band of your sports bra. It was impractical, which probably meant it cost more than some cars. It was also distracting, which was clearly the point.

He looked away too late.

You saw it. You always saw it.

“I knew you liked me,” you said.

“I noticed fabric was missing.”

“You noticed my back.”

“Hard not to when half your shirt surrendered.”

Your laugh came bright and easy. “You’re funny when you’re pretending not to flirt back.”

“I’m not flirting.”

“You’re bantering. That’s flirting with plausible deniability.”

“It’s arguing.”

“With cheekbones like yours? Impossible.”

Bucky exhaled and turned back toward the mirror. “Are you here to train or talk?”

“I can do both.”

“I’m devastated.”

You came onto the mat beside him and held out your hand. “Give me a knife.”

“No.”

“Afraid I’ll impress you?”

“Afraid you’ll stab me to make a point.”

“Only a little.”

He should not have given you one. That was his first mistake. His second was forgetting that beneath the designer nonsense and the sparkling public menace was someone Fury had recruited for a reason.

You moved beautifully. Bucky had seen you fight on missions, but missions were dirty and practical, all impact and adaptation. Here, with nothing exploding and no one yelling in his ear, he could see the shape of your training. You were fast, lighter on your feet than he expected, with a dancer’s control and a vicious sense of timing. You let him push you back twice, then changed rhythm on the third pass and came under his guard, stopping the dull practice blade a breath from his ribs.

You looked up at him through your lashes.

“Oops,” you said.

Bucky’s hand closed around your wrist.

You did not pull away.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your pulse beat steadily beneath his fingers, quick but controlled. You were warm from sparring, a flush high on your cheeks, and a loose strand of hair caught at the corner of your mouth.

Bucky noticed it. He hated that he noticed it.

Your smile softened into something less theatrical. “You okay?”

The question slipped under his ribs more effectively than the knife would have.

He let go. “Fine.”

You tilted your head. “That means yes, or that means stop asking?”

“It means fine.”

“Mm. We’ll workshop that too.”

“There’s no we.”

“There will be.” You spun the practice knife once and offered it back handle-first. “I’m very persuasive.”

“You’re very annoying.”

“Foreplay.”

Bucky choked on air.

You patted his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t worry, Barnes. I’ll win you over one day.”

He watched you leave because apparently he had lost control of his eyes.

From the doorway, without turning around, you called, “I can feel you staring.”

“I’m checking that you’re leaving.”

“Progress!”

After that, Sam started keeping score.

Every compliment became a point. Every accidental smile became evidence. Every time you blew Bucky a kiss across a briefing room, Sam looked personally blessed by the universe. Bucky threatened to throw him off the roof twice. Sam remained unmoved.

It would have been easier to ignore if you flirted with Bucky the way you flirted with everyone else, bright and careless and harmless enough to laugh off. But you saved him seats. You asked him to watch your back even when you did not need watching. You looked for him when you entered a room, and sometimes, when the joke softened at the edges, Bucky caught the dangerous shape of something honest underneath.

He liked your precision. He liked the moments when the smile slipped sideways into something observant. He liked that when you teased, you watched for the line. He liked that you had never once called his left arm cool, had never asked to touch it, had never stared at the place where metal met skin with anything but the same open appreciation you aimed at the rest of him.

He liked you, and that made the flirting dangerous.

Bucky had spent too long as a weapon in other people’s hands to enjoy becoming anyone’s entertainment. He knew that was not what you were doing. He knew it with the part of him that assessed threats and the quieter part that had begun to understand kindness when it wore teeth. Still, knowing did not make it easy.

You were a public person. You had exes whose names still trended whenever you attended the same event. Actors, athletes, heirs, musicians, one princess whose denial in an interview had been so unconvincing that even Steve had understood it. You had a reputation the tabloids loved because it sold beautifully: glamorous, flirtatious, unserious, impossible to keep, impossible not to want.

Bucky did not care about tabloids. He cared that you laughed when other people flirted with you. He cared that sometimes you touched their arms. He cared that you were generous with your attention in a way that made everyone feel chosen for exactly as long as you wanted them to. He cared that he had no right to care. He cared that the idea of being one more person orbiting you, one more name in a gossip column, made something old and defensive curl beneath his ribs.

So he pretended not to want.

It worked about as well as all his other bad ideas.

The mission in Prague should have helped. It did not.

You handled a weapons broker with old Hydra ties in a red dress and heels, broke his composure with a smile, and nearly broke his foot when he touched you without permission. Bucky watched from surveillance while Sam and Natasha pretended not to notice the exact moment his jaw locked.

By the time the mission went bad, you had already put two men down, stolen a handgun from a third, and greeted Bucky in the hallway with blood on your knuckles and a cheerful, “Hi, handsome.”

He caught your chin to check the graze on your cheek before he could stop himself.

“Careful,” you said softly. “A girl might think you like her.”

“Extraction first,” he said.

“Romance later?”

“Move.”

“Bossy,” you said, and then you moved.

After Prague, the teasing changed.

Not enough for anyone else to notice immediately. You were still shameless at breakfast, still dramatic in the gym, still prone to calling him gorgeous in public just to watch his left eye twitch. But sometimes, when the room was empty or nearly empty, you let the joke soften at the edges.

You brought him tea one night without making a big deal of it, setting the mug beside him on the balcony and leaning against the railing with your own. The city glittered below the tower, restless and alive.

“You’re thinking loudly,” you said.

He looked at you. “Didn’t know that was part of your power set.”

“It’s not. You get a line between your eyebrows.”

“Maybe I’m brooding.”

“You do that too, but this is different.”

He huffed, taking the mug. “You catalog my facial expressions?”

“Only the handsome ones.”

“Sounds time-consuming.”

“It is, but I’m committed.”

The familiar rhythm was there, but gentler. Bucky let it sit between you.

After a while, you asked, “Do you hate it?”

“What?”

“All of this.” You gestured vaguely, meaning the tower, the team, the city, the life none of you had chosen cleanly. “The attention.”

He looked down at the tea. “Some days.”

“Yeah.”

“You?”

You smiled without much humor. “Some days.”

It should have surprised him. It did not.

You turned your mug in both hands, rings catching the light. “People think it’s the cameras that get old, but cameras are easy. They don’t want anything you can’t predict. It’s the people who look at you and decide they know what’s there. The ones who think access and affection are the same thing.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “You’re good at making them think they got something.”

“I had to be.” You glanced at him. “It’s easier to choose what they take.”

He understood that too well.

Something in his expression must have shown it, because your voice gentled. “I don’t flirt with you because I think you’re easy to embarrass.”

“I am not easy to embarrass.”

“You once short-circuited because I called you pretty.”

“I didn’t short-circuit.”

“You walked into a chair.”

“It was in the way.”

“It was furniture, baby. That’s where it lived.”

Bucky shook his head, but the laugh came easier this time.

You smiled into your mug. “I flirt with you because I like you.”

The air changed.

You did not look away. Neither did he.

“You like everybody,” he said, because old defenses were familiar and his voice still worked around them.

Your smile stayed, but something in it dimmed.

“I’m nice to everybody,” you said. “That’s different.”

He knew that. He had known it for a while, which made his answer crueler than he meant it to be.

You looked back out over the city. “Anyway. Don’t look so scared. I wasn’t asking you to catch up all at once.”

He should have said something then. He knew that later, with a clarity that annoyed him. He should have told you that he liked you too and had no idea what to do with it because wanting things still felt like reaching across a minefield. He should have done anything except stand there holding the tea you had brought him and watching you retreat behind a smile.

Instead, he said nothing.

You did not punish him for it. That would have been easier. You kept being yourself, kept calling him handsome, kept saving him the seat beside you in briefings and pretending it was because you needed “emotional support eye candy.” But you stopped letting the softer moments linger.

Bucky noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything about you now.

Which was why the gala was a disaster before it even started. The event was one of Tony’s, though Pepper had done the actual work and Tony had mostly provided money, branding, and three separate opinions nobody asked for. Bucky tried to get out of it. Steve said attendance mattered. Sam said Bucky needed to stop treating black tie like a war crime. Natasha said nothing, which was worse because her silence contained judgment.

Then you walked into the common room before the cars arrived, and Bucky forgot every argument he had prepared.

You were wearing gold. Not bright gold, not the kind that shouted for attention because it did not know what else to do. This was deeper, warmer, a liquid shade that caught the light when you moved and made your skin look sunlit. The dress crossed over your chest and left your shoulders bare, fitted through the waist before falling in a long line that split high over one thigh. Your hair was styled away from your face. Your mouth was painted soft and glossy. Diamonds winked at your ears like little threats.

The room went briefly, stupidly quiet.

Tony recovered first. “Okay, great. So we’re all underdressed at our own event.”

“You look beautiful,” Steve said.

Wanda smiled. “Very beautiful.”

Sam whistled. “Damn. Barnes, you breathing?”

Bucky looked at him with murder in his heart.

You turned toward Bucky last, which was deliberate. He knew it was deliberate because he knew you now, knew the rhythm of your performances, the way you built a moment and chose where to land it. Your eyes moved over him in his black suit, slow enough to be rude, warm enough to make his spine tighten.

“Well,” you said. “There goes my ability to behave.”

Tony groaned. “Please don’t start before we’re in public.”

“I make no promises.”

Bucky adjusted his cuff because his hands needed something to do. “You ever behave?”

“For you? I could be convinced.”

“Unlikely.”

“Progress,” you said, pointing one manicured finger at him. “You didn’t say impossible.”

Sam leaned toward Steve. “I give him two hours.”

Steve looked confused. “For what?”

“For whatever emotional constipation this is to resolve.”

“I can hear you,” Bucky said.

“I know.”

You crossed the room and stopped in front of Bucky. Up close, your perfume wrapped around him, warm amber and something floral he could not name. Your smile was bright enough for the room, but your eyes searched his face with a quieter question beneath it.

“You clean up nice, Barnes.”

“So do you.”

For once, the answer came without a fight.

Your expression flickered.

Then Tony clapped his hands. “Wonderful. Compliments exchanged. Sexual tension acknowledged by everyone except the two people causing it. Let’s go raise money.”

Bucky was going to kill him.

The gala was worse than he expected. Not because of the security. That was manageable. Not because of the crowd either, though he disliked being surrounded by people who wanted to shake his hand and pretend they were not checking whether the metal one felt cold.

It was you. It was the way you belonged there.

The second you stepped onto the carpet, the cameras found you. Your whole posture shifted, not into someone false, exactly, but into someone sharpened for public consumption. You became the woman from magazine covers and fragrance campaigns, the one whose face sold fantasies Bucky did not want to examine too closely while standing three feet away from you.

Reporters called your name, and you gave them what they wanted. A smile over your shoulder. A laugh when one of them asked who you were wearing. A teasing answer when another asked whether there was anyone special in your life.

“Oh, I’m working on it,” you said, and somehow your eyes found Bucky past the cameras.

The reporters followed your gaze.

Sam made a sound as if he were choking on joy.

“Is that Sergeant Barnes?” someone called.

You widened your eyes with perfect innocence. “Is it?”

“Are you two here together?”

Bucky braced himself.

You only smiled and said, “We’re teammates.”

It was the right answer. The professional answer. The safe answer.

Bucky hated it.

Then you reached back without looking, caught his sleeve, and tugged him forward.

“Come on, handsome,” you murmured, low enough that only he heard. “You look like you’re about to bite someone.”

“You’d enjoy that too much.”

“Depends where.”

His brain briefly stopped producing language.

You smiled for the cameras.

Bucky stood beside you under the lights and tried not to look like a man thinking about teeth marks on your skin.

Inside, the ballroom was all polished marble, tall windows, white flowers, and wealth pretending to be benevolence. The Avengers were strategically scattered around the room, mingling with donors and keeping a casual watch, but Bucky barely paid attention to any of it.

You disappeared into the crowd like light through water.

He tried not to watch. He failed immediately.

Everywhere you went, people leaned in. Men and women, donors and celebrities, people with expensive watches and practiced laughs. You gave them that glittering public smile, touched a forearm here, accepted a kiss on the cheek there, let someone admire your dress with a grace that made Bucky’s hand curl around his glass until he heard the stem complain.

Sam appeared at his side. “You’re gonna break that.”

Bucky loosened his grip.

“You know,” Sam said, accepting a champagne flute from a passing waiter, “for a guy who’s not interested, you sure look like you’re planning to challenge half the room to ritual combat.”

“I’m watching security.”

“Security is not six foot two, British, and trying to make her laugh by the ice sculpture.”

Bucky’s gaze moved before he could stop it.

Sam hummed. “Interesting.”

“I hate you.”

“That has been established.”

The man beside you was exactly the kind of person Bucky had seen in magazines he pretended not to notice on coffee tables. An actor, probably. Handsome in a polished, expensive way, with dark blond hair, a white dinner jacket, and the lazy confidence of a man used to doors opening before he touched them. He was standing too close. You did not seem bothered. That was part of the problem.

You laughed at something he said.

Bucky hated him.

“Who is he?” Bucky asked.

“Oh, we’re doing that?”

“Wilson.”

Sam took a sip of champagne and looked delighted by the entire situation. “Julian Hale. Actor. British. Very famous cheekbones. Dated a princess once, if the internet is to be believed, which it isn’t, but sometimes it gets lucky.”

Across the room, Julian Hale touched your waist.

It was brief. A guiding hand, barely there, the kind of touch that could be explained away by the crowd, by the noise, by the half step he encouraged you to take so someone could pass behind you. You did not flinch. You did not step away. You kept smiling.

Bucky’s vision narrowed.

Sam’s voice changed. “Hey.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to invent a new international incident.”

“His hand’s on her.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s tone was careful now, without the teasing edge. “And she can remove it if she wants to.”

Bucky knew that. The knowledge landed hard because it was true. You were not helpless. You were not cornered. You had broken a weapons broker’s foot in heels and threatened his hand in Russian. If you wanted Julian Hale away from you, he would be away from you.

The problem was not that Bucky thought you needed saving. The problem was that he wanted to be allowed to care.

That was worse.

You looked up then, as if you felt the weight of him watching. Your eyes met his across the room. For half a second, the public smile slipped. Something else took its place, something private and questioning.

Bucky did nothing.

Julian leaned down to say something near your ear.

You looked away first.

Bucky set his glass on the nearest tray and walked toward the balcony. The night air helped, but not enough.

Outside, the music softened behind the closed doors, reduced to bass and strings through glass. The balcony overlooked the city, all lights and distance, and Bucky gripped the stone railing with both hands until the cold settled into his metal palm and the other hand stopped wanting to hit something.

He was being ridiculous. He knew that. He had no claim on you. He had made sure of it, in fact. Every time you had stepped closer, he had stepped back. Every time you had offered him a joke with honesty folded inside it, he had taken the joke and left the honesty untouched.

Except you had never been holding a knife.

You had been holding out your hand.

The door opened behind him.

Bucky did not turn around. “I’m not in the mood, Wilson.”

“Tragic,” you said. “I wore the good dress and everything.”

His eyes closed briefly. Of course.

You came to stand beside him at the railing, close but not touching. For once, you did not fill the silence immediately. Bucky could see you in the corner of his eye, gold dress shifting in the wind, one hand resting on the stone, the other holding your shoes by their delicate straps.

“You left your own party,” you said after a moment.

“Not my party.”

“You’re on the posters.”

“Against my will.”

“You look very handsome on them.”

He glanced at you despite himself. “That why you came out here? To tell me I photograph well?”

“I came out here because you disappeared.”

“You were busy.”

Your eyebrows rose slightly. “Was I?”

“With Hale.”

Bucky regretted it the second it left his mouth. Not because it was false, but because it sounded exactly like what it was: jealousy dressed badly as observation.

Your mouth curved. “Julian?”

“You on a first-name basis with everybody who puts a hand on you?”

The silence that followed was not loud, not dramatic, but it cut cleanly through the air between you.

Your smile faded.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

“That came out wrong,” he said.

“Did it?”

“Yes.”

“What part?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your posture had changed, the playful ease folding away into something guarded. Not hurt, exactly, or not only hurt. Disappointed. That was worse. He had seen you deflect rudeness from reporters, donors, strangers who thought your smile gave them permission. He had never wanted to be counted among them.

“All of it,” he said.

You studied him for a moment, then looked out over the city. “He’s an actor. We did a campaign together three years ago. He flirts because he likes attention, and I let him because attention is half of this room’s currency.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Bucky’s jaw worked.

You turned toward him, shoes dangling from two fingers, the city light catching in your earrings. “Because that sounded a little like you think I don’t know when someone is touching me.”

His chest tightened. “I don’t think that.”

“Good.”

“I know you can handle yourself.”

“Great.”

“That’s not what bothered me.”

Your expression shifted.

The admission sat between you, more revealing than he had intended, but Bucky forced himself not to retreat. He was tired of retreating. Tired of watching you offer him chances while he pretended they were traps.

Your voice went softer. “What bothered you?”

He looked down at his hands on the railing. Metal and flesh. Past and present. Both capable of holding too tightly if he was not careful.

“I didn’t like him touching you.”

The honesty was rough, but it was honest.

You inhaled slowly.

Bucky made himself meet your eyes. “I know I don’t have a right to that.”

“No,” you said. “You don’t.”

The answer landed where it should.

Then you stepped closer.

“But you could,” you said.

Bucky stared at you.

The city noise seemed very far away.

You smiled faintly, but there was no performance in it now. No cameras, no audience, no easy escape disguised as a joke. “That’s been on the table for a while, Barnes.”

His heart beat once, hard.

“You flirt with everyone,” he said, because apparently some stubborn, stupid part of him needed to hear you say it again.

“I perform with everyone.” Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth. “I flirt with you.”

He had no defense against that.

“You told me you liked me,” he said.

“I did.”

“I was an ass.”

“A little.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your expression softened. “I know.”

“I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“I know that too.”

The gentleness nearly undid him. Bucky could handle anger. Anger had edges he understood. He could handle teasing because it gave him somewhere to hide. But you were looking at him like you had seen the frightened thing beneath the jealousy and decided not to make it bleed for your entertainment.

He wanted to kiss you so badly it felt like pain.

You seemed to read that too. Your mouth curved, the menace returning just enough to make his pulse jump.

“Careful,” you said. “You’re looking at me like I’m winning.”

Bucky turned fully toward you. “You always this smug?”

“When I’m right.”

“You think you’re right?”

“I think you’re jealous, annoyed about it, wildly attracted to me, and about three seconds away from doing something reckless.”

He stepped closer. “That so?”

Your eyes brightened. “Two seconds.”

“Still think this is funny?”

“A little.” Your voice dipped. “I also think you should kiss me before I start flirting with someone else just to prove a point.”

His hand caught your waist. You went still, but not with fear. Bucky felt the change in you beneath his palm, the quick breath, the way your body answered before you had time to make a joke of it.

“Don’t,” he said.

Your eyes lifted to his. “Don’t what?”

“Flirt with someone else.”

The words should have embarrassed him. Maybe they would later. Right now, with you this close and the city wind moving around you, he could not make himself care.

Your smile faded into parted lips.

“Bucky,” you said, and it was the first time you had used his name instead of Barnes.

That was what broke him.

He kissed you. For a second, it was almost careful. His mouth found yours with all the restraint he had spent months pretending was indifference, one hand at your waist, the other still braced on the railing because touching you with both felt like admitting too much at once.

Then you made a soft, pleased sound against his mouth and everything careful in him snapped. Bucky pulled you closer. Your shoes dropped to the balcony with a quiet clatter, your hands coming up to grip his jacket as he deepened the kiss. You tasted like champagne and gloss, sweet and warm, and you kissed him like you had been waiting to do it for so long that patience had become offensive. Your fingers slid into his hair. He groaned before he could stop himself.

You smiled against his mouth.

He nipped at your lower lip in warning.

You gasped.

The sound went straight through him.

“Still annoying?” you whispered.

“Yes,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“Still not interested?”

He kissed your jaw, felt your pulse jump beneath his lips, and tightened his hand at your waist. “Don’t push it.”

“Oh, baby,” you breathed, and the endearment hit differently now, stripped of performance and made intimate by the way your voice trembled. “Pushing it is my best quality.”

Bucky drew back enough to look at you. Your lipstick was smudged. Your eyes were dark. The woman who had smiled for a hundred cameras looked at him like she wanted to be ruined somewhere private and had already decided he was the only man in the building qualified for the job.

His entire body went hot.

“We’re leaving,” he said.

Your brows lifted. “Are we?”

“Yes.”

“Together?”

He gave you a look.

There it was again, that wicked smile. “Just confirming. You’re new to this whole admitting-things process.”

Bucky bent, picked up your shoes, and caught your hand.

You laughed as he pulled you toward the door, bright enough that two people near the bar turned to look when you stepped back inside. Sam spotted you first, his face transforming with open delight.

Bucky glared at him. “No.”

Sam’s mouth opened.

“Wilson.”

Sam closed his mouth with visible effort.

You wiggled your fingers at him as Bucky guided you past. “Goodnight, Sam.”

Sam looked as if Christmas had come early. “Goodnight, future Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky kept walking.

You nearly tripped over your own laugh. “Future Mrs. Barnes?”

“Don’t encourage him.”

“I don’t know. It has a ring to it.”

Bucky leaned closer as you reached the corridor. “Keep talking, and I’ll throw you over my shoulder.”

The sound you made was small, sharp, and not laughter.

Bucky stopped walking.

Your voice softened. “Promise?”

Something dark and hot moved through him.

“Car,” he said.

“Elevator,” you countered.

“We’re not doing this in an elevator.”

“Cameras?” you guessed.

“Cameras.”

You paused. “Right. Sensible. Deeply disappointing, but sensible.”

The ride back to the tower was torture. The partition stayed up. Your shoes lay abandoned on the floor. Your lipstick was ruined, his tie was crooked, and every time your hand drifted toward his thigh, Bucky caught your wrist before you could make the driver’s job any more uncomfortable.

“You’re very strict for a man who just dragged me out of a gala,” you murmured.

“You were going to behave until we got upstairs.”

“I never agreed to that.”

“No,” he said, pulling you across the seat and into his lap with one arm around your waist. “You didn’t.”

Your breath caught, hands landing on his shoulders as your dress rode higher over your thighs.

Bucky’s hands settled at your hips. “This a problem?”

“No.” Your voice came out softer than before. “Definitely not.”

“You wanted attention.”

“I usually do.”

“You’ve got it.”

Your smile flickered, and for the first time that night, you looked almost overwhelmed.

Bucky stroked his thumbs over your hips. “Still with me?”

“Yeah.” You let out a breath and laughed quietly. “Sorry. It’s just…”

“What?”

“You.”

That did something stupid to his chest.

His hands tightened on your hips.

“Me?” he asked.

You nodded. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Barnes.”

His body reacted hard to the words, but underneath that, something else opened, uncertain and hungry in a way that had very little to do with sex and everything to do with being wanted by someone who knew he was difficult.

“Bucky,” he said.

Your brow creased. “What?”

“My name.” He swallowed. “When it’s like this, use my name.”

The softness that moved through your expression was almost unbearable.

Then you leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, your hands gentle at the sides of his face.

“Bucky,” you whispered against his mouth.

He held you tighter.

By the time the car reached the tower, both of you looked bad enough that Natasha stopped in the lobby, took one look at your face, Bucky’s mouth, and the shoes in his hand, and smiled.

“So I see,” she said.

Bucky kept walking. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“Eventually.”

Clint, who had been crossing the lobby beside her with a pastry in hand, pointed at Bucky. “Steve owes Sam twenty bucks.”

Bucky closed his eyes.

You grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the elevator. “Goodnight!”

Natasha’s voice followed you. “Hydrate.”

The elevator doors closed on your laughter. Bucky hit the button for the residential floors.

You leaned against the wall, still laughing. “Hydrate.”

“Don’t.”

“I like her.”

“Everyone likes her. That’s how she gets away with everything.”

“You like me, and I get away with almost nothing.”

Bucky looked over at you. “You think you get away with nothing?”

“With you? Absolutely not. You’re very mean to me.”

“You’ve been sexually harassing me for months.”

“I have been romantically persistent.”

“You called me a slutty Victorian ghost in front of Fury.”

“You were wearing that coat.”

“It was tactical.”

“It had drama buttons.”

Bucky stepped closer. “You like the coat.”

“I love the coat. I wanted to climb you like a tree in the coat.”

His mouth twitched. “At a debrief?”

“It was a very boring debrief.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet.” You hooked one finger into his loosened tie and tugged him closer. “Here you are.”

The elevator rose.

Bucky let himself be pulled. Your smile softened when he came near, and he thought, not for the first time, that the worst thing about you was not the flirting. It was the moments after, when the joke stepped aside and left all that wanting visible.

He cupped your jaw. “You sure?”

You blinked. “About you?”

“About tonight.”

The question sobered you slightly, but not in a bad way. You held his gaze. “Yes.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Two glasses of champagne over four hours, one of which I abandoned because Julian started explaining his movie to me.”

“Tragic.”

“Deeply.” Your fingers slid over his wrist. “I’m sure, Bucky.”

His name in your mouth still hit like a touch.

“And if I say something you don’t like?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you.”

“If I do something you don’t like?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“If you want to stop?”

“I’ll tell you.” Your voice softened. “I need you to believe me.”

He nodded once.

You leaned in, brushing your mouth over his. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

The elevator doors opened.

Bucky caught your hand and pulled you into the hall.

“Tell me,” he said.

Your steps faltered.

He looked back. “You had plenty to say before.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

Bucky smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

“Oh,” you said faintly. “You’re going to be awful.”

“You like awful.”

“I like you.”

He nearly lost the thread entirely.

His room was closer than yours. He chose his because it was familiar. Controlled. Sparse, though less than it had been when he first moved in. A few books on the shelf. A jacket over a chair. Clean sheets because Steve had once broken into his room, taken one look at the bed, and muttered something about “bachelor despair.”

Bucky unlocked the door. You stepped inside and went quiet. That, more than anything, made him nervous. He watched you take in the room, the low light, the neatly made bed, the absence of clutter. There was no judgment on your face. Just curiosity, and something like care.

“You can say it,” he said.

You turned back. “Say what?”

“That it looks like nobody lives here.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“But you thought it.”

“A little.” You walked to the bookshelf, trailing one finger along the spines without pulling anything out. “Mostly I thought it smells like you.”

Bucky shut the door. “That a good thing?”

You looked over your shoulder. “Very.”

The lock clicked. The sound changed the room.

He crossed the room slowly. You stayed where you were, one hand still on the shelf, chin lifted like a challenge.

“Last chance,” he said.

Your eyes darkened. “For you or me?”

“For behaving.”

That smile again. “I already told you I’m bad at that.”

Bucky stopped in front of you. “I noticed.”

“Still interested?”

His hand lifted to your face, thumb brushing the ruined edge of your lipstick. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Could be a friendly escort.”

“To my bedroom?”

“You’re old-fashioned.”

His thumb pressed lightly against your lower lip. “Open.”

Your lashes fluttered, and for one perfect second, you did exactly what he told you. Your lips parted beneath his thumb, breath warming his skin.

Then your eyes narrowed with returning mischief. You bit his thumb. Gently.

Bucky stared at you. You smiled around it.

He laughed once, low and disbelieving, and the sound seemed to please you until his metal hand closed around your hip and turned you, backing you into the shelf with careful force. Your breath caught. A few books shifted behind you.

“You think you’re cute?” he asked.

“I know I am.”

His mouth brushed your cheek. “You’ve been poking the monster for months, sweetheart.”

The pet name slipped out before he could stop it. He felt the effect immediately. Your breath stuttered, your hand tightening in his jacket. His gaze sharpened.

“Oh,” he murmured. “You like that.”

You looked irritated, which would have been more convincing if you were not flushed to your chest. “Don’t be so smug.”

“You’ve been smug since March.”

“I was charming.”

“You were a menace.”

“You liked it.”

His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, following the open slit in your dress. Your words caught as his fingers found warm skin.

“I did,” Bucky said.

Your eyes snapped to his.

He held your gaze, hand moving higher by slow degrees. “‘S’that what you wanted to hear?”

For once, you did not have an immediate answer.

He leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours. “You wanted to get under my skin so bad.”

“I did get under your skin.”

“Yeah.” His fingers tightened on your thigh. “You did.”

Your lips parted.

Bucky kissed you before you could fill the silence with something clever. He kissed you deep, pressing you back against the shelf until he felt your body yield beneath his. Your hands gripped his shoulders, then slid under his jacket, pushing it down his arms with impatience.

Your fingers went to his tie next.

Bucky caught both your wrists. You stilled immediately, breathless against his mouth.

His eyes searched yours. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Bucky,” you said, and the impatience in it soothed him more than any soft reassurance would have. “I swear to God, if you don’t touch me, I’m going to become difficult.”

“You’re already difficult.”

“I can get worse.”

“I know.”

You tugged against his grip. “Then do something about it.”

The last of his restraint went very, very quiet. Bucky released one wrist and guided you back toward the bed. You went willingly, though you tried to keep your smile in place. It slipped when the backs of your thighs hit the mattress. He stood in front of you, close enough that your knees brushed his legs.

For a moment, he just looked at you.

Your chin tipped up. “What?”

“Trying to decide where to start.”

Your breath caught.

Then, because you were you, your smile returned. “I can make suggestions.”

“I bet you can.”

“Several.”

“Generous.”

“I’m a giver.”

Bucky’s hand went to your jaw, not rough, but firm enough to quiet you. “You’re a brat.”

Your eyes lit.

He felt that reaction everywhere.

“And you like that too,” he said.

You swallowed. “Definitely.”

“Better.”

Your thighs pressed together.

Bucky noticed.

He lowered himself slowly, one knee touching the floor between your feet.

Your expression changed at once.

“Oh,” you said, much smaller than before.

Bucky looked up at you, his hands sliding over your calves. “Still got suggestions?”

Your mouth opened.

No sound came out.

He smiled again, slower this time. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

His lips brushed the inside of your knee.

You watched him like you were afraid to blink.

“I had a whole speech prepared,” you said.

His mouth moved higher. “Did you?”

“Very persuasive.”

“I’m sure.”

“I was going to tell you how much you want me.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, just above the slit of your dress. “I know how much I want you.”

Your breath hitched.

“Do you?” you asked.

Bucky looked up at you. “You want me to prove it?”

The answer left you quickly. “Yes.”

He smiled. “Good.”

His hands slid farther beneath your dress, slow enough to make it deliberate, warm flesh and cool metal moving over your thighs with the same careful pressure.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the mattress. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I’ve listened to you run your mouth for months.” His lips brushed higher, close enough that your next breath went uneven. “Let me have my fun.”

“Your fun is very mean.”

His mouth curved against the inside of your thigh. “You want me to stop?”

Your answer came too fast to be dignified. “No.”

Bucky’s smile deepened. His hand slipped higher, thumb tracing the edge of your underwear beneath the dress, and your knees tried to close around his shoulders. He let them. He even turned his head and kissed the inside of one thigh.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

You gave a breathless laugh. “I’m being polite.”

“Liar.”

“I am a delight.”

“You’re soaked.”

Your entire body went hot.

Bucky looked up at you with the unbearable calm of a man who knew exactly what he had found. His thumb pressed again, dragging lightly over damp fabric, and your grip on the mattress tightened hard enough that your knuckles ached.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “All that talking, and this is what you wanted?”

You swallowed. “Among other things.”

“Still making suggestions?”

“I’m trying to decide if I hate you.”

His eyes warmed. “You don’t.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but then he leaned in and kissed you over your underwear, and the argument vanished somewhere between your ribs and your throat. The sound that came out of you was embarrassingly soft. Bucky heard it anyway. His fingers flexed against your thighs, and the next kiss was slower, firmer, open-mouthed enough that your hips lifted before you could stop them.

He made a low sound of approval that went through you like heat.

“That’s it,” he said, the words rougher now. “There you are.”

His fingers hooked into your underwear. He paused there, waiting.

You looked down at him. “Bucky.”

That was all you had to say.

He drew them down your legs, taking his time despite the way his breathing had changed, and tucked them into his pocket with a look that made your pulse jump.

“Really?” you asked.

His hands returned to your thighs. “You want them back?”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

His smile was sharp. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he leaned in.

The first touch of his mouth was enough to knock the air from your lungs. Bucky groaned like he had been the one waiting, like the taste of you had answered some question he had been refusing to ask all night. His hands gripped your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the bed, and you fell back onto one elbow, the other hand flying to his hair.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

He hummed against you.

His tongue moved over you again, and your hand tightened in his hair.

“Bucky.”

He groaned at the sound of his name, one hand sliding higher to hold your hips down when they jerked toward his mouth. His mouth was hot and merciless, his stubble scraping the inside of your thighs, his metal hand cool against your hip where the dress had bunched around your waist.

You tried to say something. It came out as a broken little sound.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark enough to make your stomach twist.

“You had a comment?”

“I forgot it.”

“Good.”

“Smug,” you accused, but there was no strength behind it.

He kissed your thigh. “Pretty.”

That was unfair.

You made a sound that was half a laugh and half a whimper. “You can’t call me that when you’re down there.”

“I can call you whatever I want when you’re this wet for me.”

Your head tipped back, eyes closing. “Jesus.”

“That bother you?”

“No.”

“Then take it.”

His mouth returned before you could recover, and this time, two fingers pressed against you, spreading slickness before easing inside. Your body took him greedily, clenching around the slow push of his fingers, and Bucky’s groan vibrated against your clit.

Your hand tightened in his hair again. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He set a steady rhythm, fingers curling inside you while his mouth worked over you with devastating focus. The room narrowed to the scrape of his stubble, the pressure of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, the soft obscene sounds of his mouth between your legs. Your thighs began to tremble, and his metal hand shifted from your hip to your stomach, pressing you down when you tried to arch away from how good it felt.

“Don’t run,” he said against you.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m preserving my dignity.”

He laughed softly. “Little late for that.”

You would have cursed at him if he had not chosen that moment to curl his fingers again, hitting the place that made your whole body go tight. His name broke out of you, too loud, too needy, too honest, and Bucky made a sound like that alone could have ruined him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me have it.”

The orgasm hit hard enough that the room went white at the edges. You came with his mouth still on you and his fingers buried inside you, thighs shaking around his shoulders while he worked you through it. He softened his mouth, slowed his hand, but kept touching until your breath turned into little broken sounds and you had to tug at his hair.

“Bucky,” you gasped. “Too much.”

He stopped immediately.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your breathing.

Then he kissed the inside of your thigh, gentle now, and stood.

You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. His hair was a mess from your hands, his tie loose, his shirt still buttoned but wrinkled where you had grabbed him. His mouth was wet from you. He looked wrecked and controlled at the same time, which felt deeply unfair when you were sprawled on his bed with your dress around your waist and your ability to speak in complete sentences somewhere on the floor.

He leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head. “You okay?”

You nodded, then remembered words. “Yeah.”

His gaze searched yours. “Too much?”

“No.” Your hand lifted to his face, thumb brushing his lower lip. “Just enough to make me regret every time I let you leave a room without doing that.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Every time?”

“I’m dramatic, not dishonest.”

He turned his head and kissed your palm.

You caught his tie and pulled. “Come here.”

He came willingly, covering your body with his and kissing you deep. You tasted yourself on his mouth and moaned into it, hips lifting against him. He was hard where he pressed between your thighs, thick and restrained by the fabric of his pants, and the feel of him made you impatient all over again.

Your hands went to his shirt.

This time, he let you.

The buttons were more difficult than they had any right to be, mostly because he kept kissing you and partly because your fingers had not fully recovered. Bucky made a low, amused sound against your mouth when you fumbled with the third one.

“Don’t laugh,” you warned.

“I’m not.”

“You are spiritually laughing.”

“Spiritually?”

“Don’t question me while I’m undressing you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The words were dry, but his breath caught when your hands finally pushed the shirt open. You smoothed your palms over his chest, feeling the heat of him, the hard lines of muscle, the scars where skin changed and history refused to be quiet. He went very still beneath your touch.

You noticed immediately.

Your hands slowed. “Okay?”

His eyes flicked to yours.

For a second, the room held its breath.

Then he nodded. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Using my lines on me?”

“They’re good lines.”

His shoulders eased, just a little. “I’m sure.”

You sat up enough to kiss his chest, right over his heart. Bucky’s hand came to the back of your head, not pushing, just holding. You kissed another scar, then another, careful not because you thought he might break, but because you wanted him to know you saw him and wanted him anyway.

When you looked up, his expression had gone quiet in a way that stole some of the teasing from your tongue.

“Still with me?” you asked.

His hand slid along your cheek. “Yeah.”

The word came out rough.

You kissed him again. This time, the kiss was slower. His hands moved over your back, finding the closure of your dress, and you let him turn you enough to work it open. The fabric loosened with a soft whisper. He drew it down carefully, and you lifted your hips so he could pull it away.

Then you were in front of him in nothing but jewelry and the ruined remains of your composure.

Bucky stared.

You gave him half a smile. “Careful. A girl might get shy.”

“No, she won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

The answer landed low in your stomach.

He touched you then, both hands moving from your waist to your ribs, thumbs brushing beneath your breasts before he lowered his mouth to follow. Your head fell back as he kissed and licked and learned you with the same terrible patience he had used between your thighs. When his mouth closed around one nipple and his metal hand held your waist still, you arched hard enough that he had to press you back down.

“Sensitive,” he murmured.

“Observant.”

“Smart mouth.”

“You like my mouth.”

“I do.” His eyes lifted to yours. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”

Heat rushed through you. “Have you?”

“Every time you called me handsome in front of half the team.”

“You poor thing.”

“Every time you blew me a kiss across the gym.”

“I was motivating you.”

“Every time you bent over a briefing table like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

You blinked. “I always know what I’m doing.”

His mouth curved. “I know.”

Then he kissed lower, over your stomach, and the laugh that had been forming turned into a gasp.

You reached for his belt. “Bucky.”

He caught your wrist again, but only to bring your hand to his mouth and kiss your knuckles. “What do you want?”

“You.”

“Specific.”

“You are such an asshole.”

He smiled. “Specific,” he repeated.

You stared at him, breathing hard, pride fighting a losing battle with need.

“I want you inside me,” you said finally.

His expression changed.

“I can do that,” he said.

Your smile came back, softer this time. “Competent?”

His hand went to his belt. “Very.”

He stripped without performance, which somehow made it worse, shirt hitting the floor, belt sliding free, pants pushed down with a controlled impatience that told you he was closer to the edge than he looked. When he finally climbed back over you, bare and warm and heavy between your thighs, your ability to joke deserted you entirely.

He noticed.

“Quiet again,” he said, mouth brushing yours.

“Busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Reconsidering all my life choices.”

His smile softened. “Regrets?”

“Mostly that I didn’t try harder.”

Bucky laughed, but it caught when your hand slid between your bodies and wrapped around him. He was hot and thick in your palm, his hips pressing forward before he could stop himself. His forehead dropped to yours.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

“Not so cocky now, are you?” you whispered.

His eyes opened.

You smiled up at him, thumb stroking over the tip of his cock, and watched his restraint fray in real time.

He caught your wrist after another stroke. “Condom.”

It was not really a question, but you nodded toward the nightstand. “Please tell me Steve’s bachelor despair intervention included supplies.”

Bucky huffed a laugh and reached for the drawer. “He’s thorough.”

“Heroic, really.”

He found one, tore it open, then paused. “You’re sure?”

You looked at him then, at the seriousness under the heat, and something in you softened so quickly it almost hurt.

“I’m sure,” you said. “I want this. I want you.”

His jaw tightened.

You touched his face. “Bucky.”

He kissed you as he rolled the condom on, and the kiss was so intimate that it made the next moment feel even sharper. He settled between your thighs, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to you. The first press of him stole the air from your lungs.

He stopped immediately. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Your hands gripped his shoulders. “Just go slow.”

His forehead rested against yours. “I’ve got you.”

You believed him.

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust even though his breath was rough against your mouth and his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. The stretch was intense, almost too much, then perfect, then overwhelming all over again. You clung to him, nails pressing into his back, and Bucky whispered praise against your mouth until he was fully inside you and both of you went still.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved.

You had flirted with him for months. You had imagined this, wanted this, teased him because wanting him quietly had started to feel impossible. But imagination had not prepared you for the weight of him, the heat of him, the way his body covered yours like he had finally stopped deciding whether he deserved to be there.

Your throat tightened.

Bucky brushed his nose against yours. “Hey.”

You swallowed. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You managed a smile. “You’re just a lot.”

His mouth curved faintly. “I’ve heard that before.”

You pinched his side.

He laughed under his breath, then groaned when the movement made you clench around him. His eyes dropped closed.

“Oh,” you said, interest returning through the haze. “You like that.”

“Don’t start.”

“I think I should start.”

He drew his hips back slowly and pushed in again.

Your words dissolved.

Bucky’s smile was brief and devastating. “That’s what I thought.”

The pace stayed slow at first, deep enough to make your breath catch every time he filled you. His metal hand slid beneath your hip, lifting you slightly, changing the angle until pleasure sparked bright and sudden through your body. Your head fell back into the pillow.

“Bucky.”

“I know.” His voice was rough. “I know, sweetheart.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, needing more of his weight, more of his heat, more of the quiet sounds he made when you clenched around him.

He kissed you through it. Messy, breathless kisses that kept breaking when one of you moaned or when his rhythm faltered because you dragged your nails down his back. He muttered your name against your mouth, then against your throat, then into the curve of your shoulder as the careful pace began to slip.

You liked the moment he lost patience.

You liked it more than you should have.

One second, he was controlled, moving like he could make restraint last all night if he had to. The next, your hips lifted into his at the wrong angle or the right one, and something in him broke. He caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with his metal hand, the cool pressure making your whole body tighten around him.

His eyes snapped to yours. “Okay?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, don’t stop.”

He did not.

The next thrust drove you higher on the bed, hard enough to pull a cry from your throat. Bucky made a low, wrecked sound and did it again, deeper this time, his body pressing yours into the mattress while his free hand gripped your hip. Every thrust pushed the breath out of you. Every drag back made you desperate for the next one.

“Still got something to say?” he asked.

You tried. You really did.

What came out was not language.

Bucky’s mouth found your neck, teeth scraping just below your jaw. “Mouthy little thing until I get my cock in you.”

The words should have embarrassed you. They did embarrass you, which was unfortunately part of the problem. Heat rushed through you so sharply that you clenched around him, and Bucky swore, hips stuttering before he recovered.

“There it is,” he said. “You like being talked to like that?”

“Yes.”

His hand tightened on your wrists. “You like me jealous?”

Your eyes flew open.

He lifted his head, looking down at you with his hair falling loose around his face and his mouth swollen from kissing you. There was vulnerability beneath the possessiveness, something exposed and honest enough to change the shape of the question.

You pulled against his hold, not to get away, but because you wanted your hands on him. He understood after a second and let go.

You touched his face at once. “I like when you want me enough to stop pretending you don’t.”

His expression shifted.

Then he kissed you, and the kiss was almost too much, too deep and too honest for the frantic movement of his hips. You held onto him as he fucked you harder, his body heavy over yours, your name breaking out of him like a confession. Pleasure built again, faster this time, sharpened by the orgasm he had already given you and the steady drag of him inside you.

“Bucky,” you said, voice breaking. “I’m close.”

His hand slid between your bodies.

You nearly sobbed when his fingers found your clit.

“Come for me,” he said. “Let me feel it.”

You did.

The orgasm tore through you, harder than the first, your whole body locking around him as pleasure crashed hot and bright through your veins. Bucky held you through it, thrusting shallowly while you clenched around him, his mouth at your temple and his voice rough with praise you could barely understand.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fuck, that’s it. So pretty like this.”

The praise only made it last longer.

By the time you came back to yourself, Bucky was shaking above you, jaw tight, every muscle in his body pulled taut with restraint.

You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Come on, baby.”

His breath caught.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “I want it.”

That was enough.

Bucky buried his face against your neck and came with a broken groan, hips pressing deep as his body finally gave in. You held him through it, fingers in his hair, your own body still trembling beneath his. For a long moment, he stayed there, breathing hard against your skin, heavy enough to ground you but not enough to hurt.

The room went quiet around you.

Eventually, his arm shifted, bracing some of his weight. “Am I crushing you?”

“A little,” you said.

He started to move.

You tightened your arms around him. “I didn’t say stop.”

His laugh was exhausted and warm against your shoulder. “Brat.”

“Sweetheart,” you corrected.

He lifted his head.

You smiled up at him, softer than you meant to. “You said it first.”

Something flickered through his face.

Then he kissed you, gentle now. “Sweetheart,” he said, quieter, like he was testing how it felt when nobody was hiding.

You felt embarrassingly close to crying, which was rude of your body after everything else it had already done tonight.

Bucky noticed. His thumb brushed your cheek. “Hey.”

“I’m fine.”

His brow rose.

You huffed. “I am.”

“That means yes, or that means stop asking?”

The echo of your own question from months ago made your chest ache. “It means I’m fine.”

“Mm,” he said. “We’ll workshop that.”

You stared at him.

The smile came slowly.

“Oh, you absolute nightmare.”

He kissed you again before you could say anything worse.

Afterward, Bucky cleaned you up with a gentleness that left you strangely quiet. He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute and came back with a warm washcloth, his boxers pulled on haphazardly, his hair a disaster and his expression too careful. He moved slowly, checking your face more than he needed to, watching for any sign that you had changed your mind now that the wanting had settled.

You caught his wrist when he finished.

“Bucky.”

He looked at you.

“I’m fine.”

His shoulders eased by a fraction. His fingers turned in your grip until he was holding your hand.

“Yeah,” he said.

You tugged lightly. “Come back to bed.”

He did.

The bed dipped under his weight, and you shifted toward him immediately, which seemed to surprise him even after everything. You rested your cheek against his chest, one leg thrown over his, the sheet pulled messily around your waist. His arm hovered for half a second before settling around you.

“You’re thinking loudly again,” you murmured.

His fingers moved once over your back. “You’re going to be unbearable now.”

You smiled against his skin. “I was unbearable before.”

“Worse, then.”

“Probably.” You lifted your head enough to look at him. “You can handle me.”

His gaze moved over your face. “Yeah?”

“You’re very competent.”

That got you a small smile.

You rested your chin on his chest. “Are you okay?”

He was quiet for long enough that you did not think he would answer. Then his hand slid slowly up your back, warm and steady.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.

There was no self-pity in it. Just honesty, rough around the edges.

You softened. “Do what?”

“This.” His fingers brushed your shoulder. “Wanting someone. Having it. Keeping it without waiting for it to go bad.”

Your heart hurt.

“I don’t need you to be good at it right away,” you said. “I just need you not to punish both of us because you’re scared.”

His eyes met yours.

You held his gaze. “And I need you to talk to me before you start glaring at actors like you’re deciding where to hide the body.”

His mouth twitched. “He had it coming.”

“Bucky.”

“He touched your waist.”

“You dragged me out of the gala and fucked me in your bed. I promise you won that exchange.”

A laugh broke out of him, surprised and real, and you grinned because you had earned that.

After a moment, he said, “I don’t want to be one more person in the crowd looking at you.”

You went still.

Bucky looked away, as if the confession had cost more than he meant it to. Before he could retreat completely, you touched his jaw and guided him back.

“You’re not,” you said.

His eyes searched yours.

“You were never that,” you continued. “That’s why it was so annoying when you kept acting like you were.”

His brows lifted. “Annoying?”

“Deeply. Tragically.” You tapped his chest. “I was doing excellent work.”

“You were harassing me.”

“I was courting you.”

“You bit my thumb.”

“You liked it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “I did.”

Your pulse jumped, even now.

Bucky noticed that too, and his expression warmed with a darker kind of satisfaction. “Interesting.”

“Behave,” you warned.

His mouth curved. “That’s my line.”

“You’ll live.”

“I might.”

You were smiling when the next words slipped out, too soft to be a joke and too honest to call back.

“I wanted a boyfriend, you know.”

He froze.

For one terrible second, all the warmth in the room seemed to hold still.

Bucky lifted his head.

You tried for a smile, but it felt shaky at the edges. “Emotionally unavailable boyfriend, technically. I’m flexible.”

His expression softened in a way that made your throat tighten.

“Yeah?” he asked.

You could have backed away. Made it a joke. Given him the escape hatch you had always been so good at pretending you did not need. Instead, you looked up at him and let the truth sit plainly between you.

“Yeah.”

Bucky’s hand came to your face. His thumb brushed over your cheek, so gentle it made the rest of him feel even heavier beside you.

“I can do boyfriend,” he said.

Your heart gave a stupid, hopeful little kick. “Can you?”

“I’ll probably be bad at it.”

“I’ll workshop you.”

He huffed a laugh. “Of course you will.”

“I’m very persuasive.”

“You’re very annoying.”

“Foreplay,” you said.

His mouth curved.

Then he kissed you, and this time, there was nothing frantic in it. It was slow and deep and almost painfully sweet, a kiss that felt less like surrender than arrival. You wrapped yourself around him and let him take his time, because Bucky was warm and solid beside you, because his mouth was soft when he wanted it to be, because the man who had spent months pretending not to want you had finally stopped pretending.

Much later, you woke to pale morning light and the smell of coffee.

For one disoriented second, you thought you were in your own room. Then you shifted and felt the pleasant ache in your thighs, the warmth of a body beside yours, and the weight of Bucky’s arm around your waist.

You opened your eyes.

He was awake, propped on one elbow, looking at you like he had been caught doing something private.

“Hi,” you said, voice rough with sleep.

His expression eased. “Hi.”

“You watched me sleep? Very gothic of you.”

“I woke up two minutes ago.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe ten.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

His mouth twitched. “Apparently.”

The answer was too easy. Too honest. It warmed you all the way through.

You stretched carefully, then winced.

Bucky’s hand moved at once. “Sore?”

“A little.”

His face changed. “Too much?”

“No.” You turned into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Exactly enough.”

He looked unconvinced, because he was Bucky.

You sighed. “I will accept pampering, though.”

“That so?”

“Yes. I’m very delicate.”

He looked down at the marks his mouth had left on your neck, then back at your face.

You smiled. “Emotionally.”

That got you a quiet laugh. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then your mouth, soft enough that you melted into it despite the morning breath concerns you decided not to acknowledge because romance required sacrifice.

A knock sounded at the door.

Both of you froze.

Then Sam’s voice came through from the hall. “I’m not coming in because I value my life, but Steve wants to know if you two are alive, Natasha says hydrate again, and Tony says if the bed is broken, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

You buried your face in Bucky’s chest.

Bucky closed his eyes. “Go away, Sam.”

“I also brought coffee.”

You lifted your head. “Wait.”

Bucky looked betrayed.

You patted his chest. “Baby, I love whatever brooding domestic morning-after thing you’re doing right now, but I need coffee if I’m going to survive the team knowing you rearranged my insides.”

From the hall, Sam made a delighted choking sound. “Oh my God.”

Bucky threw a pillow at the door.

It hit with a soft thump. Sam laughed all the way down the hall.

You collapsed back against the mattress, laughing too, and after a second, Bucky gave in. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until your laughter softened into a smile against his skin.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

“You knew that on Tuesday.”

“I knew it before then.”

You tipped your face up. “And yet.”

His eyes moved over you, warm and a little helpless, the way they had looked last night right before everything changed.

“And yet,” he agreed.

You smiled, pleased enough that he narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was letting the moment breathe.”

“The moment can suffocate.”

Your smile widened. “You’re so romantic.”

Bucky rolled you beneath him before you could laugh again, his body settling carefully over yours, one hand braced beside your head. His hair fell around his face, soft with sleep, and he looked less like a ghost, less like a weapon, less like the man who had spent months standing at the edge of his own wanting.

He looked like yours.

Or almost yours. Enough to make your chest ache. Enough to make you brave.

“So,” you said, touching his jaw. “Did I win you over?”

Bucky looked at you for a long moment, then bent until his mouth hovered over yours.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm, “you have no idea.”

Then he kissed you, and because you were a menace, because he was smiling against your mouth, because you had never known how to leave a victory unannounced, you wrapped your arms around his neck and whispered, “Progress.”

It was short, the tug on your leg.

You peer down to see a little girl. Soft brown hair with little clips to keep it out of her face, round face and blue eyes that were full of fear.

“Hey there,” you say, and crouch down. “You okay?”

She blinks, tears falling down her cheeks. “I can’t find my daddy.”

“Hey, hey,” you reach to rub her shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

She lets out a sob, unable to control the hysteria shaking her small frame.

“Oh sweetheart,” you breathe, and offer her your hand. “Hold my hand, we’ll find your daddy. Don’t worry.”

She continued to sob, unrestrained sounds that twisted your heart.

You walked slowly down the aisle, allowing her to keep pace with you, heading for the large central aisle where it would be easiest to be found.

“El!” You hear someone shout.

“Daddy?” The little girl turns her head, her eyes alert and wide.

You peek over your shoulder to see a man rushing over.

“Oh my babygirl,”

The girl lets go of your hand, her little feet pushing her forward into the arms of the man.

You smile to yourself, relieved, yet feeling a little out of place at witnessing the reunion.

The man presses his forehead to the little girl’s, his daughter you assumed.

“Are you okay?” He spoke quickly. “You aren’t hurt?”

She shakes her head. “I saw glitter pens, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he spoke as if to himself. “You’re safe.”

It was then his eyes flicker up to you. They are the exact same shade as his daughter’s, a light blue that gave away more emotion than any expression. His hair was the same colour also, pulled back into a messy bun. His face differed from hers entirely, a strong jawline marked with stubble peppered with grey, and faint lines across his forehead and eyes.

He scoops his daughter up with ease, her body looking tiny next to his large build.

“Hi, uh,” he shifts awkwardly.

“Hi,” you press your lips together nervously.

“I, uh, thanks for taking care of my Eileen,” he says.

You shake your head. “It was nothing, only for a few minutes.”

“Still,” his lips twitched. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” you shrug and turn to walk away.

“Come back!” the little girl, Eileen, called.

“El,” you hear her father hiss. “Leave the lady be.”

You feel a tug on your hand, and peek down to see the girl, who must have forced her way down and rushed to catch you.

“What’s your name?” She asked.

You tilt your head, giving it quietly.

“Pretty,” she smiles. “You’re pretty.”

“Eileen Barnes,” you hear her father call out disapprovingly.

“What?” Her eyes moved to her father. “She’s pretty.”

Her father sighs. “She’s busy, babygirl. Let her go.”

“It’s okay,” you say quietly, and crouch to Eileen’s level.

“I think your dad is wants to get going,” you tell her softly.

She frowns, her eyes appearing watery once again. “I don’t want to.”

Her father stepped closer.

“Eileen,” he put a hand on her back. “That is enough.”

His voice was gentle yet firm.

“But Daddy,” she began to protest. “She’s pretty and kind. Can we be friends?”

“El, it’s not that easy,” he breathes.

“It’s okay,” your voice came out stronger. “Eileen?”

She peeks up, her eyes meet yours.

“I can be your friend,” you say to her.

“Daddy’s friend too,” she insists. “Daddy is always alone. Daddy needs a friend.”

“Eileen,” her father’s face was starting to go red.

You laugh quietly. “That’s up to your daddy.”

She looks up expectantly at her father.

“El, I—” he looks at you, eyes moving up and down you.

“You are pretty,” he murmurs. “Really pretty.”

You feel blood rush to your cheeks.

Eileen beams, her eyes moving between you and her father.

“I’m Bucky,” he holds out a hand to you. “Bucky Barnes, this is my daughter, Eileen.”

You reach out, allowing him to shake your hand, his hand rough to touch, yet gentle.

“Hi,” you breathe, still a little flustered from his compliment.

Bucky smiles, an expression that makes your heart stutter a moment. The pull of those pink lips, the way it crinkled at the edges of his eyes. It felt like you could stare at him for days and never tire of him.

“I—” he cleared his throat. “Look I know this is, uh, weird. But, Eileen likes you, and she won’t stop until I ask. Would you… do you want to get coffee sometime?”

“Oh,” you stammer. “Yeah, sure.”

You reach into your bag, ripping off the bottom of your shopping list and pulling out a pen, then scribbling down your phone number.

You fold it in half and hold it out between your fingers.

He takes it carefully.

“Text me?” You ask with a small smile.

“Uh,” his eyes move to your lips for a moment. “Yeah, yeah. I will.”

Your smile widens and you pat Eileen on the head.

“See you around then,” you say. “Eileen… Bucky.”

Eileen looks up at her father grinning.

“She’s nice,” she says as if it were the most important thing in the world.

Bucky holds the piece of paper tightly between his fingers, eyes on you walking away.

“Yeah, she is.”

That evening you’d checked your phone constantly, waiting for the text that never came. You checked again the next morning to nothing, and began to wonder if you’d written the wrong number.

A few more days pass, when you hear your phone buzz once.

You reach over from your place on the sofa, eyes still on the comforting program you are watching.

A quick glance shows a text from an unfamiliar number.

Hey, it’s Bucky. We met at the grocery store the other day. Do you still want to meet for coffee sometime?

A small smile graces your face, warmth filling your veins. He hadn’t forgotten.

I’d love to. Any recommendations? x

You send the text without thinking, jerking slightly as you realise that you’d put a kiss on there out of habit.

A few minutes pass before the next buzz.

There’s a coffee shop in the park?

Immediately another text followed.

Eileen will be coming, she can play on the swings whilst we chat x

Your lips part, seeing him also put a kiss made you smile wider.

That’ll be nice. I’d love to see Eileen again! x

She’s dying to see you again, been pestering me every day to skip work to take her x

You laugh at that.

I’d skip work for her x

There is a brief pause.

I would too, if I could. Would Saturday work for you? Say around 9am? x

You check your calendar briefly, confirming what you already knew - you weren’t busy.

That will be fine. Pretty early don’t you think? x

El will be asking when we are going all day if not. She likes to get me up at 6, and there is no stopping her once she is up x

You laugh again to yourself, there was something endearing about how this man complained about his daughter, yet you could hear his adoration for her.

I’ll be sure to get there in time for Eileen x

Appreciate that, doll. See you Saturday x

You duck your head slightly at the nickname, slightly embarrassed at how your heart squeezed despite being alone.

The park is quiet, filled with only a few people running or cycling and the distant sounds of birds.

It takes a few minutes to walk to the coffee shop, the temperature is warm, not too hot to be uncomfortable but cool enough you could wear a light jacket.

The air fills with the smell of freshly baked goods and coffee, the shop itself is small, most of the seating outside on paving slabs overlooking a playground.

You linger a moment, only seeing people enter to take out and then depart. You turn, scanning the area before reaching for your phone checking for a message. There was none.

You silently remind yourself it is only ten to nine, he wasn’t late.

The sound of your name startles you. Your head whips around until you notice little Eileen running at you.

You crouch down allowing her to fling her little arms around you.

“You came!” She declared as you broke apart.

“Of course,” you reach and boop her nose with your index finger. She grins, reaching to do the same to your nose.

You hear someone chuckle above you, and look up to see Bucky. He’s in dark blue jeans, a wool jacket with a hint of red peeking underneath.

“Hi,” you smile at him.

“Hey,” he greets you.

“Daddy!” Eileen rushes back to her father, grabbing his hand and pulling him forward.

“She came! She came!” The little girl bounced in place with enthusiasm.

“Easy El,” he speaks softly. “I’ve already lost one arm, I don’t need to lose another.”

You get to your feet, noticing the girl pulling on his metal fingers.

You feel yourself smiling at the sight. “Shall we go in?”

Bucky nods politely, wrapping his hand around El’s.

“Ohhhh,” Eileen pulls away from her father, the moment you enter. “Look daddy! Pain a-“ she frowns as she thinks. “Pain Aux Chocolat!”

Bucky chuckles with a shake of his head.

“She has a lot of energy,” you note.

“Yeah,” he puts his hands on his pockets, glancing at you a moment before returning his gaze back to the little girl. “She’s always like this.”

“She wanders off a lot?”

“Mhm,” he sighs. “She saw some glitter gel pens when you found her. One minute he was next to me, I turned to reach for some tins and then she was gone.”

“All that for gel pens?” You ask, amused.

“Yep,” he gives a slight smile. “They kept her busy whilst I made dinner.”

You let out a snicker.

“What?” His eyes now return to you.

“I’m sorry,” you press your lips together to suppress your smile. “That’s cute.”

“Hm,” he huffs. “Cute, eh?”

You give him a timid shrug and step forward to join Eileen.

“Hi,” you greet the barista. “Can I have a Latte, one croissant, a pain aux chocolate…” you look down to Eileen. “Would you like a drink, El?”

“Hot chocolate!” She declares. “Please.”

“A hot chocolate,” you turn to Bucky. “Bucky, what would you like?”

He recoils in surprise and approaches, your back tingles as you feel him behind your back. “A black coffee please.”

The barista puts it all in and you pull out your card, tapping it against the reader.

“They’ll just be a few minutes,” the barista tells you.

“Thanks,” you smile and walk around.

“You should have let me pay,” Bucky shakes his head, his hand holding El’s again.

“It’s fine, I wanted to get Eileen something,” you give her a grin.

Bucky sighs.

“Is he always grumpy?” You ask El, teasing him.

“Yes,” she nods.

“El,” his lips twitch and eyebrows scrunch together. “Please.”

The barista then placed down the drinks with two paper bags.

“Thank you!” El chimed in a sing-song voice, eagerly reaching for the drinks.

You get there first, picking up the ones in her reach.

“Thanks,” Bucky sounds immensely grateful. “Eileen, please be careful, they’re hot.”

She gives him a sassy look.

“Why don’t you take the food?” You compromise.

Eileen nods, reaching to take the paper bags.

Bucky reaches to take his coffee. “Let’s find a seat.”

He leads you outside, it remains quiet, peaceful. Bucky strolls to the table closest to the playground, whilst your eyes remain on his back, his wide shoulders.

He pulls out a chair, then another, places his cup down and picks up his daughter to help her up into the chair.

“Take a seat, doll,” he gestures, letting you sit first before taking the last seat.

You carefully reach over placing the hot chocolate in front of Eileen and taking the Croissant.

Eileen seems too distracted by her own food to pay any mind to anything else.

Bucky chuckles fondly before taking a long sip of his drink.

“Want any?” You ask him as you pull part of the croissant apart to eat.

“Hmm,” he considers for a moment. “Sure.”

You smile, ripping off the other end. He leans over parting his lips slightly, you carefully put the piece in his mouth. His mouth closed and he chewed carefully.

You have to sift your eyes away, a warmth filling you at how he’d trusted you.

“Daddy never eats here,” Eileen cuts through your reverie, her blue eyes on her father as she concentrated. “Says it's bad for his muscles.”

You raise an eyebrow and smirk at Bucky.

He leans back, sipping his coffee and doesn’t say a word.

“You enjoy the gym?” You ask.

“Not as much as I’d like,” he places his cup down again. “I’m ex-Army.”

“What do you do now?” You ask, taking a sip of your own drink.

“Boring office job,” he admits. “But I can work from home, and take care of this one.”

He pats his daughter on the head.

“What about—“ you pause, hesitating.

“Eileen’s mother?” He finishes.

Eileen looks at her father, as though sensing the tension of the moment, then at you.

“Mummy works away,” she speaks as if she has said it a thousand times, her eyes suddenly appearing tired.

“Busy lady,” you reply.

“Mmm,” you hear the disapproval in Bucky’s tone. “Eileen, do you want to go try the swings whilst we chat?”

“Huh?” She perks up, then drops from her seat. “Yay!!”

She runs off eagerly into the playground.

“Stay in my sight!” He calls after her.

You watch Bucky once more, his face smooth yet his eyes soften, betraying the love he has for his daughter.

“El’s mother,” he begins, eyes still on his little girl. “She doesn’t come to see Eileen much. El barely remembers her.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, unsure what to say.

He shrugs. “We have each other. It’s enough.”

You gently place a hand on his arm. “You’re a single parent, you shouldn’t have to face it alone.”

“Despite what El told you, I do have friends,” his eyes return to you. “They are few, but I couldn’t have gotten this far without them.”

You nod, relieved. Bucky’s eyes then flicker over you, taking you in.

“You look lovely,” he comments.

“Thank you,” you lean back, hoping the distance will hide the blush on your cheeks.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t have a real first date,” you allow your eyes to drift back to him, his eyes on his daughter - now climbing steps on a slide. “You deserve to be taken out for dinner.”

“You don’t need to explain,” your voice is soft. “Your little girl has to come first.”

His head turns slightly, giving you a faint smile. “Thank you.”

“Besides, I wanted to see El again,” you continue. “She’s adorable.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, she is.”

There is a moment of silence. You keep your eyes on Bucky, taking in how his eyes never strayed from his daughter, occasionally drinking his coffee whilst his other hand lay on his lap.

“What do you do for work?” Bucky’s voice is quiet.

You twitch a second. “It’s pretty boring. I'm an archivist. Spend all day typing up what is written in old dusty books, or help people find old dusty books.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like it makes you happy.”

Your voice gets caught in your mouth for a moment. “It does,” you admit.

Bucky shifts then, turning his seat towards you.

“Would you like another drink?” He asks, the creases in his expression giving away his nerves.

“No, thank you,” you shift to face him. “I would like to just talk.”

He smiles then. Not the faint twitches of his lips before, a real smile. It seemed to light up his whole face, brightening his eyes, crinkling at the edges and his forehead.

“Your eyes,” you lean forward, heart thrumming a little harder from his gaze. “They’re incredible.”

His face drops, lips parting slightly as he drinks in your words.

“Uh, thank you,” he stammers.

You smile at him, and reach over to place your hand on his.

He swallows, suddenly nervous. “Do you like Italian food?”

“Yeah,” you respond. “Why do you ask?”

“There’s a little Italian restaurant not far from my place,” he says. “We could go, if you’d like.”

“With Eileen?”

He shakes his head. “Eileen is staying with my friend on Tuesday night. It would be just the two of us.”

“I think I’d enjoy that,” your lips twitch.

“More than this?” He playfully responds.

“It’s nice,” you smirk. “And I adore Eileen. But I’d also like to get you alone.”

“Alone, huh?” He chuckles. “That might be difficult.”

You grin at his face, he seemed so happy, a far cry from the grumpy man from earlier.

“I can share,” you tease.

“Yeah?” He turned his hand over, fingers interweaving with yours.

“Yeah.”

Bucky squeezed your hand. “You know in a fight she’d win, every time.”

“I know,” you nod. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Daddy!” Eileen was running over. “Did you see? Did you see? I was so fast.”

You suppress a laugh.

“Oh, I’m sorry, babygirl. I missed it,” he responded. “Go again, I’m watching.”

The little girl’s eyes narrow, eyes flickering between the two of you before running back, climbing the steps and flinging herself down the slide at speed.

“Oh my—” you begin to get to your feet in fear for her.

“Relax,” Bucky mutters. “She’ll be alright.”

“Did you see, Daddy?” Eileen shouts.

“I saw,” he calls back. “You were faster than my bike.”

Eileen beamed, running back over the bark chips to the table.

“That was fun!” She declared.

Bucky grins, pleased to see his little girl so happy. “Need a rest?”

She nods, climbing onto the chair. “I need a drink.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at his daughter.

“Please,” she adds.

“Good girl,” he shakes his head fondly, reaching down into a bag Eileen had been carrying, passing over a drink bottle from the side to her.

She happily slurped through the straw.

“You’re a good dad,” you nudge him gently.

“I try,” he murmurs.

“Daddy’s happy,” she notices and then looks at you. “You’re happy.”

She takes another sip. “You make Daddy happy.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, El,” he chuckles.

“You laugh when I’m silly. Or Uncle Sam is silly,” she says.

“Uncle Sam?”

“My best friend,” Bucky explains. “He’s a pain, but he takes care of El when I can’t.”

“It’s nice of him to take care of Eileen,”

“I love Uncle Sam!” El declares in agreement.

“Because Uncle Sam lets you stay up till 8pm, and brings you chocolate,” Bucky shakes his head in disapproval.

She shrugs, taking one more sip from her drink before taking off again.

“What time do you want to meet on Tuesday?” You ask.

“I’ll book the table for seven,” his eyes were on his daughter.

You nod. “Seven then.”

He nods, his eyes flickering back to you.

“I’ll be waiting.”

You shift from one foot to the other, tugging at the material of your dress praying it’s not too short. You chose a simple red dress that hung just above your knees, in the hopes of being alluring yet modest.

You hear someone call your name, your eyes flicker around, seeing no one until you turn and spot Bucky.

He’s dressed semi formally, jeans, black boots, a light blue shirt that matched his eyes and a leather jacket slung over his shoulder.

“Hello,” his voice is quiet yet warm, his left hand holds out a small bunch of flowers with a nervous smile. “These are for you.”

You cannot contain the smile that crosses your face. “Thank you.”

His face remains still, but his eyes betray his relief. “I wasn’t sure what you would like,” he confessed.

You shake your head, stepping closer. “They are beautiful.”

“Shall we—” he hesitated. “Shall we go in?”

You nod, holding the flowers in one of your hands and reaching out with the other to offer your hand.

Instinctively, the fingers of his right hand weave between yours. They are gentle yet slightly rough to touch, yet somehow the feel of them sends a slight tingle up your arm.

Bucky guides you forward to the door, holding his jacket with his thumb and the rest of his fingers grasping the handle, holding it open for you.

“Thank you,” you give him a smile.

His lips twitch slightly upward, and follow you into the restaurant.

It’s small, yet quiet, simplistic in its decor.

You blink as you take it in, eyes flickering as he tugs your hand carefully to speak to the server.

“Table for two, under the name Barnes,” his voice is low.

The server nods. “Ah yes, I have it. Good to see you Mr Barnes.”

They pick up two menus and lead you to a small table to the side, a little out of earshot of the nearest table.

“Here,” Bucky pulls out a chair for you as the server places down the menus.

“Thanks,” you sit, place the flowers carefully under your chair and shrug off your jacket.

Bucky gives you a nod of satisfaction before taking his seat, slinging his jacket casually over the back.

“Any allergies we need to be aware of?” The server asks.

You shake your head.

Bucky doesn’t speak, his eyes remain on you.

The server nods and departs.

“You’re quiet,” you notice.

“I normally am,” he leans back, his gaze still intense.

Now it felt like a first date, the momentarily silence, the awkward feeling sinking into your stomach. Was this a mistake? Did he really like you?

“I come here with Sam,” he breaks the silence.

“Like— on a date?” Your tone is casual yet teasing. His nose crinkles together for a moment before he lets out a soft chuckle that shoots through you, the sound of it makes you want to join in.

“No,” a slight smile remains on his face. “We’d end up killing each other at the mere suggestion of sharing anything.”

You smile easily. “I share.”

“I remember,” he exhales. “Not sure I can say the same.”

Your lips part slightly at the implication.

“You look nice,” he adds, before allowing his eyes to move slowly over you.

There was something there, in the tenor of his voice, the way he was so obvious, yet taking it slow. It drew you in dangerously fast.

You feel blood rush to your face.

“So do you,” you admit quietly, eyes on the stubble of his jawline. Even with his long hair slicked back and the stubble, he looks smart, and the shade of his shirt brings out his features. “You’re— you’re pretty.”

His eyes widened a moment before a real smile graced his face. “Not sure I’ve been called pretty before.”

You pursue your lips. “Well, I think you are.”

He leans over the table as if to speak for no one to hear. Instead a voice interrupts you, the server.

“Can I get you any drinks?”

You see a flash of frustration on Bucky's face, and observe him inhale as if to calm himself.

“I’ll have a glass of white wine please,” you say, giving the server a polite glance.

“I’ll have a beer,” Bucky’s voice was low, tight with emotion that was barely contained.

“I’ll be right over with them,” they walk away again.

Once out of earshot you hear Bucky make a noise of dissatisfaction, one that makes you cover your mouth to hide laughter.

“Eileen is right, you are grumpy,” you allow yourself a small giggle once the server is out of earshot.

“Aren’t you?” His eyes never strayed away from yours. “They had to interrupt when things were just getting interesting.”

“There is no rush,” you say softly.

“I only get tonight with you sweetheart,” he shakes his head. “I don’t know when we will get time like this again.”

“I don’t mind Eileen coming,” you remind him.

“I’d rather not have the questions,” he admits. “El was so young when her mother and I separated. I never expected to meet someone else. I never prepared her for it.”

Your head tilts, sensing guilt.

“Bucky,” you lean forward. “We don’t have to rush, or do anything you don’t want to. You don’t have to feel any guilt.”

His eyebrows come together. “It’s not—” he pauses. “It’s been me and El for so long. She has always been my priority.”

You nod. “As it should be.”

The server then approached again, placing drinks on the table, then asked for the order. The pair of you are quick to order, wishing to return to the conversation.

As soon as they left, Bucky reached to take his glass, having a sip.

“I can’t give you what I’d want to give you,” his voice is quiet, almost tired. “I can’t put you first. If my babygirl needs care when we have a date, I have to pick her.”

He sounded as if he were convincing himself.

“Well, we aren’t there yet,” you speak lightly. “Why don’t we see how today goes before worrying about the future?”

He closes his eyes momentarily, taking a deep breath.

“You’re right,” he nods, and his right hand reaches over. “We have to make the most of this.”

You copy him, stretching to take it — his large hand eclipsing yours.

“I’ve never seen you around town before,” his voice was quiet. “Not before the other week, have you just moved here?”

“Mm,” you hum the affirmative. “About six months ago, I was offered a higher paid position at the museum. Thought it might be more of a challenge.”

“And is it?”

You sip your wine at the thought of your job. “It feels like I’m doing three people’s jobs,” you admit. “There is more to record, more things to go wrong, more people to cover for.”

You finish your drink and sigh.

“I love it, but I’m not sure the pay is worth the workload,” your voice is quiet.

“Mm,” he hums. “You’re overworked.”

You shrug. “For now,” you give him a half smile. “It’s been stressful the past few months. The move, new job… but meeting you gave me a little bit of normalcy.”

You pause before admitting the next part.

“I was looking at my phone to see if you’d text me, rather than panicking over bills,” you keep your eyes to the table. “It was nice.”

He chuckles softly.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to text you,” he breathed. “I— I was afraid. It’s been so long since I did this.”

“You’re good at it,” you reassure him. “You make me feel seen. You’re listening to me, paying attention to me even when I’m not asking you anything.”

“You’re more interesting,” he says, his fingers now making patterns on the back of your hand.

You shake your head slowly. “You’re an ex-army vet, with a metal arm and an adorable little girl. You are far more interesting.”

It was then your food was brought over and placed before you continue.

“I might have many stories to tell, but many of them aren’t pleasant, sweetheart,” his tone is dark and warning. “I haven’t lived a pleasant life.”

You let go of his hand, picking up a doughball from his plate and holding it between your fingers in front of him to eat.

Bucky eyes you for a moment before biting into it. Something about feeding the man felt strangely intimate.

“If you give me a chance,” your voice came out quiet yet determined. “I’d like to help you create some nice stories. Happy stories. Some about Eileen that you can embarrass her with when she’s older. Some about you and Sam… and maybe some about you and me.”

His brow furrows, contemplating.

“I'd enjoy that,” he admits.

You squeeze his hand a moment before starting to eat. The two of you eat, not quite in silence but in a comfortable quiet where you’d occasionally speak to comment on the food.

You peek up to look at Bucky, the blue of his eyes seem endless as he ponders.

“What is it?” You ask.

“What do you do outside work?” His eyes flicker up to you.

“Currently, not much, I’m still decorating,” you admit. “I like going on walks.”

“Hmmm,” he leans back.

“What about you?”

“Most of my time is taken up by Eileen,” he admits, his eyes still distant. “Or I tinker with my bike.”

“You ride motorbikes?” You tilt your head in interest.

Bucky nods. “Even when I was a kid. My friends and I used to piece together scrap to ride around.”

He pauses a moment, measuring your interest before continuing. “Working on bikes led me to the Army. I thought I could get a degree through them. Didn’t turn out as I planned.”

He looks down to his hands. “I ended up a Sniper. Turns out my hands were good for things other than fixing bikes.”

You could hear the stiffness in his voice, but he continued as if he could no longer contain himself.

“I got promoted to Sergeant,” he then twitched, his metal arm flexing slightly. “Then I lost my arm, and was allowed to resign my commission.”

“I met El’s mother a few months later,” his eyes then locked on yours. “I was still recovering, and she didn't look at me with pity. Things went fast, El came along and…”

His eyes appeared to look behind you, distant as though reliving a memory.

“When I proposed she said no,” his jaw came together, eyes watering slightly. “She screamed about how she’d put up with me for the past two years, and how Eileen and I were holding her back, keeping her life on hold, stopping her career.”

His eyes flicker back to yours.

“El thinks her mother walked away,” his voice was quiet. “But in truth, the next morning I packed up and took El with me. She was seven months old. Her mother never even contested when I requested custody of her.”

“You never got in trouble for taking El?” You wonder.

“No,” he shakes his head. “As I said, my custody was never contested. In truth, I believe she wanted me to walk out and take El with me.”

You lean over, taking both his hands in yours.

“You did the right thing,” you speak softly.

“So I’m told,” his eyes are sad, guilt etched into the lines of his face.

“What would you like for dessert?” You ask, keeping your eyes fixed on him, trying to distract him from his train of thought.

“Hmm?” He blinks. “I don’t know…”

“I was thinking of a tiramisu,” you say. “But the sorbet also looks good.”

“I usually skip and have a coffee,” he admits.

“We could share,” you suggest. “If you’d like.”

His eyes refocus.

“I can’t remember last time I had a tiramisu,” a semblance of enthusiasm began to seep into his voice.

You smile, heart fluttering slightly at your success.

You remove the silk gown slowly before hanging it up, and slipping into your bed.

You allow yourself a soft sigh, eyes closing your eyes as your fingers interlock, remembering the feel of his hands on yours.

Just as your hands begin to trail up your arms, there is a faint buzz. You ignore it, shifting under the covers in an attempt to keep warm.

You hear another buzz, and groan slightly as your eyes flicker open.

Your hand aimlessly reaches for your phone on your bedside table. With a tug, the cable disconnects and you pull the phone in front of your face to see Bucky’s name on the screen.

Your thumb lingers for a moment before pressing the green button and raising the phone to your ear.

“Hello?” You keep your voice quiet, to avoid disturbing others.

“Hey,” you hear the soft rumble. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“No,” you admit. “Just got to bed.”

“Mm, sounds nice,” you hear him rummaging around. “El insisted on a bedtime story, and that I stay with her until she fell asleep.”

He inhales slowly, and you hear his heavy footsteps. “Haven’t got a shower yet.”

“Go and get one,” you encourage him sleepily.

He chuckles on the other end. “Are you falling asleep, sweetheart?”

“Your voice is nice,” you admit in a haze.

His laugh is brighter. “Good. I’m sorry I called, I— I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Bucky,” you blink in an attempt to keep awake.

“It’s been a long time since I met someone who seemed intent on my happiness,” he goes quiet for a moment. “My life is dedicated to Eileen, there is no room for myself.”

You shift to sit up.

“You deserve to be happy,” you say softly. “Eileen wants you to be happy too.”

“Mm,” he murmurs. “I’d like you to come with us.”

“Bucky?”

“Eileen and I were planning to go to a Science Museum in a few weeks,” he says. “I would like you to come with us.”

“I thought you didn’t want to confuse El?”

“Well,” he exhales. “Fuck it. She likes you. I like you. I want you there and I know El would too. It’ll be hard, and we may have to struggle. But, how I feel — it is worth it, you are worth it.”

You blink away at your tired eyes.

“Bucky, I don’t know what to say,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to, sweetheart,” his voice is smooth, like butter, soothing. “Just be there. That's all I ask.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll be there.”

It took three weeks before a date was set.

So here you stood, in the shadow of the museum, a large backpack on your back and eyes flickering across the car park.

You hear a screech of excitement before you feel something collide with your legs.

“You’re here!” You peek down and smile at the girl clinging to your legs

“Hey El,” you greet her, and attempt to crouch down. She backs off for a moment before seeing your open arms, and jumping into them, almost launching you backwards.

You hear a chuckle from above and you give her a squeeze. Your eyes flicker up to Bucky, his shadow casting over the pair of you, protecting you.

“Hey,” he says softly. He is wearing a plain shirt and jeans, a backpack over his shoulders.

Your eyes are unable to resist flickering over the broadness of his shoulders to the way the shirt clung to his arms, down to the veins along his forearms. Seeing him in person like this suddenly made all those video calls and texts worthwhile.

Eileen backs away, stepping back towards her father and giving you a grin.

Without even thought you straighten up, still overshadowed by the man slightly.

“Hey,” you greet him. “What’s with the bag?”

“It’s for a picnic,” he shrugs. “Didn’t want to pay for the cafe.”

You tilt your head and look at Eileen. She looked unfazed, as if it were normal.

“I made ham and cheese!” El declared proudly. “And boring salad for Daddy.”

Bucky visibly rolled his eyes. “It's chicken, and my salads are to die for.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Is there enough to share?”

“I made two,” El bounced in excitement.

He pats her on the head gently.

“She insisted we make enough for you,” he shrugs casually. “El, hand please.”

The little girl reaches up automatically, taking his hand whilst Bucky holds out his metal hand to you.

“Shall we?” He suggests.

The inside of the museum is wide and open, a glass roof overhead of the central rocket filling the auditorium.

“Oooo,” El begins to rush forward, dragging her father with her. “A rocket!”

Bucky smirks in amusement at his daughter and gives you a wink.

“It’s a replica of the Rocket from Apollo 13,” Bucky keeps his eyes fixed forward.

Eileen bounds forward to the glass fence. “Three, two, one… Blast off!”

You smile and look over to Bucky who you also see smiling.

“She likes space?”

“I showed her the Artemis launch, and she’s been obsessed ever since,” he squeezes your hand. “She gets it from her father.”

“You like space?”

“Anything Physics,” he nods. “Engineering especially.”

“Nerd,” you tease him.

“Remind me what your job is again?” He sasses back, eyes returning to his daughter. You gently nudge him playfully with your arm, fingers still interlocked with his.

A slight tremor runs through him as he chuckles.

“You’re cute,” he keeps his eyes on Eileen, who is now standing entranced by a small screen showing the launch of a rocket. “People usually aren’t brave enough to tease me.”

“Because you are ex-Army, and built like a house?” You ask, your eyes remain on him, taking in how his hair was down — kept behind his ears.

“Mm,” he agrees. “I have what Sam calls a resting bitch face.”

You snicker, and feel Bucky’s eyes flicker to you.

“You aren’t denying it?”

“You do have this tendency to look a little…” you pause. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“No?” His lips twitch for a moment.

“No,” you repeat. “You’re gorgeous even with the resting bitch face.”

“Mm,” he lifts your joined hands, brushing his lips across your knuckles. “Thanks.”

The next few hours were filled with the excited squeals of Eileen at the different exhibits. Space suits, moon rocks, and a long documentary on the International Space Station. The three of you ended up in the large auditorium, sat on a bench with the picnic spread out in front of you.

Eileen sat talking animatedly about space, about all the planets she had looked up in books, what astronauts did in space and how much she wanted to see the stars.

Through it all Bucky never once interrupted her, to try to deter her from her dream. He nodded and spoke to her casually, almost like an adult.

“You okay there, honey?” Bucky’s voice broke you out of your thoughts.

“You’re such a good Dad,” you say without thinking about it.

He gives you a gentle smile, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “Thank you.”

You look over to Eileen who seems content eating her sandwich, whilst carefully colouring in a page she’d been given. Her eyebrows were scrunched together slightly, and the grip on her small pencil was tight.

“Is it like this all the time?” You wonder. “With you and Eileen?”

“What do you mean?”

“Peaceful, just out having fun,” you say.

“No, this is a treat,” he admits. “Normally we spend our weekends at home, we might go to the park or take a walk.”

“Just father-daughter time,”

“I guess,” he shrugs.

“Daddy colours with me,” Eileen interrupts, taking a sip of her juice. “In our NASA colouring book.”

You smirk and from the corner of your eye spot Bucky, placing his metal hand over his face.

“Daddy bakes with me. We made cookies!” She declares proudly.

Bucky chuckles, allowing hand to fall back to the table. “The icing was everywhere.”

“It was yummy!” She waves her arms in excitement. “Can you make cookies?”

You give her a gentle smile. “Yeah.”

Eileen gasps in excitement. “Come to my house! Let’s bake cookies.”

You laugh quietly.

“Maybe another time,” Bucky reaches over to calm her. “We have more of the museum to see.”

Another hour passed, walking through the long exhibit on the Solar System. The corridors were dark, covered with small lights to represent stars, every so often opening up into a room for each planet, projections of the planet flowing onto the walls, with paintings of the surface of the planet.

Upon reaching Saturn, you hear the sound of rocks for Saturn’s Rings.

“This is incredible,” you murmur.

Ahead, Eileen was bounding forward, keeping a close but far enough she could watch first.

“It is,” he agrees, squeezing your hand. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,”

“Would you like to visit an observatory?” He sounded nervous.

“With El?”

He shook his head. “She’d get bored of the talk. I— I have always wished to go.”

“Bucky,” you smile at him, flattered that he was willing to openly be himself with you. “Of course, I will.”

“You will?”

“Sure, sounds kind of romantic,” you shrug shyly. “Sat looking up at the stars.”

“Maybe,” he sounds unsure.

You squeeze his hand as you speak. “Bucky, you don’t need to give excuses. If you want to go to an observatory, we can go. All I want is to be with you.”

He stiffened a moment before keeping pace with you again, his eyes moving from your face to his daughter.

“You really want that?”

“Yeah,” your voice is quiet against the vast expanse of projected space. “I like spending time with you both.”

You feel a kiss against your hair. “Thank you.”

Your eyes flicker to glance at the lights crossing his features, then forward again. Your mind slowly began to list other date ideas, not just an observatory. Walks under the night sky, visits to climbing walls for El, maybe a motorcycle show or two.

A small smile remained on your face as you leaned into Bucky, feeling a sense of contentment amongst the stars.

One, two, three.

You count the knocks as you tap against the door.

Immediately you hear the sound of rushed footsteps, before the door flings open.

And there he is.

It takes a moment to process the sight in front of you. Bucky stood inside in a white tank top, with simple grey sweatpants and slips on his feet.

“Hey,” his voice is soft. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You feel heat creep up your cheeks, recalling the dazed rush you’d been in. Receiving his text asking you to come round, changing frantically from your loose shirt and leggings into a summer dress, checking yourself in the mirror, once, twice and then a third time before leaving.

“Did you need something?”

He gives you a simple nod and steps aside. “Come in.”

You step inside, taking care to remove your shoes as you hear the click of the door shutting.

“Here,” Bucky passes you, heading straight to the sofa.  You glance around the room, it isn’t as messy as you anticipated. There were no signs of El or her toys. Just a glass of water on the coffee table, and a beer bottle on the side table.

He slumps onto the leather, one arm up perched on the back as he nods down next to him.

You pursue your lips as you sit down, curious.

“Breathe,” his voice is soft. “I wanted to spend time with you.”

You take a shaky breath. “I thought you might’ve—“

You blink to try and hide the tears in your eyes. “I thought you were breaking up with me.”

His lips parted for a moment before he allowed his head to fall back slightly, chuckling.

 “It’s not funny,” you protest weakly.

He stills a moment, tongue moving visibly inside his mouth, leaving you slightly entranced. The things he could do with that tongue…

“I’m sorry I worried you,” his tone was gentle, the fingers of his metal hand tracing your collarbone over your shirt. “Eileen is having a sleepover with a friend.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Really?”

He gave a soft smile as he nodded. “She’s been begging me for months. I thought it might be time.”

“And you invited me?” You twitch, beginning to understand.

“I’ve missed you,” he admits. “The phone calls don’t feel like enough.”

A surge of warmth filled your heart softly running through your veins.

“I missed you,” you reach over to lay your hand on his thigh. “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you.”

His fingers begin to play with the hair at the nape of your neck. “You’ve been busy, I understand.”

You lean into his hand, the cool metal cupping your cheek.

“So have you,” your voice cracks.

“Hm,” his face relaxes into its usual expression, slightly grumpy with the lines on his face plain. “Too busy.”

Almost of its own accord your hand most up, brushing against the cotton stretched across his chest before allowing the tops of your fingers to linger on the stubble on his jaw.

“I was going to cook you dinner,” he confesses. “Got too eager and invited you before I could decide what to cook.”

You begin to smile, thumb brushing his chin. “That’s okay, I’m just glad to be here.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You’ve dressed up, and I didn’t even cook you dinner.”

The leather of the sofa squeaked as you shuffled closer to him, legs brushing.

“We can order take out?” You suggest. “Order pizza, lounge around with bad TV on.”

He chuckled. “Now that is a good idea.”

He reached into his pocket for his phone, flicking his fingers across it.

The next few minutes were filled with the quiet chatter of debating which pizza to order. Unconsciously, you find yourself pulled closer to him, practically leaning on him as you look at the screen.

“Hm,” he grunted. “It’s going to be a while, sweetheart.”

You allow your head to fall into his shoulder, allowing your eyes to close. His metal arm tightens slightly around your waist.

“What a shame,” you murmur sarcastically.

“Did you have plans?” he teases back.

You tilt your head up as your eyes open. “I wasn’t sure how late you’d want me to stay.”

“Oh,” he breathed and shook his head. “Doll, I want you to stay all night.”

“All night?”

“You think I’d let my baby girl out of my sight for the night if I didn’t?” He points out.

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “You wanted to—“

“I hoped,” his flesh hand was in your hair now, holding you in pace whilst his left kept you against him. “I can’t keep up this façade, pretending I don’t want more with you. Like you don’t brighten both our lives with your presence.”

“Bucky,” your breaths are shallow, fast, eyes fixed on his.

His face contorted, several emotions passing across his face whilst his eyes softened.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he pleads. “I couldn’t bear to go through it again.”

Your eyes water slightly, heart tightening in empathy. The past month he’d held back, only holding your hand, or pressing a kiss to your forehead. You’d feared the lack of intimacy indicated no interest, but now you knew otherwise.

He had avoided moving too fast out of fear of repeating the past.

“It’s not too fast,” you promise. “I did wonder why you held yourself back.”

“I’m sorry,” he frowns. “I— I didn’t want to lead you on. I like you, in fact, I adore you. You’ve worked past the steel I’ve forged around my heart to make your home there, and you’ll never leave.”

You swallow audibly.

“When I met you,” your voice is quiet. “All I wanted to do was try and put a smile on that face. You looked so shaken from El wandering off, and concerned about disturbing me. My heart went out to you. The more time we spent together, the more you showed me every facet of who you are. The more I found myself wanting to be around you. Ironically, you make me happy when all I wanted was to do that for you.”

“You make me happy,” he gives you a nod before licking his bottom lip. “Let me show you.”

His breath fans across your face, and you faintly smell beer on it. A slight movement and his lips are on yours, keeping you secure against him as you reciprocate feeling the softness of his lips but not pushing any further.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is thick as his forehead leans against yours.

“Have you been drinking?” You say quietly, your heart sinking at the thought of him being drunk.

“Oh,” he hand drops from your face, reaching behind him to pick something up and show you the brown bottle — mostly full. “I took a sip when I heard you knock, I needed some courage.”

You glance at the bottle, feeling your muscles loosen up and give a relieved laugh.

“Sorry,” you apologise.

“Don’t apologise,” he shakes his head. “Want one?”

“No, thanks,” you reach up to allow your fingers to tangle in the hair, flowing from above his ear to the base of his neck.

“Fair enough,” he takes a long sip before placing it back on the side table behind him. You quietly laugh again. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” you grin. “Needing a beer like you’ve never spoken to a woman. It’s cute.”

“I don’t need a beer to speak to a woman,” he pretends to be offended. “I need a beer to speak with you.”

You snort. “Corny.”

Unable to hold the serious expression, he laughs lightly.

“I am,” he agrees, then leans forward to press a quick peck to your mouth.

“Hey!” You complain with a laugh of your own. “Bucky!”

His left arm tightens around your waist a moment, and he continues to tease you. “Sweetheart.”

“You’re so—” you wave your arm in mock frustration.

“Devastating handsome?” He winks.

Your voice gets caught in your throat, making a choking noise. His eyes widen slightly his horror, hand moving up to rub your back.

“You okay?” His tone dips in concern.

“You made me choke on my own spit!” You accuse him.

A relieved look passes his face.

“Thank fuck,” he breathes, his hand still gently moving up and down your spine.

The sight of him suddenly felt too much. The fear in his eyes, the pink of his lips pressed together, the way his jawline twitched slightly as he strained.

“You are handsome,” you admit, leaning closer and pressing a soft kiss to the edge of his mouth.

“Yeah?” His lips twitch up slightly.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “And kind, and funny.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “And you’re the most generous woman I have ever met. Beautiful, gentle and caring. You ask nothing of me, you accept my poor excuses for not being with you—”

“Taking care of your daughter isn’t a poor excuse,” you interrupt.

“Let me finish,” he presses a finger to your lips. “You don’t mind Eileen being on our dates. You ask after her, treat her as your own.”

His blue eyes soften. “She loves you, you know?”

Your lip trembles slightly. “I love her.”

Bucky’s lips pull up into a proper smile, a rare sight. “As do I.”

The doorbell then rang.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Coming!”

In a flurry of shuffling and cursing, Bucky got off the sofa and headed to the door. The sight of such him stumble around, almost tripping brought a giggle to your lips.

You hear him grumble at you down the corridor before enthusiastically greeting the delivery driver, exchanging pleasantries before re-emerging into the room, carrying several boxes under his arm.

“You remain wordless, amused as he lays out the boxes onto the coffee table.

“Ah,” he slumps back next to you, remote in hand to turn on the TV. The chatter and music seemed faint compared to the sound of Bucky shifting to grab his beer again and reach for a slice with the other.

“Happy now?” You tease.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Been a long time since I had an evening like this.”

“Should I leave you alone with—?” You nod to the food.

“No,” he answers quickly, placing his beer down, then swapping the pizza from one hand to the other before holding out his free arm. “Get over here.”

You shuffle over, half your body covering his, as he finishes off his slice.

“Here,” his left arm holds you as his right reaches over for another slice. “Open.”

You blink a second before opening your mouth to allow him to feed you. You chew slowly, taking in his relaxed expression.

“This is nice,” you admit. “Domestic, comfortable. Like… home.”

He freezes for a moment. “Like home?”

You nod softly. “Better, because you’re here.”

“Yeah?” He asks rhetorically. “We could make this more permanent, honey.”

“What do you mean?”

“You could stay over,” he suggests. “Spend the weekends with El and me.”

“I thought you didn’t want to cause Eileen any confusion?” You say quietly. 

He snorts. “I’d cause her more by keeping you away.”

“And what if we sleep together?”

“We will cross that bridge when we get to it,” he snags another piece, taking a big bite to avoid speaking further.

“Bucky,” you voice is almost a whine. 

“Hush and eat your food,” his voice is gentle, no semblance of harshness in his tone.

“Yes sir,” you mutter, reaching over to join him in having pizza.

Slowly, as the take out boxes emptied, you ended up laid down, Bucky underneath, his back against the armrest, whilst your head was on his chest as your fingers brushed against his shirt.

Every so often, you’d move up and kiss him, softly. Taking your time to make the most of being alone with him. Then he’d occasionally move, tilting his head down to push his lips against the crown of your head, then tilting your head back to kiss you lazily, no force behind it, only a tempered heat that sparked the desire for more.

“Hey,” you hear him murmur. “You awake, sweetheart?”

“Barely,” your voice is a whisper, his body rumbles as he chuckles.

“Need me to carry you to bed?” His tone is teasing again.

“I— I don’t have any clothes,” you don’t move despite the comment.

“You can have some of mine,” he promises. “Come on, doll. Let’s get you in bed.”

As he moved, keeping you on his lap before turning and picking you up with surprising ease, it occurred to you that this is what he probably did with Eileen every night. Let her tire herself out before scooping her up and gently putting her under the covers.

It was a basic act of love. Something Bucky was used to, rather than the awkwardness of trying to force something on a date.

You barely notice where you are until he pops you onto what you assume is his bed. He goes to his drawers pulling out several pieces of clothing

“Here,” he gently tosses you a grey shirt. “I’m gonna change. Feel free to use the bathroom.”

He leaves through the open door, and you hear his footsteps as he heads down the corridor.

The room is dimly lit by the light filtering from the neighbouring bathroom, the bed sheets a simple navy blue, and upon the drawers were framed photos. Several were of Eileen, one was of Bucky, his arm around a man you didn’t recognise — Sam, you assumed. Then there was another, a new one, that you recognised. It was you, sat next to Bucky on the bench in the Space Museum. The photo was blurry, having been taken by Eileen herself, but even so you could see the happiness in Bucky’s eyes, the slight tilt in his lips.

You hadn’t realised you were standing until you reached to touch it, eyes watering slightly at his sentimentality.

“Hey,” his voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “You okay, doll?”

“You framed this?” Your voice is shaky.

“Of course,” he speaks casually. “It’s the only picture I have of you.”

“It’s only been two months,” you peek over at him from the corner of your eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” you feel him step behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. “Whether you know it or not, you’ve brightened my life. You’re important to me.”

“Bucky,” tears begin to fall down your cheeks.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs into your ear. “I’m not worth your tears, baby.”

“Yes, you are,” you sniffle, placing your hands on his. “You’re worth it all.”

You feel his breath against your ear, lips brushing faintly against your hairline.

“Still sleepy?” He asks.

Your head twists to look behind you then up at him. “A little, but I want you more.”

His eyes widen slightly at your words. “You’re sure?”

You nod, turning in his arms, and wrap your own arms around his neck.

“Yes,” you agree. “Nice and slow. Like you said.”

“I can do that,” he pulls you forward, stepping back until he falls back onto the bed, bringing you with him.

“Buck!” You laugh as you land on his chest, the thin cotton of his pyjamas gave little protection when your hands brushed his hardness of his chest.

He chuckles. “Buck, eh?”

You feel heat rush to your cheeks. “It kind of slipped out.”

“It’s okay,” he pulls you up carefully until you are face to face. “It’s more than okay.”

“You don’t mind?”

He shakes his head with a gentle smile. “I only allow those closest to me to call me Buck.”

“Yeah?”

The smile turns into a smirk as he hums in approval, leaning up to kiss you.

The kiss is different again, slow like before but with clear intent. A hand reaches to cup your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. His lips move with precision, taking care not to push too far.

“Slow,” he murmurs against your lips as if reminding himself. You lean down this time, pressing gentle kisses across his face, working down to his neck before giving it a nip with your teeth.

“Easy,” his fingers brush through your hair. “Gonna get me off before our clothes are off.”

You giggle quietly. “Sorry.”

“No apologies,” his hand moves from your head to tilt your chin up. “Don’t be sorry for any of this. This is perfect.”

You pull back, and catch the hurt in his eyes. Your chest tightens with guilt, and you manage a deep breath before reaching under your skirt — pulling the dress off in a single movement.

“Oh,” his hands fall to your hips, eyes locked on your bare chest only covered by a simple bra. “That’s not slow, sweetheart.”

“I want to feel you,” you admit as you reach down, hands roaming up his arms as you lower yourself back down onto him.

He doesn’t say a word, instead his right hand moves up your skin, leaving a soft tingle in its wake, before stopping just at the hem of your bra.

“May I?” His voice is low with desire, eyes on your chest.

You nod, feeling enraptured by the sensation of his hands on you. His hand slid under your bra cupping your breast, then brushing his thumb over your skin.

“They’re real soft,” he murmurs, concentrating on how his fingers seemed to disappear into them.

“Been a while?” You guess.

His eyes flicker to yours. “I never got to experience this — to just touch. To get to know someone so intimately.”

“Here,” you reach up and pull down the straps on your bra, then unhook from behind you and throw it on the floor. “I trust you.”

He pulls himself further up, keeping you seated on his lap whilst his hands hovered over you.

“Still okay?” He asks, and you nod.

The sensation of one hand cold and the other warm, sent your mind into overdrive with sensation. Your nipples perking up slightly in interest as his fingers squeezed.

You reach forward, humming quietly at the feel of him on you, and reach for the bottom of his top.

“May I?” You whisper.

“Please,” he removes his hands and allows you to pull it over his head. Your breath catches in your throat for a moment at the sight of him.

You had known he was well built, and big, but seeing him without a shirt felt altogether different. Large shoulders framing his chest. Curiosity breaks through, your hands drift onto his chest, brushing softly against his chest, downwards as you notice there is no six pack, only the feel of muscle with a healthy layer of fat. It felt soft, like somewhere you wished to lay your head on every night.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” He asks, eyes fixed on your every expression.

“It feels nice,” you admit.

“Don’t exactly look like I’d fit the cover on Men’s Health, do I?” His tone is joking, but you scowl at him regardless.

“Yet you probably could lift a small car with those muscles,” you say, fingers now pressing into the muscles of his arm, one hand exploring soft muscle the other tracing the plates of his arm.

“That’s what the metal arm is for,” he jokes and leans forward to press a kiss to your mouth again.

You laugh as you pull away from the peck. “Could you lift me?”

“Easily,” he admits casually.

“Very humble,” you tease him, as his fingers begin to trace your sides.

“You asked,” he smirks.

“I did,” you agree, brushing your nose against his. “I’m curious what else,” your hand roams over his metal arm. “This arm can do.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “Dirty.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. He laughs then, all tension removed from the moment. 

”Bucky,” your voice is almost a whine.

“Breathe,” his voice turns soft. “It’s just us. You don’t have to hide anything.”

You give him a playful scowl, then shake your head.

“Are you asking me to talk dirty?” Your voice is slightly hesitant.

”Only if you want to,” his fingers made patterns on your bare sides. “Or I can…”

You feel his lips brush your cheek before speaking low in your ear. “You have no idea how hard it has been to keep our dates safe for El’s eyes. Trying to keep my eyes off you. When we first met—”

He pauses, shifting back to stare at you, suddenly serious. “I’m sorry about that. I checked you out and spoke without thinking. I was as embarrassed as you were, it’s why I wished to escape, and why it took me so long to text you.”

Your arms tighten around his neck. “You’re only human.”

He lets out an awkward chuckle, licking his bottom lip anxiously. “Thanks”

You lean forward to press a kiss to his mouth, moving slowly as you press yourself against him. One hand presses against the small of your back as the other slides up to cradle the back of your neck.

You gasp as he turns, causing you to land on your back head against the pillows looking up at him.

“Had enough talking?” His voice breaks slightly.

You nod, still slightly wide eyed.

“Good,” he buries his head into your neck, inhaling through his nose as his hands moved down to your underwear.

Your own hands mirrored his, reaching to pull him free. The moment dragged, suddenly the urgency of made it feel like no matter how hard either of you tried the clothes were just not coming off.

“That was more difficult than when it was my first fucking time,” he grumbles, kicking his leg to ensure he was completely bare.

You laugh quietly and shake your head. “Come here.”

He leans down again to kiss you. Even as your lips moved with his your could feel him against you, the warmth of his skin against your chest, your hands feeling the muscles of his back.

With a groan, his hips roll over yours to allow you to feel how hard he was. Your legs lift instinctively to allow him easier access.

There were no words passed between you. Bucky only lifted himself slightly to look into your eyes as you give a tiny nod to confirm you were consenting to all of it.

A hand abruptly landed on your thigh, curling inwards before moving between your bodies reaching to grasp himself and line himself up.

“It’s been a while,” he admits. “If I do anything it hurts, or anything you don’t like. Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

“Okay,” your voice is breathy, almost silent from the tension of the moment.

His blue eyes stay fixed on you, reading your expression before you feel the tip of him press against you.

He moved slowly, as if he feared that moving too fast would break you in half. Yet somehow it made everything better. You gasped as you stretched around him, friction building despite your arousal and the an ache that had previously gone unnoticed seemed to soothe as he bottomed out.

You exhale slowly as he pressed his forehead against yours, the room silent other than the sound of heavy breathing.

“You okay?” His voice broke slightly at the intensity.

“Yeah,” you respond, reaching so your arms wrap around him, hands grasping his shoulders. From the corner of your eyes you see the showdown of his own arms bracing himself above you.

Bucky keeps his eyes on yours. “Keep yours eyes on me, please.”

His hips move and withdraw slightly before pushing forward gently. A moan gets caught in your throat as you feel the stretch again.

The look in his eyes is intense, focused and his jaw ticks slightly as he concentrates.

“You’re making it real hard to hold it together honey,” he voice come from between clenched teeth.

“Slower?” You suggest and he shakes his head sharply.

“That’ll kill me,” his lips twitch in amusement at the thought. “I need to move.”

You brace your feet against the softness of the bedsheet, allowing your thighs to wrap around his hips lightly.

“Then move, Bucky,” you whisper your encouragement. “I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

He remains still, his eyes still focusing on you.

“Trust me?”

The words seem to stir something in him, his face softens, jaw loosening and he lets out a sharp exhale as though he had been holding his breath.

In a single movement he pulls out, then in an instant he pushes back in, watching as you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

His body begins to move in rhythm, faster than the first few thrusts but enough you find yourself keeping up, attempting to sync up with him.

The room felt oddly quiet only than the soft slapping of skin and your breathy sighs of pleasure.

“Feels good,” he murmurs, and leans down brush his nose against yours. He begins to move faster, just enough that you see him groan, his mouth passing yours a moment before leaving a trail of saliva from the edge of your lips to jawline.

“Bucky,” you moan as you feel him give a hard thrust and hold it there.

“More?” He suggests, his lips at your ear.

“Please,” your eyes sting slightly as your chest tightens slightly, desperate.

He pulls himself up to hover over you. One hand grasping your thigh, pulling it up, swinging your calf over his shoulder and pressing down.

“Oh f—” you cry out as you feel him push deeper, brushing against a spot that sends a flood of warmth through you.

“There,” he inhales, taking a moment whilst his left hand brushed your side, the cool of the metal leaving tingles in its wake before slipping down between your legs. “I’ve got you.”

The headboard banged against the wall with his next thrust, your voice gets caught in your throat, lips still parted as he hits with such precision you begin to fear being overheard at the noises you suppress.

“Let it out,” he commands, tone gentle. “I wanna hear it.”

Your voice cracks slightly as a long moan escapes you. “Bucky, please—”

“Close?” He asks and you nod frantically.

It was then he leaned down to kiss you, your bodies still rocking in an attempt to sync up, your legs begin to tremble around him. The metal of his fingers brushed the swollen nub between you, forcing your apart just a moment as your back arches into him with a soft cry, before he presses himself down on you. His weight holding you in place, mouth suppressing your sounds. His fingers continue, rubbing hard against you as he snaps forward hard.

Your body clamps around him, your cries muffled by his mouth. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, as you feel him continue, the friction against your walls making your eyes roll.

Bucky kisses your deeper then, almost as through to push you further into the mattress as he presses hard against your walls before his large frame shudders, and you feel a rush of liquid alongside your own.

His forehead lays softly on top of yours, and you watch his entire face soften. His eyes are shut, lips slightly parted as he breathes deeply before letting out a quiet laugh.

“Bucky?” You whisper, his eyes flicker open. The blue piercing through you.

“That was reckless,” he chuckles, shifting his weight to prop himself on both arms. “No condom.”

“Oh,” heat rushes to your cheeks as you realise the slight faux pas. You lips part to apologise.

“Don’t apologise,” he cuts you off. “I haven’t felt like this in nearly a decade. Just doing something because it’s fun, consequences be damned.”

You swallow, fingers reaching up to brush against his cheek. “I like that.”

“Yeah, enough to do it again?” His voice is quiet, nervous.

“Now?” You suppress a smile.

“Maybe in an hour,” he shrugs. “Was thinking of a bath? Then we can sleep, get El and maybe brunch?”

“That sounds…” your eyes gaze over for a moment, consumed by domestic thoughts. Sitting in the living room, colouring with Eileen. Having Bucky laid on your lap, running your fingers through his hair. Maybe a day would pass when you’d surprise Eileen with a sibling.

“Sounds nice,” you agree.

His shifts instantly, scooping you into his arms to carry you into the bathroom. His arms tighten around you instinctively and you hear him murmur above you.

“As long you’ll have me, I’ll be here.”

Beside you, Lena noticed immediately. “Still okay?”

You looked toward the bonfire.

You saw Sam first.

You knew it had to be Sam because he was standing near the food table with the kind of confidence that suggested he’d either organized everything or was loudly taking credit for it. He had a beer in one hand and was gesturing with the other while a blond man beside him, Steve probably, watched him with the patient exhaustion of someone who had heard this exact speech before and lost the will to interrupt.

Then your eyes moved past them… and there he was.

Bucky stood near the edge of the firelight, a little apart from the loudest part of the group, like he had tried to position himself casually and failed because every line of his body was angled toward the path you’d just walked down.

He was wearing dark jeans again, boots planted in the sand, and a faded navy shirt under an open gray button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was pushed back from his face, though the breeze had already started pulling a few strands loose. Firelight flickered over the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dark scruff along his jaw, the slight crease between his brows that vanished the second he saw you.

And then he smiled.

Not the careful half-smile from the terrace. Not the controlled, almost shy one from your texts.

This one hit him before he could hide it.

Open. Warm. Relieved.

Like he had, in fact, been staring at the entrance all night.

Your heart did something terribly inconvenient.

“Oh,” Tori whispered beside you. “He is absolutely gone.”

“Behave,” Lena murmured.

“I am observing.”

Jess leaned in on your other side. “For the record, that was a very good reaction.”

Mia hummed thoughtfully. “Supportively less suspicious.”

You tried to glare at them, but the effect was probably weakened by the fact that you could not stop smiling.

Bucky began walking toward you before anyone else seemed to fully notice your group’s arrival. He didn’t rush, exactly, but there was a purpose to it. A quiet intent that made your stomach flutter with every step he took. The firelight followed him unevenly, catching in his eyes when he came close enough to stand in front of you.

For one suspended second, neither of you said anything.

The sounds of the bonfire moved around you: laughter, music, the distant crash of waves, Sam’s voice saying something far too loudly about “optimal marshmallow technique.” Your friends had gone quiet in that very obvious way people did when they were pretending not to be listening.

Bucky’s gaze moved over your face, then dropped, just briefly, to the blue dress.

When his eyes came back to yours, he looked almost pained.

“Hi,” he said.

You smiled despite yourself. “Hi.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for longer than was reasonable. “You look…”

His mouth closed.

You arched a brow, trying to save yourself from melting into the sand. “Careful. Expectations are dangerous, remember?”

That got him. His smile tilted, a little sheepish and a little devastating.

“Beautiful,” he said anyway. “You look beautiful.”

Behind you, Tori made a tiny sound that she immediately tried to disguise as a cough.

Bucky’s eyes flicked past your shoulder and you felt him take in the group lined up behind you like a very pretty jury.

His posture shifted, not nervous, exactly, but respectful. Like he knew he was about to be assessed and had accepted his fate.

“You must be the protective friends,” he said.

Jess folded her arms. “Depends who’s asking.”

Bucky held out a hand. “Bucky Barnes.”

Jess looked at his hand for one theatrical second before shaking it. “Jess. Current stance: undecided.”

“Fair.”

Mia stepped forward next, smiling in a way that was friendly but sharp at the edges. “Mia. I hear Sam thinks I’m leadership material.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “He does. I should warn you, that’s how he recruits people into doing things he doesn’t want to do.”

Mia nodded approvingly. “Good to know.”

Tori shook his hand with far less subtlety, looking delighted. “Tori. I’m rooting for you, but quietly, because I was told to be suspicious.”

Bucky actually laughed at that, and the sound warmed something beneath your ribs.

“Appreciate the honesty.”

Lena was last. She stepped forward with her calm, steady gaze and took his hand. “Lena.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, and somehow he made it sound like he meant more than manners.

Lena studied him for a beat, then nodded. “You too.”

It was not an endorsement, but it wasn’t a warning shot either.

Progress.

Bucky turned back to you. For a moment, his attention settled so fully that the others seemed to fade around the edges.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Me too.”

His eyes dropped to the movement, then back to your face. “Can I introduce you around?”

“Sure.”

He hesitated for half a second, then held out his hand, palm open. Not grabbing. Not assuming, but asking.

You looked at it, then at him, and placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed gently around yours.

It was absurd, how immediate the warmth was. How quickly your body remembered him from the night before. Not just the shape of his hand, but the feeling of being given space and held carefully inside it.

Your friends noticed. Of course they noticed.

Jess’s eyebrows went up.

Tori silently clutched Mia’s arm.

Lena’s gaze softened again, just barely.

Bucky led all of you toward the main group, his thumb brushing once over the side of your hand.

Sam spotted you first.

“Well, well, well,” he called, grin already spreading. “Look who finally stopped pretending he wasn’t waiting by the entrance.”

Bucky closed his eyes briefly. “Here we go.”

You looked up at him. “That was very fast.”

“I warned you.”

Sam came forward with a cooler confidence than anyone had a right to possess on sand, smile bright, eyes mischievous. “Sam Wilson. Food director, fire supervisor, emotional support extrovert.”

“Self-appointed,” Steve said, joining him.

“Incorrect. Democracy chose me.”

“No one voted.”

“Because they trusted my leadership.”

Steve sighed and turned to your group with a smile that was instantly calming, all polite warmth and old-fashioned steadiness. “Steve Rogers. Sorry in advance for him.”

“Never apologize for excellence,” Sam said.

Mia stepped forward at once. “Mia. I respect a man who knows his brand.”

Sam’s grin sharpened. “Leadership material.”

“I was told.”

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” he said, looking at Bucky. “I like them.”

Bucky muttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The introductions unfolded easily after that, helped by Sam’s complete inability to let anything become awkward. Steve was exactly as Bucky had described: respectable in a simple white shirt, quietly amused, the kind of man who seemed to listen more than he spoke but somehow missed nothing. There were a few others there too, friends of friends, relaxed vacation acquaintances whose names you caught and then immediately half-forgot because Bucky’s hand was still around yours and your brain had priorities.

And then there was Natasha.

She sat near the far side of the fire, red hair catching every flicker of flame like copper. She had one leg crossed over the other, a drink in hand, and an expression that made it seem like she had already figured out everyone’s secrets and was politely waiting for the rest of you to catch up.

“Nat,” she said when Sam introduced her, standing to greet your group.

Her gaze moved over all of you with cool, clever interest. When Jess introduced herself with a flat, “Current stance: suspicious,” Natasha’s smile sharpened.

“Smart,” Natasha said.

Jess blinked once, caught just slightly off guard, and you tucked that away for later.

Then Bucky’s hand shifted gently around yours and your attention swung back to him like it had been pulled by gravity.

The evening opened around you after that.

Sam swept everyone toward the food table with the authority of a man who had indeed appointed himself director of hospitality. There were foil trays of grilled skewers, corn, chips, fruit, dips, a truly unnecessary number of marshmallows, and a cooler stocked with drinks. Someone had brought a portable speaker, currently playing something mellow and summery beneath the louder rhythm of conversations. The fire cracked and snapped, sending sparks upward into the darkening sky.

Bucky stayed close, but not too close.

That was the thing you kept noticing. He was attentive without hovering. Present without trapping you in his attention. He introduced you, made sure you knew where things were, asked what you wanted to drink, but never made you feel like the entire night had to orbit him.

When you chose a bottled lemonade from the cooler instead of alcohol, he didn’t comment beyond opening it for you when the cap stuck.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, handing it over.

“Yeah. I figured I’d take it easier tonight.”

“Probably smarter than whatever Sam’s mixing over there.”

You glanced over to where Sam was holding court beside a cooler while Mia inspected his drink-pouring technique with theatrical skepticism.

“What is he mixing?”

“Confidence and poor judgment.”

You laughed, and Bucky’s eyes warmed like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

The two of you drifted closer to the fire, standing just outside the circle of chairs. Around you, your friends were settling in with surprising ease. Tori was already laughing at something Steve had said, though Steve looked faintly confused by how funny she found him. Mia and Sam had entered what appeared to be a competitive banter spiral over who was more qualified to manage the roasting sticks. Lena had taken a seat near the edge of the group, relaxed but watchful, though every now and then you caught her smiling into her cup.

Across the fire, Jess had somehow ended up beside Natasha, the two of them speaking low beneath the music. Jess said something that made Natasha’s mouth curve into a slow, approving smile, and you made a mental note to interrogate her later.

A gust of wind came off the water, cool enough to raise goosebumps along your bare arms. You tried not to react, but Bucky noticed anyway.

“Cold?”

“A little.”

He glanced down at his open button-down, hand already moving toward it. “Here.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

“I know.”

He slipped it off anyway, leaving him in the navy shirt that pulled unfairly across his shoulders and chest. He held the button-down open, but paused before placing it around you.

“Can I?”

The question was soft. Almost too soft beneath the music and waves, but you heard it.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He stepped behind you.

For one second, his body was close enough that you felt the heat of him along your back. Then the shirt settled over your shoulders, warm from him, smelling faintly like cedar and soap and smoke from the fire. His hands lingered only long enough to adjust the collar so it sat comfortably, fingertips barely brushing your shoulders through the fabric.

Your breath caught despite your best effort.

Bucky stepped back around in front of you, watching your face carefully. “Okay?”

You nodded, fingers curling into the edges of the shirt. “Okay.”

His gaze softened.

From somewhere near the food table, Sam yelled, “BARNES, IS THAT YOUR SHIRT?”

Bucky’s eyes closed.

You bit your lip, smiling.

“Sure is,” Steve called before Bucky could answer, sounding far too cheerful.

Sam appeared delighted. “Look at him! Chivalry at the beach!”

“Sam,” Bucky warned.

“Man’s been here five minutes and already donated clothing.”

Mia lifted her drink. “That’s community service.”

Tori beamed. “We love community service.”

Jess called from beside Natasha, “We are observing community service.”

Bucky looked like he wanted the sand to swallow him.

You laughed so hard you had to tuck your face briefly against his sleeve, now draped over you. When you looked back up, his embarrassment had softened into something else entirely.

He was watching you laugh.

Not smiling at the joke. Not glancing toward Sam or the others.

Watching you.

As if the sound had reached into him and turned some hidden light on.

Your laughter faded slowly.

The fire popped between you.

Bucky’s voice lowered. “Worth it.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Being mocked by your friends?”

“Making you laugh like that.”

Oh.

You looked down, suddenly very interested in the sand near your feet.

He let you have the moment, not pushing, not filling the space with another line. That almost made it worse. The quiet sincerity sat there between you, glowing.

Eventually, you lifted your eyes again. “You’re doing very well for someone who promised to disappoint me a little.”

His mouth tipped. “Night’s still young.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Only if Sam offers you something called a Wilson Special.”

You glanced over to Sam, who was now dramatically demonstrating something with a marshmallow while Mia heckled him.

“Noted.”

The next hour passed like something out of a life you hadn’t thought you were allowed to step into yet.

You roasted marshmallows badly.

Bucky roasted his perfectly, which you immediately accused him of doing just to be annoying.

“You’re too good at that,” you said, watching him turn the stick with patient precision.

“It’s a marshmallow.”

“It’s suspicious.”

“Everything is suspicious to your group.”

“Correct. We’ve been through a lot.”

His expression softened just slightly, but he kept his tone light. “Then I’ll try to look less competent.”

“Too late. You’ve revealed yourself as a man with fire-adjacent skills.”

“That going in my file?”

“Jess is probably keeping one.”

Across the fire, Jess lifted her cup without turning around. “I am.”

Bucky leaned closer and murmured, “That woman hears everything.”

You laughed and his smile lingered as he turned back to his marshmallow.

The two of you ended up sitting side by side on a blanket someone had spread near the edge of the fire circle. Not alone, exactly, but apart enough that the conversation around you blurred into something softer. His shirt stayed around your shoulders. Your knees were bent, toes buried in cooling sand, and Bucky sat close enough that his arm brushed yours whenever either of you shifted.

Each accidental touch felt less accidental than the last.

He asked you questions.

Real ones.

Not the easy vacation small talk of where are you from and what do you do tossed out like filler, though those came too. He asked what you loved about your work. What kind of things made you laugh when you were having a terrible day. Whether you were the type to plan every detail of a trip or pretend you were spontaneous while secretly knowing the restaurant menu three days in advance.

You told him more than you meant to.

That you liked knowing people were safe because of you, even in small ways. That your friends teased you for being stubborn but usually meant it as a compliment. That you loved mornings in theory but not in practice. That you bought books faster than you read them. That you used to make playlists for every important era of your life, but lately you hadn’t known what to call this one.

He listened like every answer mattered.

And when you asked him things in return, he answered with that same careful honesty you were beginning to associate with him.

He told you he liked quiet mornings. Old movies. Good coffee. Long walks when his head got too loud. He told you Sam had dragged him into the trip because he’d been “getting broody again,” and when Sam overheard that, he yelled, “I said emotionally unavailable hermit, not broody!”

Bucky threw a bottle cap at him.

You laughed until your side hurt.

He told you Steve had been his best friend for so long that they’d practically grown up under each other’s skin. That Natasha was the kind of friend who knew too much and used it with surgical precision. That he wasn’t always good in crowds, but he was trying to say yes to things more often.

“To bonfires?” you asked.

“To people,” he said.

The answer quieted you.

Firelight shifted over his face, softening the strong lines, catching in the blue of his eyes when he looked at you.

“Is that hard?” you asked.

He looked down at his hands for a moment. They were clasped loosely between his knees, broad and scarred in a way you hadn’t noticed before. Not dramatically, not enough to invite questions, but enough to suggest his life had left marks.

“Sometimes,” he said. “I got used to keeping distance. It’s easier.”

You understood that more than you wanted to.

“Safer,” you said.

His gaze lifted.

You hadn’t meant to say it quite so softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Safer.”

For a moment, neither of you looked away.

Then Sam yelled, “Who wants another hot dog?” and the spell cracked just enough for you both to laugh.

But it didn’t fully break. Not really.

It lingered.

In the way Bucky’s knee touched yours and stayed there.

In the way he passed you napkins before you realized you needed them.

In the way his eyes kept finding you across little interruptions, as though checking that you were still with him.

And you were.

That was the frightening part.

You were so with him.

At some point, the fire burned lower and the sky turned fully dark. Stars began to prick through overhead, faint at first, then clearer the farther your eyes moved from the lanterns. The beach stretched shadowy beyond the circle, the ocean a constant hush in the distance. People had shifted positions, some standing near the cooler, others sprawled in chairs, the conversations looser now.

Tori and Steve were debating something about whether a hot dog counted as a sandwich. Mia and Sam had entered an alliance over music selection, which seemed dangerous for everyone. Lena was talking with one of Steve’s friends, relaxed enough that she’d stopped scanning for emergencies every few minutes.

Jess’s eyes immediately swept over you when you shifted closer to Bucky on the blanket, sharp and assessing. Beside her, Natasha hid a smile behind her cup, looking entirely too pleased by whatever she’d noticed and wisely choosing not to say a word.

Bucky glanced toward the water, then back at you. Something shifted in his expression… hesitation, maybe. Want, definitely. Carefully contained.

“Would you walk with me?” he asked.

Your heartbeat changed.

Not in alarm. Not exactly.

But awareness moved through you, bright and immediate.

Bucky seemed to sense the flicker of nerves, because he nodded toward the shore. “Just down there. Still in view. Unless you’d rather stay here.”

There it was again. The room to say no.

The space.

You glanced toward your friends automatically.

Lena was already looking at you. Of course she was. Her eyes moved from you to Bucky, then to the stretch of beach he had indicated. Still visible from the bonfire. Still public. Still safe.

She lifted her brows in a silent question.

You nodded once.

She nodded back.

Jess, still watching, gave you two fingers pointed at her eyes, then at Bucky.

Bucky saw it and lifted one hand in solemn acknowledgment.

You snorted. “She’s going to be insufferable.”

“I respect her methods.”

“That will help your file.”

“Good.”

You stood, brushing sand from the skirt of your dress. Bucky rose beside you and offered his hand.

You took it.

The two of you walked away from the fire slowly, leaving the loudest laughter behind. The sand grew cooler as you neared the water, firmer under your feet. You slipped off your sandals after a few steps, hooking them in one hand, and Bucky wordlessly adjusted his pace to match yours.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

It was not uncomfortable.

The night had deepened around you, vast and salt-scented. The bonfire glowed behind you, a warm blur of orange and gold. Ahead, the ocean rolled beneath the moon, dark and endless, white foam curling and vanishing over the shore. The wind moved through Bucky’s borrowed shirt around your shoulders, pressing it closer to your skin.

Your hand was still in his.

You were very aware of that.

“So,” you said eventually, because silence with him felt intimate enough to make you brave and nervous all at once, “do you often invite emotionally compromised women and their entire security detail to beach bonfires?”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “First time.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky me,” he said, and there was no joke in it.

You looked over.

He was watching the water, profile silvered by moonlight, jaw relaxed but eyes serious.

“You can’t just say things like that,” you murmured.

His gaze shifted to you. “Why not?”

“Because I might start believing you.”

He stopped walking.

So did you.

The bonfire was still visible in the distance, the group still close enough to be reassuring but far enough that their voices had softened into indistinct warmth. The waves moved beside you, rushing in, pulling back, leaving the sand shining around your bare feet.

Bucky turned to face you fully.

“I’d like that,” he said.

Your breath caught.

He seemed to realize how direct that sounded, because he looked down for a second, a faint, self-conscious smile tugging at his mouth. “Sorry. That came out…”

“Honest?”

His eyes came back up.

You tried to smile, but it wavered. Not because of him. Because something about his sincerity pressed gently against a bruise you were still trying to protect.

Bucky’s expression changed at once.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Too much?”

You shook your head quickly, then stopped because the truth was more complicated than that.

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

He didn’t move closer. “Okay.”

“I like it,” you said, and your voice sounded embarrassingly vulnerable in the open air. “That’s the problem.”

His face softened.

You looked out at the water because it was easier than looking at him. “I like how you talk to me. I like that you ask before you touch me. I like that you invited my friends instead of acting like they were in the way. I like that you’re funny in this dry, accidental way and that you get embarrassed when people call you out.” You swallowed. “I like that I wanted you to text me this morning.”

The confession hung there between you.

Your chest tightened immediately with the old instinct to take it back. To make it smaller. To laugh it off before he could hold it.

But Bucky did not look triumphant.

He did not look smug.

He looked almost unbearably gentle.

“I wanted to text you at seven,” he said.

You laughed under your breath, shaky. “You told me.”

“No.” He stepped one inch closer, then stopped. “I mean I had the message typed out. Sat there staring at it like an idiot because I didn’t want you waking up and thinking, ‘Great, the guy from last night is already too much.’”

You turned back to him.

His mouth pulled into a rueful half-smile. “Sam saw me deleting it for the third time and told me I was setting feminism back by overthinking a good morning text.”

Despite everything, you laughed.

Bucky’s shoulders loosened a little at the sound.

“He may have had a point,” you said.

“He usually does. It’s annoying.”

The humor softened the moment, but only enough to make room for the rest of it.

Bucky looked at you carefully. “I know this is bad timing.”

You breathed out slowly.

“Maybe.”

“I know you’re hurting.”

Your eyes stung, sudden and unwelcome.

He continued, voice low. “And I’m not trying to be the guy who shows up on vacation and makes you forget everything for a weekend just so it hurts worse after.”

The accuracy of that fear made your throat tighten.

Bucky’s gaze stayed on yours, steady despite the vulnerability in his own expression. “I don’t want to be a distraction you regret.”

You looked down at where your feet had sunk slightly into the wet sand. A thin rush of water slid over your toes and pulled away again.

“I’m afraid of that,” you said.

“I figured.”

“But I’m also afraid of… not letting myself have anything good because he ruined so much.”

Bucky was quiet.

Your fingers tightened around your sandals. “That’s the part that makes me angry. That he gets to still be in my head. That even meeting someone who’s kind to me turns into this whole internal debate about whether I’m being stupid again.”

“You’re not stupid.”

The words came fast. Firm. Almost sharp.

You looked at him.

Bucky’s jaw had tightened, something protective flashing in his eyes before he visibly tempered it.

“You’re not,” he repeated, gentler. “Trusting someone who didn’t deserve it doesn’t make you stupid.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “My friends said that this morning.”

“Smart women.”

“They keep saying you’re making it difficult to stay suspicious.”

His mouth twitched. “Good.”

“I thought you respected their methods.”

“I do. Still want to pass.”

Something about that made you smile.

Bucky took another small step, close enough now that the wind lifted the ends of your hair against his chest. His shirt still hung around your shoulders. You wondered if he noticed the way you’d wrapped yourself in it, fingers tucked into the cuffs.

He definitely noticed.

His eyes dropped briefly, softening at the sight, before finding your face again.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m scared too.”

That surprised you.

“You are?”

“Yeah.”

“Of what?”

His laugh was quiet and a little rough. “Right now? Saying the wrong thing. Moving too fast. Moving too slow. Looking at you too much.”

Your heart stumbled.

“I don’t mind that last one,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened, not in a way that felt heavy or demanding, but in a way that made the air between you feel warmer despite the ocean breeze.

“No?”

You shook your head.

The waves came in again, closer this time, washing over your feet and making you gasp at the cold. You instinctively stepped forward, away from the water.

Straight into him.

Bucky’s hands lifted automatically, catching you lightly at the waist.

You both froze.

His palms were warm through the thin fabric of your dress. Steady. Careful. He held you just enough to keep you from stumbling and no more, though your body had ended up close enough that you could see every shift in his expression.

“Sorry,” you breathed.

“Don’t be.”

His voice was low.

You should have stepped back.

You did not.

Your hands had landed against his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. Beneath your palms, he was solid and warm, his breath moving slow but not quite even. His gaze moved over your face like he was trying to memorize the moment without taking more of it than you wanted to give.

The fire was distant now.

The ocean was loud.

Your heart was louder.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

Then back.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question was so soft it nearly came apart in the wind.

For a second, you couldn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t want it.

Because you wanted it so badly it frightened you.

And maybe he saw that too, because his hands loosened instantly at your waist.

“You can say no,” he murmured. “Or not yet. Or—”

“Yes.”

The word left you before fear could catch it.

Bucky stilled.

You swallowed, fingers tightening once against his shirt. “Yes.”

His expression shifted, something tender and stunned moving through his eyes.

Then he leaned in.

Slowly.

So slowly that it felt like a thousand tiny choices instead of one reckless one. He gave you every chance to turn away. Every chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You rose slightly onto your toes, meeting him halfway because you wanted him to know this was not something happening to you.

It was something you were choosing.

His mouth touched yours softly at first.

A question.

A warmth.

Barely more than a press of lips, gentle enough that it made your chest ache. You had expected intensity from him. Expected the pull you’d felt since the terrace to finally spark into something overwhelming. But instead, the first kiss was careful. Almost reverent. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs still, his body held in check as though he was afraid one wrong move might break the fragile trust between you.

Your eyes closed.

Something inside you went quiet.

Not healed. Not erased.

Quiet.

You kissed him back.

That was when he exhaled, the sound low and unsteady against your mouth, and the kiss deepened by degrees. Still gentle, still restrained, but warmer now. More certain. One of his hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, holding you a little closer, and you let him. Your fingers moved up from his chest to the side of his neck, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath your thumb, the way his pulse jumped under your touch.

He kissed like he had been wanting to all night and refusing himself until you gave him permission.

Like wanting you did not make him careless, like y tenderness could be its own kind of hunger.

The thought nearly undid you.

When you finally parted, it was only by an inch.

Bucky’s forehead hovered close to yours, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes stayed closed for half a second longer, like he needed it.

Then he opened them.

Blue. Soft. A little wrecked.

“Still okay?” he whispered.

Your laugh came out quiet and shaky. “Yeah,” you said, a wobbly smile playing on your lips. 

His thumb moved once at your back. “Yeah?”

You nodded, and this time your smile steadied. “Still okay.”

The relief in his face was almost enough to make you kiss him again.

Almost.

From somewhere near the bonfire, Jess called, “You good?”

You laughed against Bucky’s chest, mortified and fond all at once. “That’s my emotional support menace.”

Bucky’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter. “I respect her.”

“You should. She’s terrifying.”

“Noted.”

The moment might have broken under the teasing, but instead it only folded itself into something sweeter. Realer. Less perfect in the best possible way.

Bucky reached up and brushed a windblown strand of hair from your cheek. He moved slowly enough that you could have pulled back.

You didn’t.

His fingers lingered near your jaw for one soft second.

“I should walk you back before they organize,” he said.

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again, then lifted with visible restraint.

You smiled. “You’re trying to be a gentleman again.”

“Trying real hard.”

“And?”

His mouth curved. “In trouble again.”

Warmth bloomed beneath your skin.

This time, you were the one who leaned in.

The second kiss was shorter, smiling, softer at the edges because you were both laughing a little. But it still sent something bright through you, something frighteningly close to joy.

When you pulled away, Bucky looked at you like he was trying not to say ten things at once.

You slipped your hand back into his.

“Come on,” you said, tugging lightly. “Before Jess files a missing person report.”

He looked down at your joined hands, then back at you.

The smile he gave you was quiet enough that no one else could have seen it from the fire.

But you felt it.

All the way back.

By the time you and Bucky made it back to the bonfire, something had changed.

Not loudly. Not in a way anyone could point to without sounding ridiculous. There was no announcement, no dramatic music cue, no sudden shift in the stars above the beach. The fire still cracked in the sand. Sam was still talking too loudly. Mia was still arguing with him like she had known him for years instead of hours. Steve still looked half-amused, half-concerned by everyone around him. Your friends still watched you with varying degrees of subtlety, which was to say none at all.

But something had changed anyway.

It was in Bucky’s hand around yours.

Before the walk, he had held you like he was asking.

Now, he held you like he knew you had answered.

Still careful. Still gentle. But different somehow. Warmer. More certain. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles as you neared the group, and the small movement lit through you with such ridiculous force that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too obviously.

Jess saw anyway.

Of course she did.

Her gaze dropped to your joined hands, then swept over your face with the precision of a woman collecting evidence. She didn’t say anything, at least not at first. She only lifted her cup to her mouth, eyes narrowing with that sharp, assessing affection you had come to both fear and rely on.

“You good?” she asked.

You tried for casual. “I’m good.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I am.”

“Never said you weren’t.”

Her mouth twitched.

Beside her, Natasha hid a smile behind her drink, looking far too amused by whatever she had pieced together and far too wise to say it aloud.

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours once, almost like he was trying not to laugh.

You gave him a look.

He leaned closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “I’m starting to think I’m the one who needs protection.”

“You are.”

“From who?”

“All of them.”

His eyes moved over your friends: Lena watching calmly from her chair, Mia pretending not to grin while Sam whispered something in her ear, Tori practically vibrating with delight, Jess still wearing her best interrogator face.

“Fair,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, and his gaze dropped to your mouth.

It was brief. Barely a second.

But you felt it everywhere.

The rest of the night passed with a strange, glowing ease.

You sat beside Bucky near the fire again, close enough that your knee rested against his and neither of you pretended it was an accident anymore. His shirt stayed around your shoulders. At some point, he brought you another lemonade without asking, twisting off the cap before handing it over. Later, when Sam insisted everyone participate in what he called a “high-stakes marshmallow tournament” and what Steve called “Sam needing attention,” Bucky deliberately burned his marshmallow after your previous accusations about him of being too marshmallow competent.

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped yours.

“There,” he said, holding up the blackened, smoking disaster with quiet dignity. “Disappointing.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“You said expectations were dangerous.”

“I didn’t ask you to commit crimes against dessert.”

His mouth curved. “Can’t please you, huh?”

The words were innocent enough, but the look he gave you was most certainly not.

Heat rose in your face so fast that you turned toward the fire and took an aggressive sip of your lemonade.

Bucky’s quiet laugh landed near your ear.

“You’re terrible,” you muttered.

“I’m behaving.”

“Barely.”

“Trying real hard,” he said.

And there it was again: an echo of the beach, of his mouth close to yours, of his hands at your waist and the way he had asked before kissing you. The memory moved through you in a slow, warm wave, leaving you unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol (not that you had any anyways) and everything to do with the man beside you.

He knew it too.

You could tell by the way his smile softened when you dared a glance back at him. By the way his teasing gave way to that careful, intent look that made everything else fade at the edges.

The night ended late, though not nearly late enough.

People began leaving in small clusters, shaking sand from blankets, gathering coolers, extinguishing lanterns. Sam declared the bonfire an overwhelming success, despite Steve pointing out that Sam had dropped two hot dogs in the sand and almost set a napkin on fire. Mia immediately defended him on the grounds of “visionary leadership,” which only encouraged him.

Your friends lingered near the edge of the group, waiting without making it too obvious that they were waiting.

Bucky walked you back toward them, his hand still in yours.

“I should probably say goodnight before Jess starts timing us,” he said.

“She started timing us before we walked away.”

His gaze flicked toward Jess. “Yeah, that tracks.”

You smiled, but there was a small ache beneath it now. A tiny, premature grief. Because the night was ending. Because tomorrow was his last full day here. Because the morning after that, he would leave, and this fragile, impossible thing blooming between you had a deadline neither of you had chosen.

Bucky seemed to feel the shift.

His expression gentled.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You looked up.

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

The question landed low in your chest.

You nodded before you could overthink it. “Yeah.”

“Properly,” he added.

Your brow furrowed. “Properly?”

His thumb moved over your hand once. “A date. Not just running into each other. Not just standing around while Sam tries to burn down a beach.”

You laughed quietly, but your throat felt tight.

Bucky held your gaze. “I meant what I said. I don’t want to be some vacation distraction you regret. So let me take you out. Just us.”

Behind you, someone (Tori, probably) made the smallest possible sound of approval.

You ignored her with great effort.

“A proper date,” you repeated.

“If you want.”

That tiny caveat. That soft exit ramp.

Always there. Always given.

Your heart folded around it.

“I want,” you said.

Bucky smiled like you had given him something precious.

“Good.”

The word warmed you all the way back to the hotel.

And the next morning, when your phone buzzed at 8:03 a.m., you were already awake.

You had been awake for twenty minutes, lying on your back in the soft white bed with the curtains drawn against the early sun, staring at the ceiling while the room around you breathed with the heavy sleep of five women who had stayed out too late for the second night in a row.

Your lips still felt like they remembered him.

That was the problem.

Your body remembered too much. The weight of his shirt around your shoulders. The careful pressure of his hands at your waist. The salt air between you. The way he had kissed you like wanting you mattered less than making sure you felt safe with it.

You had spent so long being angry at yourself for missing signs, for trusting wrong, for loving someone who had made your love look foolish in hindsight. But Bucky’s gentleness had done something strange to the tender, defensive places inside you.

It hadn’t fixed them.

It had simply touched them without hurting.

Your phone buzzed again.

You grabbed it from the nightstand so quickly that Jess, half-buried in blankets in the next bed, mumbled, “Pathetic.”

You froze. “You’re awake?”

“No.”

You looked at your phone.

Bucky: Morning.

Then, a second message.

Bucky: I waited until eight this time. Personal growth.

Your smile spread before you could stop it.

You: Very respectful. Very restrained.

Bucky: Don’t give me too much credit. I’ve been awake since six.

Your stomach flipped.

You: That sounds like a you problem.

Bucky: It is. You free this afternoon?

You bit your lip.

You: Depends what you have planned.

A pause.

Then:

Bucky: Lunch somewhere quiet. A walk through that little market by the marina if you’re up for it. Maybe coffee after. No pressure. No schedule. Just a proper date.

Your chest went soft.

Not dinner. Not drinks. Not something dimly lit and easy to blur into temptation, though God knew the temptation was already there. Lunch. A market. Coffee. Daylight. Time.

Something chosen.

Something intentional.

You stared at the message until Jess rolled onto her side and cracked one eye open.

“If you don’t tell me what he said, I’m going to assume he proposed.”

“He asked me out this afternoon.”

Jess’s eye opened fully. “Properly?”

You smiled down at the phone. “Actually, yes.”

That got the room moving.

Not quickly. Everyone was too hungover-adjacent and sleep-heavy for speed. But one by one, they surfaced: Lena sitting up with her hair in a messy knot and immediate concern in her eyes, Tori emerging from the pullout with a gasp when Jess said “date,” Mia stumbling in from the adjoining room wearing sunglasses and asking if anyone had died or fallen in love.

“Neither,” you said.

Jess pointed at you. “Debatable.”

You threw a pillow at her.

The morning became another debrief, though gentler than the one before. There was teasing, of course. There were threats of interrogation. Mia wanted to know what he had planned. Tori wanted to know if you had already picked an outfit. Jess wanted his last name again “for normal, non-criminal reasons.” Lena stayed quieter, watching you over the rim of her coffee.

Eventually, when the others got distracted arguing about whether you should wear the sundress from yesterday or something more casual, Lena nudged your foot under the table.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

You looked down at your phone, at Bucky’s last message.

Bucky: I’ll pick you up at two? Lobby?

You had already said yes.

“Nervous,” you admitted.

Lena nodded. “Good nervous?”

You thought about it.

The fear was still there. It would probably be there for a while, woven through anything new, anything tender. But beneath it was something else. Anticipation. Warmth. A little flicker of trust you weren’t ready to name but could feel anyway.

“Mostly,” you said.

Lena smiled. “Then go.”

So you did.

At two o’clock exactly, Bucky was waiting in the lobby.

Not at 1:58, pacing so visibly that you would feel guilty. Not late enough to seem casual. Exactly two. Standing near one of the wide windows overlooking the front drive, hands in his pockets, wearing dark jeans and a short-sleeved linen button down in a soft blue-gray that made his eyes look unfair even from across the room.

He looked up when the elevator doors opened.

The second he saw you, his face changed.

It was beginning to become your favorite thing.

His expression didn’t break open as dramatically as it had at the bonfire, but it softened in that same helpless way, like whatever he had been thinking simply disappeared and left room only for you.

You stepped out of the elevator, suddenly aware of every inch of yourself: the simple sundress you had finally chosen, the sandals, the necklace resting at your collarbone, the way your pulse had gone quick at the sight of him.

Bucky met you halfway.

“Hi,” he said.

You smiled. “Hi.”

His gaze moved over your face, then down just briefly, respectfully, before returning to your eyes.

“You look beautiful.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

You had no defense against him when he said things like that so plainly.

You looked down, smiling. “You look pretty nice yourself.”

His mouth quirked. “Pretty nice?”

“I’m trying to keep you humble.”

“Good luck.”

There it was. That flash of dry humor, the little curl at the corner of his mouth. You laughed, and something in him eased at the sound.

He held out his hand. “Ready?”

You looked at it.

Then took it.

“Yes.”

——————

Lunch was at a small restaurant tucked away from the busiest stretch of the beach, the kind of place with shaded outdoor tables, painted blue chairs, and bougainvillea climbing the wall in bright, impossible blooms. It overlooked a narrow side street that sloped down toward the marina, where sailboat masts cut thin white lines into the sky.

Bucky had chosen well.

Quiet, but not empty. Pretty, but not showy. Public enough to feel easy. Private enough that conversation could settle between you without being drowned out.

“I asked Steve for a recommendation,” he admitted once you were seated.

“You did?”

“Sam offered, but his first suggestion had bottomless rum punch and a mechanical shark.”

You paused with your water halfway to your mouth. “A mechanical shark?”

“Apparently.”

“That sounds incredible.”

Bucky stared at you.

You bit back a smile. “What?”

“I’m trying to take you on a respectful date and you’re telling me I should’ve chosen the mechanical shark.”

“I contain multitudes.”

His laugh was soft and startled, like you had caught it from him before he could guard it. The sound settled over the table, warm as sunlight.

Lunch stretched longer than either of you seemed to notice.

You talked about everything and nothing. Favorite foods. Worst vacations. Childhood trouble. The kind of music you could never skip. The little habits that made your friends love you and mock you in equal measure. Bucky told you stories about Steve with the kind of affection that made his teasing gentle. You told him about the time Mia got you both kicked out of a karaoke bar for arguing with the DJ about song order. He asked questions and remembered the answers. Noticed when you paused. Let silence exist without trying to conquer it.

At one point, your ex’s name came up. Not his actual name, because Bucky never asked for it, and you loved him a little for that, in a terrifying, premature, impossible way.

It happened because the waiter set down your food and said something about honeymooners getting a dessert discount if you were celebrating.

The words landed awkwardly.

The waiter realized it too late, face flushing as he stumbled through an apology, but you waved it off quickly.

“It’s okay,” you said, because it was. Mostly.

Still, a shadow moved through you.

Bucky waited until the waiter left before speaking.

“You don’t have to pretend that didn’t hurt.”

Your throat tightened. You looked at him across the table, at his steady face, at the way his hands rested near his glass but did not reach for you in public without permission.

“I’m okay,” you said.

“I believe you.”

That surprised you.

He continued, softer, “And I also think it probably still hurt.”

You looked down at your plate, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.

“It’s stupid,” you whispered.

“No.”

“It is. I don’t even want him anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not grieving what he broke.”

The simple accuracy of it made your chest ache.

You took a slow breath.

“I hate that he’s still here,” you admitted. “Not here here, but… in things. In words. In stupid assumptions from strangers. In the way I have to explain why I’m on a trip that was supposed to be for a wedding that isn’t happening.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed gentle. “I hate that for you.”

You laughed a little, shaky. “Me too.”

His hand moved then, slowly across the table, palm up.

An offering.

You placed your hand in his and he closed his fingers around yours.

“You don’t have to be over it for this to matter,” he said.

Your eyes lifted to his.

“This?” you asked.

The corner of his mouth softened, but he did not look away. “This.”

There was no mistaking what he meant. Not the lunch. Not the trip. Not the flirtation alone.

This thing between you. This fragile, sudden, inconvenient spark that kept refusing to behave like something casual.

Your heart gave one hard, hopeful thud.

“Bucky,” you said softly.

“I know,” he murmured. “Poor timing.”

“Maybe.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“But not bad?”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you shook your head. “No. Not bad.”

After lunch, you walked through the market by the marina.

Colorful stalls lined the walkway, striped awnings fluttering in the breeze. There were handmade bracelets, linen shirts, jars of local honey, tiny watercolor paintings of the coastline, shells polished into jewelry, sun hats stacked in leaning towers. The air smelled like salt, sunscreen, grilled fish from a nearby stand, and sugar from a cart selling warm pastries dusted with cinnamon.

It was easy with him.

That was what kept surprising you.

The date should have felt loaded after the night before. Heavy with expectation, tangled in all the things you were both not saying about him leaving in the morning. Instead, it unfolded with a sweetness that made you ache. Bucky bought a bag of candied almonds from a vendor and held it open for you without comment. You tried on a ridiculous oversized sun hat, and he looked at you with such solemn admiration that you nearly lost it.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

“I was thinking it’s a strong look.”

“You’re lying.”

“Absolutely.”

You laughed and put the hat back.

At another stall, you paused over a display of delicate bracelets woven with tiny glass beads. One was sea-blue, nearly the color of the dress you’d worn the night before.

Bucky noticed.

Of course he did.

You moved on without buying it.

Ten minutes later, while you were distracted by a shelf of painted postcards, he disappeared for exactly long enough to be suspicious.

When he returned, his expression was too neutral.

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Bucky.”

“Walked.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Been told that.”

He held out his closed fist.

Your stomach dipped.

Slowly, he opened his hand.

The bracelet rested in his palm, tiny blue beads catching the afternoon light.

You stared at it.

“Bucky.”

His voice softened. “I saw you looking at it.”

“You didn’t have to buy it.”

“I know.”

That phrase again. Never defensive. Never trying to turn kindness into debt.

Just: I know.

He looked almost shy when he added, “Wanted you to have something from today that wasn’t complicated.”

The words went straight through you.

For a moment, you couldn’t speak.

Then you held out your wrist.

His eyes lifted to yours, asking silently.

You nodded.

He tied the bracelet around your wrist with careful fingers, his head bent, his touch light and focused. The moment was so small. So quiet. Just a man tying a bracelet beneath the shade of a market awning while strangers moved around you and gulls cried somewhere overhead.

But it felt enormous.

When he finished, his fingers lingered for half a second against the inside of your wrist.

Your pulse jumped beneath his touch.

He noticed.

You knew he noticed because his gaze flicked there, then up to your face.

The market noise seemed to fade.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

His voice was low. “You’re welcome.”

By late afternoon, the date had blurred into coffee, then a walk along the marina, then sitting side by side on a stone wall watching boats drift in and out of the harbor while the sun began to lean westward. Neither of you seemed willing to call it.

Not yet.

The hours had become precious, though neither of you said so.

Bucky’s flight left the next morning, while your group still had another day after that. There was a clock on this, ticking beneath every laugh, every glance, every brush of his hand against yours.

And yet, somehow, the deadline made him more present, not less.

He did not rush. Did not push. Did not treat the day like something to consume before it vanished.

He simply stayed with you.

Fully.

When your phone buzzed with a message from the group chat around six, you glanced down to find a photo Mia had sent of herself, Sam, Tori, Steve, Lena, Jess, and Natasha crowded around a table somewhere, drinks raised, all wearing varying expressions of chaos.

Mia: Dinner acquired. We are alive. Suspicious levels currently moderate. Have fun, don’t be reckless. Actually be a little reckless. Lena says hydrated reckless.

Then:

Jess: Text me your location or I become a problem.

You smiled and sent back a quick update.

Bucky watched your face. “They okay?”

“They’ve adopted your friends.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

His mouth curved. “Sam’s going to be impossible after this.”

“Mia too.”

“Good pair.”

You looked at him, amused. “Careful.”

“What?”

“You sound like a man trying to merge friend groups after one date.”

His expression shifted, like he’d been caught, maybe, then softer.

“Too much?”

You should have teased him.

Instead, you said, “No.”

The honesty startled both of you.

Bucky looked down, smiling faintly. “Good.”

Dinner happened almost accidentally.

A small place near the water. Outdoor table. Shared plates because neither of you could decide and Bucky claimed ordering half the menu was “efficient.” The sky turned gold, then rose, then a deepening blue. Lanterns came on around you. Your knees brushed beneath the table. Your bracelet caught the light every time you reached for your glass.

At some point, Bucky looked at it and smiled to himself.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

He leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking from your wrist to your face. “Just like seeing it on you.”

The warmth that moved through you then was dangerous.

Not because it was unfamiliar.

Because it felt like belonging to a moment you didn’t want to end.

After dinner, you walked again.

Neither of you made a decision about where to go. You simply followed the pull of the evening, through quieter streets, past shops closing for the night, past couples walking hand in hand and families carrying tired children back toward hotels. Eventually, inevitably, your feet found the path toward the beach.

The same beach.

The same stretch of sand.

The bonfire was gone now, the permitted fire pit cold and dark, the lantern poles bare. Without the crowd, without the music and laughter, the beach seemed larger. Softer. More intimate in its emptiness. The ocean moved under the moon just as it had the night before, steady and silver-edged, the tide whispering up the shore.

Bucky slowed when he realized where you were.

You did too.

For a moment, both of you stood at the top of the wooden path, looking down at the place where everything had shifted the night before.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

Your throat tightened.

You looked at him.

The moonlight softened his face, but not the concern in his eyes. He was already prepared to turn around. Already prepared to choose your comfort over nostalgia, over romance, over whatever he might have wanted from bringing you here.

You reached for his hand.

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s okay.”

You walked down together.

The sand was cooler tonight, the beach emptier. You slipped off your sandals and carried them in one hand, just like before. Bucky matched your pace, his hand warm around yours. No firelight this time. No friends watching from a distance. No laughter to soften the silence.

Just the two of you.

And the ocean.

You walked along the tide line until the lights from the busier part of the beach dimmed behind you. Not far enough to be hidden entirely, but far enough that the world felt hushed. Private. The waves rushed in close, foaming around your feet before sliding back into the dark.

Bucky stopped where you had kissed the night before.

Or close to it.

You knew because your body remembered.

He turned toward you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

The whole day seemed to gather there between you. The date. The bracelet. The laughter. The quiet confessions. The knowledge of morning waiting too close.

“You leave tomorrow,” you said.

Bucky’s expression dimmed at the edges.

“Yeah.”

“I keep trying not to think about it.”

“Me too.”

The wind moved between you, lifting your hair across your cheek. He reached up slowly, brushing it back with the backs of his fingers.

“I had a good day,” he said.

You smiled, though it hurt a little. “Me too.”

“No.” His thumb grazed your cheek once. “I mean… I had the kind of day I’m going to think about when I’m somewhere else and probably make myself miserable.”

Your breath caught.

“That sounds awful.”

“It will be.”

“Bucky.”

His smile was small and aching. “Worth it.”

Something in your chest cracked open.

You stepped closer.

He watched you carefully, but there was want in his eyes now. Clearer than before. Not hidden, not denied, only held back by the thread of restraint he had kept between you from the start.

You were suddenly tired of restraint.

Not because you wanted him to stop being gentle.

Because you trusted the gentleness.

Because wanting him no longer felt like betraying yourself.

Because grief had taken enough from you, and standing barefoot in moonlit sand with a man who had spent the whole day choosing you carefully, you did not want to hand it this too.

You set your sandals down.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to them, then returned to your face.

Your voice came out soft. “Kiss me.”

He did not need to be asked twice.

Bucky stepped into you, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cupping your jaw as his mouth found yours. This kiss was not the tentative question from the night before. 

It began gentle because he was Bucky, because care seemed written into the way he touched you now, but the softness deepened quickly into something warmer. Hungrier. Your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer as the ocean rushed around your ankles and the wind wrapped around you both.

He made a low sound against your mouth when you kissed him harder.

The sound moved through you like flame.

His hand tightened at your waist.

Not enough to trap. Just enough to tell you he felt it too. The pull. The ache. The day’s worth of looking and wanting and waiting compressed into this one point of contact.

You broke away only to breathe.

Bucky’s forehead dipped to yours, his breath uneven.

“We should slow down,” he murmured, though he did not move away.

“Do you want to?”

His eyes opened.

The answer was there before he spoke.

“No.”

Heat curled low in your stomach.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed. “I need you to be sure.”

You looked at him beneath the moonlight, at this man who had asked at every step, who had held back not because he didn’t want you but because he wanted you safely, honestly, without regret.

Your fingers softened at his chest.

“I’m sure.”

Bucky went still.

For a second, all you heard was the ocean.

Then he kissed you again.

The world narrowed to his mouth, his hands, the warmth of him against the cool night air. 

You whispered his name against his mouth.

He answered by kissing you deeper.

It was like the careful dam he’d built between you finally gave way. Not in a crash, but in a slow, inevitable surge. 

His tongue traced your lower lip, asking, and you opened for him with a soft sound that seemed to unravel something in his chest. He tasted like salt air and the faint sweetness of the candied almonds you’d shared and underneath it all, something warm and unmistakably him. The kiss grew hungry, tongues sliding together, breaths mingling as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

Until the ocean reminded you it was there.

The tide rushed in around your ankles, colder this time, a sharp, startling bite that stole a gasp right out of you against his lips. Your toes dug instinctively into the sand as the water swirled and tugged, and Bucky reacted before you even finished flinching with one arm tightening around your waist, anchoring you to him like instinct had already memorized your balance.

You laughed breathlessly into the kiss, half shock and half delight, and he chased the sound with his mouth, smiling against you as the water pulled back again.

His forehead hovered close. “Cold?”

“A little,” you admitted, voice unsteady from more than the water.

His thumb brushed once at your hip, a quiet check-in. “Want to move back?”

You should have said yes.

The practical answer was yes. Away from the water. Back to dry sand. Back to the blanket that had been in the bag he’d brought, because apparently Bucky Barnes prepared for comfort and contingencies and possibilities he was too honorable to assume.

But the moonlight was silver across his face, turning his eyes dark and bright at once. The ocean softened around the edges of the night like a living thing. His hands were careful on your body, his mouth still warm against yours, and something about the tide washing over your feet made the moment feel less like standing on the edge of something and more like finally stepping into it.

So instead, you shook your head.

“No.”

Bucky’s brows drew together faintly, not displeased, just questioning. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t try to steer you. He simply watched you, waiting for you to lead the next step the way he had been letting you lead from the beginning.

You stepped backward.

Not away from him. Not really.

Toward the water.

The next wave slid up around your calves, tugging at the hem of your dress and you bit back a gasp at the cold. The fabric clung instantly, heavy and damp against your legs. Bucky’s grip tightened, instinctive and protective, as if he’d already decided he’d catch you no matter what.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low but laced with wonder. 

Your heart hammered hard enough you could feel it in your throat.

Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was childish. Maybe it was the kind of thing you’d laugh about later, with sand in your hair and salt on your skin and the memory of him looking at you like this burned permanently behind your ribs.

But tonight had already become something you would remember forever.

And you wanted to remember all of it.

The moon. The water. The way he looked at you like he was afraid to want too much and unable to stop wanting anyway.

You took another step back, the water rising around your knees, and held out your hand like a dare.

“Come here.”

Bucky stared at you for a long second.

Then a slow, disbelieving smile touched his mouth, soft and dangerous, like surrender dressed up as amusement.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured.

You didn’t even try to deny it. You only lifted your hand higher. “You coming?”

His gaze dropped to your hand.

Then to the water.

Then back to your face.

Something in him shifted, like a careful internal debate ended, like the last thread of restraint snapped in a way that wasn’t reckless, just inevitable.

“Yeah sweetheart,” he said, voice rough. “I’m coming.”

He followed you into the surf.

The ocean curled around his boots first, then his calves, darkening the denim at his legs. His shirt clung at the hem where the water splashed up, and you watched him take another step without hesitation, as if the cold didn’t matter. As if the only thing that mattered was you.

You backed farther into the shallow water, laughing softly when another wave pushed against your thighs and made your dress cling cool and heavy to your skin.

Bucky caught up to you in two strides.

His hands found your waist again

“Still okay?” he asked.

You nearly broke apart right there.

Even now. Even here. With the ocean around you, your dress soaked at the hem, and the heat between you making every breath feel fragile and bright… he still asked. Still offered you the choice. Still held himself back by the same thread of care that had undone you from the beginning.

You reached up, water dripping from your fingers as you touched his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw.

“Still okay.”

His eyes closed for half a second, like the words landed somewhere deep.

Then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss hit differently in the water.

Less polished. Less careful around the edges. The ocean moved around you both, pressing you together and pulling away again, making balance something you had to share. Your hands slid up his wet shirt, fingers curling at his shoulders, while his arm locked securely around your back to keep you steady. The tide surged against your thighs, and Bucky used the momentum to draw you closer, his breath breaking against your mouth when your body met his.

You kissed him harder.

He answered with a sound that disappeared into the rush of the next wave, muffled and ruined against your lips.

The water rose and fell around you, dark and silver, soaking the skirt of your dress. Bucky’s shirt stuck to his chest, outlining the hard breadth of him beneath your palms. Salt gathered on your lips. His hair came loose in the breeze, damp strands brushing his forehead, and when you pushed them back, he looked at you like the touch had ruined him.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice rough yet the question beneath it was gentle, careful as ever.

Everything in you trembled.

The ocean whispered around your legs. The shore waited behind him, the sand pale beneath moonlight. Somewhere far away, the rest of the world existed: hotels, flights, friends, mornings, consequences.

Here, there was only Bucky.

Only his hands holding you above the pull of the water.

Only the knowledge that wanting him did not feel like losing yourself.

Your thumb brushed over the line of his jaw. “You.”

His breath caught.

“You,” you said again, quieter, letting the word carry everything you couldn’t explain. “This. I don’t want to be afraid of wanting this.”

His expression changed. Not into triumph, not into impatience.

Into something reverent.

Something careful and starving all at once.

He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. The kind of kiss that made the cold water feel distant, the kind that warmed you from the inside out until the night felt liquid around you. His hands slid over your back, your waist, the wet fabric of your dress, never taking more than you gave, yet making it clear with every restrained touch how badly he wanted to.

You rose onto your toes, arms winding around his neck, and the movement shifted your balance.

The next wave came in stronger.

You gasped as it hit, and Bucky caught you instantly, one arm banding around your waist, the other bracing at your back, lifting you just enough that the water couldn’t pull you under. Your laughter broke into the kiss, startled and breathless, and his followed, low and disbelieving, like he couldn’t decide whether to be exasperated or completely undone by you.

“Careful,” he murmured against your mouth.

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep making it hard.”

Your smile faded slowly.

So did his.

The air between you changed again, thicker, quieter, charged in a way the ocean couldn’t wash out.

You were close enough now that every breath brushed his mouth. Water streamed from the hem of your dress. His shirt was wet beneath your hands. His eyes moved over your face, down to your lips, then back up again, and the want there made your knees feel unsteady in a way the ocean had nothing to do with.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His forehead came to rest against yours.

“I know,” he breathed. 

You closed your eyes, heart beating too loud. “I don’t want to stop.”

His hand flexed once at your back, not pushing, just holding.

“I need you to be sure.”

You opened your eyes and looked at him. Really looked.

At this man who had turned your ruined bachelorette trip into something that felt dangerously like a beginning. This man who asked, and asked, and asked again, not because he doubted you, but because he respected your answer too much to assume it.

You kissed him softly, then said against his mouth, “I’m sure.”

Bucky’s breath left him unevenly.

For a moment, he only held you there in the surf. 

The water moved around both of you in cool, insistent pulses, but Bucky’s body was warm and solid against yours, his arms locked around your back like he was afraid the tide might steal you away. He was taking the words in, your quiet, trembling confession that you wanted this, that you wanted him, and memorizing them. You could feel it in the way his chest rose and fell against yours, in the slight tremor that ran through him.

Then he bent his head and kissed your shoulder through the damp strap of your dress in a slow press of lips that made your eyes flutter shut. 

The kiss lingered, warm and salt-tinged, his beard rasping gently over wet skin and sending shivers racing straight down your spine. 

He didn’t rush. His mouth traced the curve of your shoulder, then lower, following the line where fabric met flesh. One broad hand slipped beneath the strap, easing it down with a care that made your chest ache, baring one breast to the cool night air and the occasional spray of the tide. 

Bucky pulled back just enough to look.

Moonlight caught on the droplets of water sliding over your skin, tracing the swell of your breast and the tight peak of your nipple. The raw hunger in his gaze stole what little breath you had left, but there was something else there too… wonder. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“God,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re unreal.”

Then his mouth was on you, hot and insistent against cool skin. His tongue circled your nipple in slow, devastating strokes before he sucked it into his mouth with a low groan that vibrated straight through you. 

His hand cupped and kneaded the other breast through the soaked fabric, thumb brushing back and forth over the nipple until you arched into him with a soft, broken cry. Your fingers threaded through his damp hair, holding him close as pleasure sparked sharp and bright through the chill of the water.

He lavished you with attention, switching sides, sucking and licking until your knees truly threatened to give out and the only thing keeping you upright was his arm locked around your waist.

The tide kept surging, waves lapping higher against your thighs, but the cold barely registered anymore. All you could feel was him: the solid heat of his body, the scrape of his beard, the low groans vibrating from his chest every time you gasped his name. Your hands roamed desperately over his wet shirt, tugging at the fabric, needing more of him.

As if he sensed it, Bucky lifted his head.

For a moment he simply looked at you.

Water glistened on your skin beneath the moonlight. Your dress clung to your body, soaked through from the surf. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, blue eyes dark with something that looked dangerously close to awe.

“God,” he murmured again, almost to himself.

Then he was kissing you.

Not gentle this time. Not tentative.

His mouth found yours with a hunger that had been building all night, all day, maybe from the moment he’d seen you standing on that restaurant terrace. You felt it in the way his hands tightened at your waist, in the rough exhale he swallowed from your lips, in the way he kissed you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and needed the reassurance of touching you to make it true.

Your arms wrapped around his neck immediately, pulling him closer. The ocean swirled around your legs, the wind tugged at your hair, but everything else disappeared beneath the rush of him.

Bucky made a low sound against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, he straightened.

In one fluid motion he hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his hips as he lifted you clear of the deeper pull of the water, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs with firm, possessive strength. The movement pressed you flush against him, the hard line of his arousal evident even through his soaked jeans, and a fresh wave of heat flooded your core.

His mouth never left yours. 

Not as he turned, carrying you back through the surf toward the dry sand. Not as another wave crashed against his legs and sent spray up around you both. Not as he walked with steady, determined steps, boots sinking into the wet packed sand before hitting the softer dry stretch. 

The kiss stayed deep and devouring, tongues sliding, breaths shared, salt and heat and desperate want mingling between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, his dog tags pressed cool against your chest through his shirt, your soaked dress clinging to both of you like a second skin. Every step rocked your bodies together in the most delicious friction.

By the time he reached the blanket he’d laid out earlier, you were both breathing hard, lips swollen, bodies trembling with restraint that was rapidly fraying. He lowered you onto it with aching gentleness, never fully breaking the kiss until you were settled beneath him, the soft fabric warm against your back compared to the cool ocean air.

Bucky hovered over you, eyes searching your face even as his hands trembled slightly at your waist. “Still okay?” he rasped, the question threaded through with the same care that had defined every moment with him.

You cupped his face, his cheeks warm beneath your palms, and pulled him back down. “Yes. Don’t stop.”

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air, deep and consuming. His hands worked the soaked dress up and off you completely, peeling the clinging fabric away until you lay bare beneath the moonlight and his gaze. 

He drank in the sight of you, scarred hands tracing reverently over your curves, learning every dip and swell as if committing it to memory.

You reached for his shirt. He helped you tug it off, revealing the powerful lines of his chest and shoulders. His dog tags caught the silver light as they settled against his skin. Faint scars crossed his flesh, and you traced them with gentle fingers. 

He shivered under your touch, leaning down to kiss a slow path down your body: collarbones, the valley between your breasts, ribs, the soft plane of your stomach. 

When he settled between your thighs, broad shoulders holding you open, he looked up at you once more for permission.

At your nod, his mouth found your core.

The first broad stroke of his tongue, flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, drew a broken cry from your throat. He savored you like something precious, humming in pleasure at your taste, the vibration sending fresh waves of heat spiraling through you.

He explored every inch with devastating patience: circling your clit with the tip of his tongue, dipping lower to taste you deeper, then back up with firm, rhythmic strokes. 

One thick finger slid inside you, curling just right against that sensitive spot, and you clenched around it with a gasp. He added a second, pumping them steadily while his mouth focused on your clit with steady, relentless attention. 

The sensations overwhelmed you: the cool night air on your heated skin, the distant rush of waves, the warm, insistent pressure of his mouth and the stretch of his fingers. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. 

Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips rolling against his face as you chased the edge. The sounds were obscene and intimate: the wet slide of his fingers, your breathless moans, the distant crash of waves. “Bucky—oh fuck—”

He didn’t stop. He redoubled his efforts, fingers thrusting deeper, tongue relentless. The orgasm crashed over you suddenly, white-hot and life-changing. 

You shattered with a cry that the ocean swallowed whole, back arching, thighs clamping around him, inner walls pulsing rhythmically around his fingers. He worked you through it gently, slowing his tongue to soft, soothing strokes, kissing your inner thighs as the aftershocks rolled through you.

Only when you went limp did he kiss his way back up your body. Soft, soothing presses to your hip, your belly, the curve of your breast until he reached your mouth. You tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned into the kiss, hands roaming his back, pulling him closer. The hard length of him pressed against your thigh and you reached for the button of his jeans with eager fingers.

Together you worked them open, shoving the wet denim and his boxers down. He was beautiful in the moonlight, thick and heavy, flushed dark, the head glistening with arousal. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly from base to tip, and he hissed, hips jerking into your touch. “Careful,” he rasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Been thinking about you all day.”

You smiled against his neck, thumb brushing over the sensitive head. “I want you inside me. Now.”

He reached for his discarded jeans, pulling a condom from his wallet with steady hands. You watched, arousal spiking anew, as he rolled it on with careful fingers. Then he settled over you again, the blunt head of him nudging your slick entrance. One hand braced beside your head while the other cupped your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly, eyes locked on yours in the moonlight.

“Eyes on me,” he whispered.

You met his gaze, moonlight turning his blue eyes silver-dark. The intensity there made your breath catch, but it wasn’t just hunger… it was something softer, something that wrapped around your heart and held it gently. He nudged forward, the thick head of his cock parting you, and pushed in slowly, inch by careful inch.

The stretch was exquisite. Your body yielded to him with a delicious burn that melted into fullness, the thick heat of him sinking deeper until your walls fluttered around every ridge and vein. He moved with impeccable control, watching your face the entire time, pausing when your breath hitched so you could adjust. When he finally bottomed out, hips flush to yours, a low, broken sound escaped him.

“Fuck…” His forehead dropped to yours, breath warm and ragged against your lips. “You feel perfect. So warm. So tight around me. Like you were made for this.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, and rolled your hips experimentally. The movement dragged him against that sensitive spot inside you and pulled a soft moan from your throat. Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, jaw clenching.

“Move, Bucky,” you whispered. “Please—I need you.”

At that whispered plea, he began to thrust.

At first it was slow, deep rolls of his hips, pulling almost all the way out then sinking back in with a smooth, deliberate glide that made you feel every inch. The wet sound of your bodies joining mingled with the distant crash of waves and your shared, shaky breaths. His hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit and circling it in tight, perfect strokes that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.

You met him thrust for thrust, hips lifting to take him deeper. The dog tags around his neck swung gently with every movement, cool metal occasionally brushing the heated skin between your breasts. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the powerful shift of muscle beneath warm skin. Every time he sank into you, your inner walls clenched around him, and every time he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew.

Bucky’s control began to fray.

He shifted the angle slightly, rolling his hips so the head of his cock dragged against that perfect spot with every thrust. His thumb pressed a little firmer against your clit, circling faster. “That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, voice rough and low. “Let me feel you. God, you’re so beautiful like this, taking me so well.”

Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly. Your thighs trembled around his hips. Your nails dug lightly into his shoulders, and you couldn’t stop the soft, desperate sounds spilling from your lips. He kissed you through them, deep, open-mouthed kisses that swallowed your moans and gave you his in return. 

The world narrowed to the slide of him inside you, the press of his body over yours, the cool metal of his arm against your temple when you turned your head, the warm weight of his other hand between your legs, and the endless, rhythmic crash of the ocean behind you.

You felt it building, bigger and deeper than before. Your walls started to flutter around him in warning.

Bucky felt it too. His rhythm grew a little harder, a little faster, hips snapping with more urgency even as he kept his thumb moving in those tight, perfect circles. “Come for me,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours again so you couldn’t look away. “Let me feel you come, want to feel this pretty pussy squeezing me. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

The words, the eye contact, the way he filled you so completely… it all crashed over you at once.

You came with a broken cry of his name, back arching hard off the blanket as ecstasy tore through you in long, pulsing waves. Your inner walls clamped down around him rhythmically, fluttering and squeezing as pleasure rolled through your entire body. Your thighs shook around his hips. Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, at his arms, at anything you could reach. For a few endless seconds the only thing that existed was him: inside you, around you, holding you through it.

Bucky followed you seconds later.

A guttural groan tore from his chest as your orgasm triggered his. He buried himself as deep as he could go, hips stuttering, the thick length of him pulsing inside the condom as he spilled. His whole body trembled above you.

His arm locked, holding his weight off you even as the other clutched your hip like he never wanted to let go. He kept moving through it with small, shallow thrusts that prolonged both your pleasure, until the last aftershocks faded and he finally stilled, still buried inside you.

For a long moment neither of you moved.

You stayed joined, breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other. His forehead rested against yours. The cool night air kissed the sweat on your skin, but Bucky’s body heat kept you warm. Sand clung to your hair, to the damp places where your bodies met, to the inside of your thighs, small, gritty reminders that this was real.

Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you. You made a soft, reluctant sound at the loss, and he kissed it away before reaching for the condom. He disposed of it quickly and efficiently, then pulled you straight back into his arms, settling on his side so he could tuck you against his chest. 

He dragged his discarded shirt over both of you like a blanket, the fabric still faintly damp but carrying his scent. One arm curled securely around your back, hand stroking slow, soothing patterns along your spine, fingertips occasionally brushing through your hair to dislodge bits of sand.

You tucked your face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in. Your leg slid over his hip, keeping as much of you pressed to him as possible. The aftershocks still rippled through you in gentle waves, and every time your body gave a little tremor, Bucky’s arms tightened around you.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

You listened to his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Steady.

Real.

Morning waited somewhere beyond the horizon, unavoidable and cruel. In a few hours, the sky would lighten. The world would return. There would be bags to pack, friends to meet, transportation to catch, goodbye pressing sharp and necessary at the edges of everything.

You tried not to think about it.

Bucky’s hand stilled against your shoulder.

“I don’t want to leave,” he said.

Your eyes closed.

There it was, the thing both of you had been walking around all day.

“I know.”

His chest rose beneath your cheek with a slow breath.

“I keep telling myself to be reasonable,” he said. “That this is fast. That we met two nights ago. That you’re still dealing with everything he did, and I shouldn’t make it harder by acting like this is simple.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him.

His face was turned toward the stars, jaw tight, eyes bright in the moonlight.

“But?” you whispered.

His gaze found yours.

“But nothing about this feels simple,” he said. “And I don’t want to insult it by pretending it does.”

Your throat tightened.

Bucky shifted slightly, rolling toward you so he could see you fully. His hand came up to touch the bracelet at your wrist, thumb brushing over the tiny blue beads.

“I meant what I said,” he continued. “I don’t want to be a distraction.”

“You’re not.”

The answer came quickly. Clearly.

His eyes searched yours.

You swallowed hard. “You’re not.”

Something in his expression broke open, quiet and vulnerable.

“I don’t know what happens after tomorrow,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to be… whatever this is, with everything still messy. I don’t know how to not be scared.”

“You don’t have to not be scared.”

A sad little smile touched your mouth. “That easy?”

“No.” His thumb moved over your wrist. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

The words settled into you with almost painful tenderness.

You looked at him, at the man who had appeared in the wreckage of a trip that was supposed to hurt and somehow made it feel like the beginning of something instead. The man who had met your broken edges with patience instead of pressure. The man leaving in the morning, looking at you like distance was already an enemy he intended to fight.

“You barely know me,” you whispered.

Bucky’s gaze did not waver.

“I know enough to want to know the rest.”

Your breath caught. He lifted your hand, pressing his mouth softly to the inside of your wrist, right beside the bracelet.

The kiss was gentle. Devastating.

“I’ll call,” he said. “I’ll text. I’ll come see you, if you want me to. You can take all the time you need. You can tell me to slow down. You can tell me when it’s too much.” His voice roughened. “But I’m not walking away from this just because morning came too soon.”

Your eyes stung.

“Bucky.”

He moved closer, forehead resting lightly against yours.

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he whispered.

The words broke something open in you.

Not the old wound. Not the grief. Something beneath it. Something tender and terrified and alive.

You kissed him because you did not know what else to do with the feeling.

Soft and slow this time. Like a promise neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt anyway.

Above you, the stars burned quietly.

Beside you, the ocean kept moving.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, tomorrow did not feel like an ending.

It felt like a place he might meet you.

it was a rainy morning, dark clouds had covered the sky, and the atmosphere was melancholic. you had just stepped out of the book cafe you usually went to study or read in, it was a hidden gem in the ever-crowded streets of new york city, usually quiet and peaceful. this time, you’d just paid a visit to buy a drink with some pastries.

today’s gloomy weather felt right to you, somehow, it spoke to your soul and fit your mood. you’d stuffed the pastries you’d bought into your bag, and you were going to walk around a little bit, holding your drink in one hand, your umbrella in the other. you thought you might sit somewhere, maybe go to a park after walking for twenty or so minutes, you enjoyed the smell of rain mixing with earth to bring life to the world.

and that’s when you saw him.

he was standing at the other side of the road, wearing a simple hoodie, getting wet from the rain. an expression on his face as gloomy as the weather. he’d grown, his face had taken a sharper shape, his hair had curled on the tips from meeting with water.

peter parker, the boy from your ap chemistry class, from days long forgotten, and much less destructive.

you froze, your gaze set on his face, which had been painted in subtle and few scars, and bent downward from either the rain getting into his eyes, or life. the regular noise of the city was reduced to background buzzing in your ears, all the pedestrians walking past you, and the people waiting to cross roads around peter had turned blurry and faceless, the cars passing by had become trails of colors. the boy, or perhaps now man, you had just noticed, was someone you’d never thought you’d see again.

peter parker had been the smartest student in the class you took together, you used to keep notes and read ahead before every lesson, and he’d come sleep-deprived, busy himself with unrelated trinkets, and answer every unexpected question coming his way correctly. later, when you learned that he was spiderman, you realised he must’ve been so tired and out-of-it every day for saving lives and fighting crime.

you had learned of his superhero activities, like everyone else in the world. you didn’t use to see him outside of your shared lecture hours, not because you were actively avoiding him, fate just hadn’t coincided a conversation between you two. after you’d passed the course and stopped seeing peter entirely, you hadn’t busied your mind with thoughts of him, until that incident with mysterio. learning that he’d been trying to help people every step of the way, back when you used to see him, had changed your view of him.

and then, suddenly, no one remembered anymore. you saw it all happen. you saw the sky shatter and shadows watch the earth through its cracks. you saw what you could only describe as hundreds of aliens preying on your planet. you knew spiderman fought to save the world from their clutches. yet when it was all over, no one remembered the hell-torn skies. or peter parker.

no one remembered he was spiderman. no one remembered he was peter parker. no one remembered peter parker was. no one from your old high school, not even his best friend, not even his girlfriend. they all looked at you as if you spoke of a ghost, he was a painted over memory, he’d escaped from the weak grasps of the growing brains of the youth and the ever-tired minds of the grown.

he’d even escaped from records and photos, like how short-lived cherry blossoms disappeared in a week, as if trees had never been pink. like how spring never lasted. you’d questioned whether you’d made him up, if something was wrong with you. but how could you make up a whole person, that you simply never had a relationship with? he wasn’t an imaginary friend, he had never been a friend.

trying to catch a glimpse of his existence had been like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. and yet, now, he was standing right in front of you, waiting to cross roads. waiting to come towards you.

the lights turned green for pedestrians, and peter snapped out of his stillness, he gained motion, he slowly came closer. people around you made noises indicating they were annoyed at your inaction, but you could barely hear any of them. you were focused completely on one person only.

he crossed the road, and started walking the opposite way from where you had been nailed to the ground, unable to take your eyes off him.

no, don’t go. i must know. i must talk.

you ran after him, forcefully making yourself a way amongst bodies covered in layers of clothing. you closed your umbrella, so it wouldn’t get tangled in others’. you caught up to peter, and grabbed his arm.

he turned instantly, gripping your arm in return, a shocked expression on his face, ready to take you down, had you posed a threat. he looked into your eyes; questioning, confused, hesitant… sorrowful? how had he grown so solemn? how had he lived forgotten?

“peter?” you asked, “peter parker? is that you?”

his eyes widened, grip loosened, lips parted. he looked completely dumbfounded, drops of water dripping down strands of his hair, and the tip of his nose. he searched for something in your eyes, just silently thinking. trying to process, you assumed.

he opened his mouth to talk, and his breath hitched.

“you…” he started, seemingly talking feeling like labor to him, “you know who i am?”

you couldn’t help giving him a sincere smile, he really was peter parker. the boy from your class who was remembered by no one. he was real.

“i was in the same ap chemistry class as you in high school,” you explained, he might not have remembered you, as you’d never interacted outside of topics regarding course materials, “if you don’t remember.”

“no, no,” said peter, his voice still laced with shock, and a tune that dropped a tiny piece of despair into your chest, “i remember. you were the smartest student in class.”

“that’s… debatable,” you said, your surprise clearly read from your face.

“it wasn’t,” he said, defensive, “everyone borrowed your notes, and you always had the correct answers.”

“so did you,” you said softly, the bitter taste of nostalgia repainted with a blue hue catching up to you, tightening your chest, placing a lump in your throat. “what happened, peter?” you asked, “why have you disappeared?”

peter closed his mouth, and his grip slightly hardened, he hadn’t let your arm go. you hadn’t let his go, either.

he lowered his head, and fixed his gaze on the grey stone ground. you couldn’t quite name the emotions you saw in his eyes, but they made you tear up. what must it have been like to suddenly cease existing? what must he have been through? what must he have thought, watching his chosen family from afar, like a vampire looking at a mirror, erased from his own reflection?

the cloudy weather truly felt fit for the day, maybe peter had been feeling it too, today. raindrops fell on earth like shattered glass pieces, you thought you might’ve been bleeding with your umbrella down, but peter wasn’t, was his skin thicker?

“would you like to sit down somewhere, peter?” the tale must have been long, how else could a person, and a rift in the atmosphere, be erased from the minds of billions? “like a bench at the park, or maybe my place?”

he looked deep into your eyes, thinking.

“okay,” he said at last, determination adorning his words now, “we can. we can,” he said while nodding.

“okay,” you repeated after him, and finally let his arm go.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter had been on his way to his small apartment, by himself, as always, after another long, sleepless night, that rainy morning. clouds had covered the sky, obscuring the sun, as if to match the weather inside his ribcage. the sun hadn’t shone on him since it had seen space ripped apart because of him, for his mistakes.

it was a day the same as any other; he was walking in the crowd, unseen without a mask, faceless. then, someone he hadn't sensed had touched him, must have been because no harm was intended, yet he'd felt alarmed.

a girl, he'd realized, a familiar face. that wasn't strange, he was used to seeing people he used to know, what was strange was... the look you had in your eyes, almost like you recognized him. a kind of tiny beam of light in your irises, aimed at him.

and then you called out his name.

the world tilted. he felt as if hit by a shockwave, rolling backwards, losing the tightness of his grip on reality, on you. he’d been completely dumbfounded, he could barely process what was happening. someone remembered him. you remembered him. you knew.

he looked you over again, he remembered, too. he remembered how you sat at the front seat, carefully trailing the teacher with your eyes, focus unbreakable. you didn’t use to look his way unless he was asking or answering a question related to the course, he wouldn’t think you would recognize him under normal circumstances, without happenings made foggy through magic, let alone when the whole world has left him behind. the whole multiverse.

he couldn’t get out of the shock he’d been thrown into, not even enough to wonder the why, the how, or think of the implications of the possibility that someone(s) might not have forgotten. he had been erased even from stone and paper, ink had evaporated, computers had lost their binary numbers. human memories couldn’t even be held, they must’ve been so easily broken apart and mended without wholeness again, didn’t people always forget things, anyway?

that had been hard to accept, of course. the fact that the feelings people reserved for him were fragile and unresistant, that they could be so fully erased, that they could be erased at all. but you remembered, was your mind stronger, or was it the impression he’d left on you? was it you, or him?

he hadn’t even been able to ponder if this was a good thing at all, if he should be worried, if he should accept this, how he should react. the past year had been so soul-crushing, so lonely, that after slightly getting over the initial shock that had hit him, holding back his tears had been all he could manage to do. you were wet from the rain, a drink forgotten and an umbrella folded in one of your hands, the other one holding him, looking at him expectantly, worried. you had come after him. you were holding onto him. he tightened his grip again.

you’d even wanted to talk more, to learn of his story, to listen. so he’d agreed, he suspected he would chase you on that road if you’d walked away. his chest had been closing in on his veins and heart, increasing the pressure and twisting his organs, breathing had become harder every day for the past year, he was suffocating. you’d held his arm like a tree branch offered to a drowning kid, an olive branch offered to a warring people, a willow… willows were hunched and weary, weren’t they? he was like a willow, layers of leaves covering his face, unseen.

he didn’t have anywhere to go, or anyone waiting for him. he hadn’t wanted to let you go, now that someone had finally, truly seen the shape of his face. so he had just followed you, let you draw a destination for two.

you had brought him to a small apartment, similar to his own, in an austere street lined with buildings that were short compared to the signature buildings of new york city. you’d told him you were staying there for the time being. your place, as you’d put it. the inside was much nicer than his living space, expectedly, and it contrasted with the grey view of the street from your windows and the pipe-filled outer layer of your apartment building. the floor was covered in soft carpets, the living room was filled with books, its walls covered in bookshelves, academic books left open and stationary scattered about on a table, notebooks filled with your handwriting, it was lived in.

you had taken him to the kitchen, said you’d just bought pastries and had some leftovers to reheat for him, he’d insisted it wasn’t necessary, but you’d shut him down. “how could i send my guest off on an empty stomach?” you’d asked, made him sit down at the kitchen table, and gotten to work on the countertop. the living room had smelled of a flowery incense he couldn’t name, the kitchen was now smelling of baked dough and vegetable soup, making him feel his hunger. he hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast, or during the night.

“i apologize for the mess,” you said, while putting two bowls of steamy soup on the table, “i wasn’t expecting a guest.”

“oh, no, no,” he quickly scrambled to apologize himself, “i don’t mind at all, i’m sorry for… for…” he gestured around himself, trying to find the right words. being a burden? interrupting?

“for accepting my invite? i’d say that was the polite response,” you said, finally sitting opposite to him, having brought the pastries you’d sliced and placed on plates nicely, and the fruit salad you’d quickly put together. “thank you for that, by the way.”

he didn’t know what to say, he looked down flustered, “i- of course- i mean, thank you for inviting me,” he said, gesturing towards you with his hand, a slight smile on his face. how long had it been since he last smiled? it sure didn’t feel like an every day occurrence.

you gave him back a smile that made him… feel warm. he was still on the verge of tears, he was barely holding it together, focusing on the moment, trying not to let all the overwhelming feelings leave his body.

“please, enjoy,” you said, as you slid the plates closer to him, and he nodded in gratitude. he was hungry, and looking at the warm vegetable bisque… he hadn’t eaten a homemade meal in a very, very long time, especially one that was delicious, one that was warm.

and it was delicious. it tasted like a hug, a hearthfire, a blanket. it tasted like something you would eat at your home, like something your mother would cook for you. “this is,” he started, in between spoonfuls, “this is great. you’re a good cook.”

“thank you,” you said, and then started explaining. “i roasted tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, potatoes, bell peppers, and an onion, and blended them with vegetable broth and cream, so probably the easiest way to make something like…” you trailed off as you realised peter was… crying. he was looking down on the bowl of soup in front of him, and tears were silently rolling down his cheeks, as he kept taking spoonfuls.

peter was mortified at his reaction, he quickly scrambled to wipe his face with the tissues you’d placed on the table, and apologize. you told him it was fine, and he could take however much time he needed or wanted. you let him eat and think in silence for as long as he needed, you gave him time and space as he filled his stomach with warm food and sweet fruits. he didn’t know why tears had won against his willpower this time around, considering how good he’d gotten at holding them in. he didn’t know why just eating in your kitchen, with you, had made him feel emotions overwhelming enough to rush out of him. he was embarassed, despite your reassurances. it was the first time he was meeting with you in years, the only person who still remembered him, and he had started crying over a soup. he wasn’t a teenage high schooler anymore, why was this happening?

after a silence long enough to make someone less patient uncomfortable, he finally felt he could talk, and decided to tell you everything that had happened. all of it. you were the only person who knew him now, was it wrong to want to be known fully? to be understood?

so he told you everything, from the start… from a time too early, one might’ve thought; from before he even became an avenger. there had been people in his life who knew of his journey, how he became a hero, how he became an avenger, who he fought against, who he fought with, what really happened with mysterio, and then… then aunt may’s death… then everyone else’s little deaths.

peter used to be talkative, he used to converse with even the people he was actively battling, yet telling you all he wanted made him realise it had been a long time since he’d spoken so much. so transparently, willingly. had life crushed him under a fallen bridge without him noticing? he had been feeling it, but couldn’t guess how dire his cuts and walls had been drawn.

you listened all of it, without looking away once, without looking at the time. and then, once he concluded his speech and drifted off to silence, you let it fester. it seemed as if you had a hard time proccessing everything peter had dumped on you, or maybe couldn’t find the right words to continue with. this time, peter left you in your own silence, his hands slightly shaking in nervousness. what was your reaction going to be? what were you thinking?

“i’m truly sorry,” you said at last, a rueful expression adorning your face, making you look older than you had when telling him of the soup recipe. you had grown older, peter had noticed, more beautiful. “i’m sorry about your aunt, too. i had no idea. i thought… i guess i assumed at least your family would remember you.”

“yeah,” said peter in defeat, “there is no one.”

you looked deep into his eyes, pain visible on your face, “i remember,” you said. “and now i know.”

peter sighed and put his face in between his hands, closing his eyes in despair. “there is nowhere i belong, now. i fight for this city, and… and no one cares.”

this was horrible. truly horrible. a weight had been lifted off his shoulders when you’d recognized him, listened to him, welcomed him into your home. but he also felt bothered by it, too. had being known always been so scary? he hadn’t meant to say the last bit, he hadn’t even thought that to himself before. he’d been on the verge of it, but hadn’t actually thought it. why did he say it out loud now? why did he tell you?

you took a deep breath, “a lot of people care, especially the ones you save. you’ve been making a huge difference, peter. yours can be a thankless job sometimes, but many are grateful.” you paused for a moment, “i’ve always been grateful. when i learned how you’d been fighting for people this whole time, my respect for you skyrocketed. i thought i would help you in any way i could if it ever came to that.”

peter pressed his hands harder on his eyes, he didn’t want to start crying again. he didn’t know if you realised how your words had fallen into the deepest part of his soul. it was strange, how only a few words could help people keep going, how humans could be built merely by caring, and how humans could be so worn-out that they could stop tasting without even realising.

his phone vibrated silently in his pocket, taking him out of spiraling. he sighed again, what was it now?

strong fire in a building, spreading speedily, authorities unable to protect the citizens despite doing their best. he stood up abruptly, “i should go,” he said.

“what is it? what happened?”

“fire in a tall building, i need to save those people,” he said while walking towards the door, you trailing behind him.

“okay- be careful, peter. and come back here after you’re done there, okay? even if it’s late, because i’ll wait for you, and if you don’t come back, i’ll wait until morning,” you said quickly as he was wearing his shoes, the door to your house open.

“okay,” he said, stuttering slightly, “thank you.” truly. you’ve made breathing possible for me again. thank you.

and he left you behind like that, because he never had a break. he didn’t know if he deserved a break. none of that mattered though, there were people suffering, and he couldn’t leave them behind, no matter what.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were leaning on the metal handrails of your small balcony, looking at the few people and cars that passed by the road in front of your apartment. it was desolate, compared to most of new york, but it was steadily never-ending, there never was a time when people stopped in this city. your view was made up of other grey apartments like yours, sharp corners and square shapes, nothing tasteful added to their designs. could this be good for the soul?

you looked up at the sky, to watch the stars, but as always, not many were visible. you counted four stars that could be clearly seen from your balcony. the same as yesterday. you sometimes wondered: if you could reach greater heights, would more of them shine on you? the city had offended the stars in an effort to be independent from them, brighten night time, they didn't show their faces anymore. even if they wanted to, they couldn't be seen.

peter had been shining since he was a kid; clever, kind, righteous, fair-faced in a way the cleanness of his heart had reflected on his features. how big of a loss was it for the world to be forsaken from his face? it was lucky that peter was good-hearted, for he kept showing up under a mask anyway, offering those who looked a glimpse into his light.

it was past midnight already, and peter was still nowhere to be seen. he'd left you a little past noon, the fire had been extinguished by now, and spiderman had left the premises after saving dozens of lives (that the firefighters would've been too late for, despite their best efforts), and yet, peter was nowhere to be seen. it worried you, you wished you had asked for his phone number; you'd considered asking, but decided against it, thinking he might be bothered by the request.

after you'd talked to michelle, his girlfriend, some time back, and she hadn't remembered the boy she’d been in love with, you'd been thinking of peter regularly. even if you had made him up in your mind, it had just flooded your chest with such profound sadness, that you had decided at least you would remember him, whether it would matter to him or not.

and, he was real, he was spiderman. and he’d been so lonely. graveyards had become his only sanctuary, teenage diaries and late night messages had been buried next to the corpses of anyone who'd ever taken care of him, and he did not know their hiding spots. he just wandered around graves, knowing they were somewhere under his feet, to stay there forever. if he tried to dig them out, he would be swallowed up by lava, dooming the rest of the world to a volcanic apocalypse.

it seemed like volcanos had already been erupting behind his eyes, in his lungs. the peter you remembered used to be a jolly kid.

your head perked up as you heard your doorbell ring, and quickly rushed to open the door. a smiling peter greeted you, clothing changed. he looked more put-together than he had in the morning; a clean shirt under a black jacket and denim pants, not the baggy sweats he had on before.

you welcomed him inside, and brought him to sit on your couch, in the living room.

“are you all right?” you asked, “does anywhere hurt? do you need anything?”

he hesitated for a moment, a little surprised. “no, no- it’s fine. i didn’t fight anyone, so didn’t really get injured… much. it’s fine. i took care of it.”

you looked at him in silence for a few seconds, thinking. “liar,” you said.

“what?” he said in low voice, sounding worried. did he think he’d messed up somehow?

“you gave me your word that you would come straight to me, instead you took your sweet time tending to your injuries and changing your outift? you showered too, didn’t you?”

“i… i-” he quickly started talking, and then stopped to think. that was fine, he didn’t need to rush a response, never with you. he would learn that you’d always wait for him patiently. with time, he’d become more comfortable. you assumed this must be… somewhat of an uncomfortable experience for him, after being alone for so long. “i thought-”

he didn’t know what to say, you supposed.

“did i sound mad? i’m sorry. i was just worried. i.. uh, i’d wanted to help you with your injuries and stuff, too,” you weren’t exactly used to these kinds of conversations either. “since you’re not alone anymore… and all.”

“oh…” was all he could say.

“i mean, i’m glad you’re okay, and you look great, and i don’t mind that you had some alone time before coming and all, but you could, uh, if you want to, just come straight to me as well. after a fight or whatever. and you can take care of… your stuff here,” you forced the words out, you had to take these kinds of initiatives, if you wanted to have a closer relationship with him. because he wouldn’t impose anything on you. “if you want to, of course,” you added.

“i… thank you, i would, uh, yeah,” he said. you supposed that was a positive answer.

“so, what happened?”

he recounted the fire and the struggles in detail, how he saved the people trapped, how he had to deal with the authorities after him, how he got injured (only a little, he emphasized), and then how he went home to wear something better to come back to you. he’d wanted to rid the smell of ash and soot off his skin.

“i got tired just listening to you,” you said.

he chuckled slightly, “ah, yeah, things like this happen sometimes.”

“would you like anything to eat or drink?”

“no, no. not necessary, thank you,” he said quickly, raising his hands.

“okay, just tell me if you need anything.”

“all right, thanks… again,” he had a beautiful smile, but it looked like guilt had mixed into his skin, stopping him from smiling fully, with his eyes, or eyebrows. you wanted to tell him that none of this was his fault, he wasn’t responsible for the cruelty of others, he wasn’t at fault for being a victim. his aunt hadn’t died because he’d shown mercy, he was just being humane, the fault lied solely with the… whichever supernatural freak had done that, it was getting harder to keep track of them now. and the spell hadn’t gone wrong because of him, couldn’t doctor strange tell that he obviously wouldn’t want his own family to forget him? why wouldn’t he automatically add that to the spell? and the second time? surely he could’ve just kept two people out of his spell. none of it was his fault.

but you couldn’t bring yourself to, you didn’t want to push too hard, or overstep your bounds. peter didn’t know you, not really. you assumed he must be happy that someone remembered him, but you wouldn’t be too surprised if he had forgotten you.

why had you remembered? you weren't magical, as far as you knew, so what had gone wrong? wasn't this... somewhat bad news? if you remembered, could it be possible that someone evil might, too? you didn't know, you supposed maybe you should try to ask doctor strange, somehow.

after a while of silence, you decided telling him how you feel, being straightforward, should be better than leaving thoughts to go back and forth in your head, bothering you. “peter,” you started, “i know what kind of a person you are for the most part. i know that you have a good heart, and you’re loyal, and honest. i… don’t doubt that you’ll be a good friend, that’s why i can be… this comfortable with you. i know, because i’ve been able observe you quite well until now.”

he was listening to you, eyes getting wider and smile dropping slowly, as you went on.

“i also know that you don’t really know me as well, so i’ll have to prove my character to you, in the way that you’ve already proven yours,” you quickly added, which was the point you’d wanted to make. “so, uh, i just wanted to say that… is the reason why i would like to be… good friends with you, even though we didn’t interact much back then. telling you just in case… you were wondering.”

he gave you a shy smile. "thank you," he said, occasionally glancing away.

then a small chuckle escaped his lip. “all i’ve been doing the whole day has been thanking you."

you giggled in return, "i thank you as well."

"for what? i haven't done anything."

"for saving this city and the world over and over again."

his expression turned serious, thoughtful. "i just do what i should. it’s my responsibility."

you leaned back on the couch, observing him. was it? did he really have to do what he did? he didn't have to, no one had to do anything. but it was right that he did. you supposed, being able to help people did mean you should, would it be wrong if he didn't interfere?

"what are you thinking?" he asked.

you hummed. "i think you are right, but then it's our responsibility to be grateful, and to help you in any way we can, even if that's just emotional support." you looked into his eyes carefully, "you've been doing your duty, but most others in the city haven't."

"that's all right," he said. "i don't expect anything. i don't do this to get anything in return."

"well," you started, "you can expect things from me, and feel free to let me know."

the shy smile returned to his face, "thank you again," he said. "you as well," he hastily added, raising his eyebrows while gesturing at you.

you were glad he seemed to be in a better mood now, compared to this morning. he was more put together, and somewhat more confident. you assumed having more time to process your situation must've helped.

the two of you talked for around another hour, peter got more talkative as you went on, and by the end, he was the only one talking. he'd started to tell you all about the various villains he'd been fighting, and you were very interested; you enjoyed listening to him.

but the time was getting closer to two in the morning, and you were having to fight your own eyelids to keep yourself from dropping to the floor right at that moment.

peter stopped abruptly mid-sentence, looking at you concerned. "oh," he started "i'm sorry, it's really late, i talked too much."

"no, no," you said, shaking your hand, "i really want to know about all of these things. let's continue tomorrow?"

"okay, sure," he said, smiling. "i'll get going now, and uh, see you tomorrow."

"get going? i could arrange my living room for you, if you'd like to stay the night? should you be alone when you're injured?"

"i don't want to bother you," he said as he stood up. “it’s fine, this isn't really all that bad, I've had much worse."

"okay, but call me if anything happens. i'll be more upset if you don't," you said as you followed him to the door.

"i will. you call me too," he said, having gotten out, wearing his shoes.

"deal."

“good night."

"good night."

and he was gone.

and you were so sleepy that you could fall asleep standing there. as you made your way to your bed, you decided to go over today's events tomorrow, when your braincells wouldn’t be forming a union to counter your abuse.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter opened his curtains to look outside, as soon as he managed to get out of his bed.

the sun was shining down on him, bathing his room and face in its light. he opened the window, and took a deep breath in. the air had the beautiful smell of rain, still lingering, left from yesterday.

he leaned on his window, and for the first time in forever, a smile graced his lips for the sun, for the day ahead of him.

he wanted to put on his spiderman suit and swing around in the city, not out of obligation or because he didn’t have anything else to do; he had an unfamiliar motivation in him to do something with his day.

so he did. he quickly got ready for the day, and all the steps felt less intimidating today. even brushing his teeth had become a tiring chore. he'd supposed it must've been because he was so tired all the time, but today, it had been easier, all of it. even breathing.

and it wasn't like he'd gotten more sleep than usual, either. sleeping was something out of routine for peter. sometimes he could only get a few hours at night, having to be spiderman. sometimes he would stare at the ceiling, unable to drift off to sleep. sometimes he would end up sleeping for more than ten hours, not wanting to get out of his bed, forcefully scraping his body off of it with a mental spatula, skin tearing apart from muscle, using every bit of his willpower. but, no matter which scenario happened to play out, peter would never feel rested.

he got mad at himself sometimes. for sleeping. or not sleeping. surely none of this was supposed to be this hard, everyone always did them just fine. so why was he like this? what was wrong with him?

he shook his head, getting out of his window as spiderman, and started wandering new york from the tops of buildings. not today, though. today he felt rested. and like something good could happen, strangely. and his chest could host the air he breathed in, unlike any day he could remember in months. he hadn't realised how air had been refusing to get into his lungs, until it finally did today.

he watched people walking towards their destinations without looking anywhere else. the streets of new york were always overfilled with motion and a million faces, and no one stopped to look at one another.