zbeez

The flight here had been no problem. No unexpected turbulence in the air, you got through the monster that was the Los Angeles airport with an hour to spare, and there were no crying babies or barking dogs on your flight. You had chosen to fly out a few days later than the rest of your coworkers, tying up a few bits and pieces of paperwork for the most recent case you had worked on.

But now you were regretting your decision to skip out on your Bureau-commissioned jet ride to fly commercial instead. Maybe it was the thrill of the upcoming weekend that had blinded you, but being in an airport didn't seem all that horrible just a mere day ago.

Now you were running on fries from the McDonald's within the terminal and the knowledge that maybe, eventually, you would be getting on a flight to D.C. within the next few hours.

From your left, you hear a low chuckle. Glancing over, you spot the man who had been on your same connecting flight from Los Angeles.

You noticed him almost immediately when boarding, his posture and demeanor screaming military. Even now, his hair was combed too neatly, and his expression was too bright to have spent the same amount of time here as you.

"You and me both," he told you with an amused smile and quirked brow.

"I just can't believe they haven't rerouted us or given us any more updates other than pending weather conditions," you told him, complaining freely now.

Maybe a few hours ago, you would've been more guarded, but after sitting in the same gate for the past day, your words now flowed freely.

"I understand a delay for a rainstorm, but it's been sprinkling since 3 in the morning," the man spoke with a disbelieving tone of voice that made you laugh a bit to yourself.

He looked at you as a wave of laughter consumed your body, soon joining in himself. The situation was absurd, and anyone in your position knew that. You shared a look that could only happen in a circumstance like this, an unspoken connection.

"I think I'd rather just get a car at this point and drive. I just don't think they'll refund my flight if I leave now," you sigh as the man next to you just hummed in agreement.

"Yeah, could've been there already. It's not too long a drive," he thought out loud as you laughed in disbelief again.

The familiar chime of the broadcasting system once again rang, leaving both you and the man sitting to your left looking over at the counter.

"Attention passengers for the 539 flight to Washington D.C., we are now offering a full refund on tickets and a $2000 voucher to those who are willing to give up their seats and find alternate transportation to their destination. For more information, please come talk to a representative for the airline."

People around you buzzed at the new information, but no one moved to get up. You glanced over the man next to you once again, trying to confirm something without saying it out loud.

He whistled at the total of the voucher, looking at you to see your reaction. "2 grand, huh?"

"And reimbursement," you said, nodding your head and jutting out your bottom lip.

Still looking at one another, you could tell the man next to you was having the same thoughts.

"My final stop is D.C., but I have to be there by Friday night," you offered up, hoping he would catch on.

"Same. What is it, only 17 hours on the road, should take 2 or 3ish days give or take," he reasoned.

"Perfect timing for us." You raised your brows at the man.

He smiled back knowingly, reaching to put away his charging cord and pack up his water bottle into his bag. You mirrored his movement, double-checking that you had your credentials tucked away safely.

Rising to your feet, the man next to you did the same as you walked over to the help desk.

"You're not like a creepy serial killer or anything like that, are you?" you questioned with a teasing look.

"Quite opposite, actually," he told you with a grin. "Decorated lieutenant in the Navy."

He smiled widely at this, but you just hummed and narrowed your eyes, looking him up and down. "I'll be the judge of that."

"Wow," he laughed, almost in shock, like he couldn't believe you hadn't swooned or lit up with amazement at his title. "Always so cautious?"

"Always," you affirmed with a shrug of your shoulders, like it was something that was built into you.

Jake's eyes now looked over you, trying to figure out where the certainty of your words had come from.

Before reaching the desk, you turned once more to the man whose name you didn't even know yet to confirm. "So, we're really going to do this?"

He smiled and nodded before speaking, "I've done a lot less for 2000 dollars."

You laughed at this, and his smile seemed to widen, more authentic this time.

"I'm glad we have 3 days on the road, because we'll need to unpack that," you said before turning and heading over to the desk.

જ⁀➴

Jake had snatched the keys from the rental car counter before you could even blink. You think it might have been his sharp smile or jests that distracted you, but as soon as you got settled into the passenger's seat of the car, you fell asleep within the first 15 minutes of the drive.

He opted to not disturb you, not even to turn on the radio. Looking over at your sleeping figure, he made sure to slow down during sharp turns and to keep a good amount of space between him and the cars around him on the freeway, not wanting any sudden stops to disrupt your sleep.

Jake would be lying if he said he hadn't noticed you on the first flight. Your seat was a bit in front of his on the opposite side, and while he was never one to people-watch or eavesdrop, he couldn't help but look as you talked across the aisle with an older woman.

You had a sweet smile on your face and nodded when she talked, and that was all Jake expected. But after 15 minutes of watching both of you, he noticed how engaged you were. You genuinely asked her questions and sat back to listen. He could tell she needed someone to talk to, and you were the perfect candidate.

Not to mention, you were beautiful. The fullness of your cheeks whenever you smiled, the softness of your lips, and your lashes batting every few minutes, had Jake on the edge of his seat, nothing else distracting him, not even the whirling of the loud engines.

Around the 5-hour mark of driving, Jake gently rubbed your shoulder as he pulled into a small diner.

"Ready to eat, Sleeping Beauty?" he asks in a soft voice, not trying to tug fun at you too much. He was happy you were able to fall asleep so easily in front of him after only a few conversations.

You hummed at the touch and words, stretching out a bit in your seat. Jake watched as the t-shirt on your frame tugged up, showing a sliver of your stomach in the process. Between the small huffs and exposed skin, Jake turned away to hide his blush.

It was an odd reaction from him; he was never particularly flustered when seeing some skin, but it was something about the intimacy of it. Watching the relaxed look on your face for the past few hours and seeing how you shifted around next to him made Jake feel like he knew you in a different way, in a way that most people didn't get to see.

"Thanks for not killing me. I was half expecting to wake up in an abandoned cabin in the woods, not Johnny's Roadside Diner." Your voice was quiet, but Jake could see the small smile that graced your face as you looked out at the stop he had chosen.

"What am I going to have to do to win your trust?" he asks, opening the door of the rental car as you did the same.

You hummed, contemplating your answer. But after a few seconds, Jake saw the way your face lit up before speaking, "Buying me a milkshake is a good place to start."

"I'll buy you a whole meal, sweetheart," he tells you with a smile, but you just roll your eyes playfully at him. Jake grabs the door, making you duck under his large frame to enter the small diner.

The host led you towards a small booth near the window. Jake watches as you take in the decor, your eyes lingering on the picture frames hanging on the wall of what looks like the owners and staff over time. Sitting on the bouncy plastic of the booth, you smile softly at the staff as they hand off the menus and leave you alone.

The diner was quiet, other than the low-volume classic rock music coming from a jukebox and the two older men talking lowly at the bar top; it seemed like you and Jake were in your own bubble.

Scanning the menu, you speak unexpectedly. "So, Jake Seresin. Tell me about yourself and your go-to diner meal."

He laughs a bit at this, the question loaded at the front and amusing at the end. Something that Jake figures is normal for you.

"Definitely the Steakhouse Burger with fresh jalapenos," he tells you as you hum. "And I'm a TOPGUN graduate with a Navy Corps Commendation Medal, a Navy Achievement Medal, a National Defense Service Medal–"

Before he could continue, you cut him with a laugh and bright smile. "Whoa. I asked about you, not your medals. Impressive, by the way, just not really what I was looking for."

You tilt your head to the side, looking at Jake, trying to see if he would open up to you.

"Right, sorry." He smiles sheepishly, and a pink dusting appears on his cheeks not long afterwards. "I grew up in Texas," he starts, a little quieter than before. Jake hopes that you take this piece of information and do something good with it, hopes you don't mock him for starting here.

"Texas?" you ask, a smile on your face as he just nods at your question. "Farm boy? No way you're from the city."

He laughs at this, eyes crinkling up at your accurate assessment.

"Yep, born and raised farm boy. Got three older sisters, all still in Texas," Jake offers up as you raise your brows.

"Do you want to move back out when you're older? Or happy with where you're at?" you ask, hoping this might open him up a little more.

He takes a minute, thinking before he gives you an answer. "I like where I'm at now, but maybe I'll move back when I start a family. Don't really get too much of a choice with my job, though," Jake says sincerely. You can almost see the sparkle in his eye as he talks about his future family; it's sweet.

"Family man, then."

"Yes, through and through," he says quickly, a soft smile on his face.

"Yeah, family's important. But, it's hard being away from them," you tell him, breaking eye contact to look down at your nails. "My job takes me away from my loved ones pretty often, too. Maybe not across the globe, like you, but still."

He hadn't said one thing about missing his family or being scared to leave them, but you had picked up on it almost immediately. And you did so by being vulnerable yourself, not putting the spotlight on him.

It freaked him out a bit if he was being honest. But another part of him wondered how you figured it out so easily.

Just as he was about to open his mouth and ask, your waiter appeared at the table ready to take your order. Telling him what you wanted with a polite smile, you handed the menu back to the younger-looking boy and then turned you attention back to Jake.

You watched as his fingers rubbed up against the edge of the table in soothing motions, back and forth. His eyes not quite meeting yours again.

"Do you do that a lot?" you asked him, breaking the tension once more.

At this, Jake looked at you, seeing a small smile on your face. He didn't know what you meant, but knew it wasn't supposed to be malicious. "Do what?"

"Answer questions without really answering them," you said, raising your brows, watching as his face twisted.

"I told you about my family." It was almost defensive in the way he said it, like he had given you information no one else knew about him.

You nodded, trying not to laugh. "You did. And your job and where you're from."

"Those are all normal things to tell someone," he argued back, arms now crossing over his chest.

"Maybe, but that's not what I asked for."

"You want to get to know me, that's me. My family, my job, where I was raised," he pushed back.

You shrugged, leaning back into the booth as Jake seemed to now be on the edge of his seat. "I don't know," you said, head shaking a bit.

"You don't know?" he repeated, eyes narrowing like he was studying you.

You bit down on your bottom lip briefly to contain your smile. "I guess it's just the difference between a biography and a person, y'know?"

For a moment, Jake just stared at you. But this time, his face had relaxed, and his shoulders had dropped, no longer looking to see if you were going to attack. Instead, he was now trying to figure out what to give you.

Most people were satisfied with the call sign, the medals, and the confidence. They liked the polished version. The one who knew exactly what to say and how to say it.

But you didn't seem interested in that at all.

"So, who's Jake?" you asked again, softer this time.

He looked out the window of the diner for a few seconds, eyes tracking the cars that sped past on the nearby road.

"I'm the youngest," he finally spoke. Hands still moving back and forth against the edge of the table, eyes not quite meeting yours yet.

Still, you waited.

"By a lot." A small smile tugged at his mouth at this, like he was recalling a memory.

You hummed, and he finally turned to look at you once again.

"My sisters used to drag me everywhere. Tea parties. School plays. Dance recitals." He shook his head. "They treated me like a doll half the time."

You laughed at his words, and he just smiled at your actions.

"I'm serious," he told you, hands raised like he was being interrogated.

Your laughter continued, head thrown back a bit before you added on, "I can absolutely picture little Jake getting his hair brushed and makeup done."

"That's classified information." His finger pointed out at you at this.

Your grin widened, and Jake found himself smiling too.

"My parents…" He paused, sucking his teeth a bit. "They were good parents. Still are. Worked hard. Expected us to work hard too."

It was quiet again, crackling from the kitchen and the whooshing of the overhead cooling systems in the background.

"There wasn't really room for failure." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Your expression softened at his admission. "That's a lot to carry when you're a kid."

He shrugged automatically. "It made me who I am."

"Maybe," you said, voice still soft and inviting. Your hand itched against your jeans, wanting to reach out to his from under the table. But you kept it against your denim-clad thigh even as you watched his fingers move tiredly against the table.

The answer seemed to surprise him, though, eyes narrowing a bit as he looked at you. "Maybe?" he repeated.

You nodded.

"Or maybe you would've become a good person anyway," you offered, like it was the easiest thing to say, like it didn't tear open a part of his heart.

Jake didn't know what to say to that. The idea felt foreign. His entire life had been built on earning things: good grades, flight school, his wings, TOPGUN, promotions, respect.

Every milestone was another box checked. Another expectation met.

He wasn't sure he'd ever considered who he was without all of it.

"You know," you said after a moment, "you don't have to be Lieutenant Seresin while you're with me."

Jake snapped out of his stupor at this.

You smiled gently before continuing. "You don't have to anybody's golden boy. I just want to know Jake."

He felt his chest tighten. For the first time since you'd met him in that airport terminal, Jake found himself at a complete loss for words.

And strangely enough, he didn't hate it.

જ⁀➴

"Please tell me we're stopping for the night," you groaned from the passenger's seat. Somewhere between the empty cups of coffee from the diner back in Madison and the annoying voice of the GPS announcing that you had reached Chicago, Jake and you had fallen into a comfortable rhythm.

Maybe it was the aching in your back or the pent-up energy you had from sleeping earlier in the day, but you were itching to get out of the rental car.

Jake laughed as you squirmed in your seat. It had been fun watching you for the past few hours, trying anything and everything to keep yourself entertained.

First, it was a game of I-Spy, but you got over that pretty quickly after Jake had beaten you almost every round. He swore he heard you mumble something about him cheating under your breath. Second, you read the car's safety manual for about five minutes, then put it away, saying you were going to get sick and Jake needed to pull over. His eyes widened at your claim, his mouth opening to ask if you were okay, but you quickly put up a hand to silence him as you huffed in the seat next to him. But most recently, you had been on your phone, doing what, Jake had no idea. But every so often, you gasped silently and jotted something down on a spare napkin from the diner he hadn't even realized you grabbed.

"That's the plan," he told you, eyes glancing over at your sprawled out figure just briefly.

Pulling up to the hotel in the heart of the city, you had practically cheered as Jake put the car in park.

You tugged on your backpack, but before you could grab your carry-on, Jake was hauling it out of the back, claiming it as his own. He had even opened every door from the parking garage to your hotel room, despite both hands being full.

Each time, you laughed and shot him a smile. "Thank you, Jake."

By the time you had reached the hotel room, his cheeks were dusted pink from your careful attention.

You flopped down on your bed face-first. Jake mirrored you, sinking into the desk chair near the entrance of the room.

"It's not even dark yet." Your voice was muffled, face still buried in the white covers.

Trying not to laugh too hard, Jake bit the inside of his cheek.

"Are you tired?" you ask, body rising and twisting to face him. Your hair was now ruffled and your eyes a bit glossy, something that made Jake's heart pound.

"Not really, no," he said honestly.

A smile crept up on your face at this. "Tourist stuff?" you suggested, bottom lip trapped underneath your teeth, trying to contain the grin that would surely light up your face when Jake inevitably agreed.

He raised a brow at your request, but you could see the hidden smile on his face before he confirmed your idea.

"Tourist stuff."

Sure enough, the apples of your cheeks rounded, and you bounced up from your place on the bed.

જ⁀➴

At the Bean, Jake quickly discovered that "tourist stuff" apparently meant being recruited into photographs. You were already approaching a woman holding out an old digital camera before he could protest.

"Would you mind taking our picture?" you asked her sweetly.

The stranger smiled immediately, nodding as you handed off the camera and walked back towards him.

Jake blinked.

Our?

You stepped beside him naturally, like it hadn't required a second thought.

The woman lifted the camera and smiled at the two of you.

Instinctively, Jake moved closer. The picture snapped.

Your hand snuck around his waist before the next one.

By the last click, his arm was draped around your shoulder, big hand landing on your smaller shoulder.

The woman handed your camera back, and you wished her a good day, saying thank you too many times to count.

You immediately started clicking through the photos.

Jake stared at you incredulously.

"What?" You looked up to meet his gaze.

"Nothing," he shrugged, lips pouting a bit.

"No, seriously," you pushed, chin now tilted up to meet his eyes fully.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Why'd you want me in them?"

You looked genuinely confused. You could hear the insecurity hidden in his voice, buried but still there.

"Because it's our trip," you offered, voice certain and firm.

He huffed out a laugh. "That's not an answer."

"Sure it is."

His eyes narrowed, still not willing to accept your answer.

"I scrapbook."

Jake snorted at this. "You scrapbook?"

Your brow furrowed, and you gasped dramatically, hand coming up to your chest in mock offense. "Don't sound so surprised."

"I just didn't peg you for a scrapbooker." The way his voice danced, and the grin spread across his face, made you roll your eyes.

"Well, Jake, sometimes people contain multitudes." You picked up your camera again and snapped a picture of him, a grin still painted on his face.

That earned a loud laugh.

"I take pictures everywhere," you told him, the smile on your face softened. "It helps."

Jake's face twisted with confusion at this. "Helps with what?"

You hesitated, shrugging and looking away from him for the second time since meeting. "When work gets bad."

Jake watched you carefully.

You rarely talked about your job beyond vague comments and carefully selected stories. When he had asked questions back at the diner, you had waved them off.

"What do you do with them?" his voice was careful now, no teasing lit in it.

"The pictures?"

He nodded as you looked back up at him.

You glanced back at the screen, clicking through the memories. "Sometimes life gets ugly," the answer came quietly. "And sometimes I need proof that it isn't always like that."

Jake felt something tighten in his chest. He wanted to ask you more, to push you to open up. What type of things were you doing that you needed these reminders? Had anyone hurt you? How could he help you with this pain?

A small smile found your face again after this, but Jake could tell it didn't quite meet your eyes. "This way I can remember the good parts."

The good parts.

His mind drifted to the photograph you had just insisted on taking. To himself, standing beside you. To the smile on your face.

And for a second, Jake couldn't stop thinking about the fact that you'd counted him among them.

જ⁀➴

Drifting around the city for what seemed like forever, you had finally landed in a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. Bright, neon red lettering read Bellissima across the brick patterning. You grinned at Jake as you tugged him into the small building.

Red checkered tablecloths and wine bottles decorated the interior. Old music played in the background. And at the end of the restaurant, there was a tiny black and white photo booth.

Of course, your eyes found it almost immediately, and you whipped around to look at Jake.

"Oh, my God."

"No."

"Oh, my God."

"Absolutely not."

Five minutes later, he was squeezed into the tiny booth beside you.

"Move over," he half-complained. You were perched up on his lap, one leg thrown over his. The warmth of your body seeped through his denim, making him want to melt into you.

You huffed, pushing up onto his lap even more. "There is literally nowhere to move."

The curtain slid shut as he huffed.

The first flash went off before either of you could prepare, painting a funny and honest picture where Jake was rolling his eyes, and you were scowling at him.

The second click caught Jake and you locking eyes instead of looking at the camera, a small smile on his face, while you bit down on your lip, grinning.

The third featured your hand covering your mouth as you laughed. Jake's smile now overtakes his face, his eyes still trained on you.

The fourth was completely ruined because neither of you stopped laughing in time. Blurry, but still capturing your hands coming up to brace against Jake's chest as his own poked your cheek teasingly.

The machine rattled as you stood outside of it, waiting for a single strip of photos to slide out.

But then, there was another that followed the first. You grabbed both eagerly as Jake laughed. He watched as you studied them, a smile growing on your face.

Without a word, you handed him one.

"For me?" he asked, surprised you had handed one over.

"Obviously," you told him, like it was a no-brainer.

He looked down at the pictures. A stupid little photobooth strip. Four grainy photos. Nothing special.

Except suddenly it felt very special.

"Thanks," he spoke sincerely, eyes still looking at the pictures.

Your smile widened at this, now carefully watching him. "You're welcome."

Jake folded the strip carefully before sliding it into his wallet.

જ⁀➴

Emerging from the steamy bathroom, Jake had a towel draped around his neck and was now changed into an old TOPGUN shirt and loose boxers.

He doesn't know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't this. Jake thought that maybe he'd find you reading a book or scrolling on your phone before bed. Maybe even scrapbooking. But the room was quiet and dark, only his bedside lamp dimly illuminating his surroundings.

For a moment, he thought you'd gone somewhere, maybe out to grab some ice from the machine down the hallway or off wandering around by the pool.

Then he spotted you.

Curled beneath the blankets, fast asleep. Your face was smushed into the soft pillow, mouth open just a bit. It was similar to the scene he had witnessed in the car, but now your entire body was relaxed and sprawled out across the bed. You looked peaceful like this.

And the colorful pajamas you'd changed into looked ridiculously comfortable. The pink fabric loose around your skin made everything about you seem softer.

To top it all off, there were little gel patches beneath your eyes, still in place despite your positioning. It made him chuckle a bit under his breath, and Jake couldn't help the smile that pulled at his mouth.

Cute.

The thought arrived immediately. Dangerously easy for only really knowing you for about one day. He shook his head, trying to shake away the feeling in his chest.

Crossing the room, he lowered himself onto the edge of his own bed. It was soft and cushy, but the sheets were cold when he slipped underneath them. Jake couldn't help but think back to how your arm felt around his waist or the weight of your body on his in the photo booth.

He wasn't sure why you had claimed the bed closest to the door. Jake had tried taking it, but you had claimed you'd sleep better this way. He didn't like the thought of you being the first line of defense if anything happened. Again, he rolled his shoulders, trying to push away those thoughts.

The city glowed beyond the curtains. It was surreal being in Chicago in the first place, but the circumstances made him smile. Walking down the busy streets with you today, hand finding yours if the crowds got too big or too pushy, was something that made Jake's stomach toss.

Traffic hummed somewhere below. He recalled you hailing a cab after dinner. It seemed like second nature to you. He remembers wanting to grab your waist as you stepped out into traffic. But with a raised hand and confident stride, a yellow taxi had pulled up next to you within 10 seconds.

His gaze drifted toward the nightstand. Toward the photo booth strip sticking out of his wallet. A souvenir from a day that shouldn't have mattered, shouldn't have even happened. A woman he should have only known for a delayed flight.

Jake had spent most of his adult life leaving.

Leave home. Leave training. Leave bases. Leave countries.

The people worth missing were always waiting somewhere else.

But sometime between Minneapolis and Chicago, his brain had apparently forgotten the rules.

Because when he thought about tomorrow, he wasn't thinking about Washington.

He was thinking about how many hours were left in the drive.

How many meals.

How many bad gas station coffees.

How many chances he'd have to hear that laugh again.

The realization settled heavily in his chest. Not because he wanted you, no, he couldn't want that. Those thoughts couldn't have a place in his heart. That part had become painfully obvious.

But something else tugged in his brain.

How you'd eventually leave.

And for the first time in a very long time, Jake wasn't sure he wanted to be the one left behind.

You shifted slightly in your sleep. The blankets rustled, then settled again.

A soft inhale and exhale.

Jake leaned back against the headboard and just listened.

For years, his life had been noise. Jet engines. Radio chirping. Big expectations. High pressure. Constant movement.

But here, in a cheap hotel room in Chicago, he just listened to your steady breathing.

Jake felt something he hadn't felt in a very long time.

Peace.

And it scared him a little how badly he didn't want the feeling to end.

જ⁀➴

By the time you left Chicago the next morning, you were feeling significantly more human. You had woken up before Jake, giving yourself time to get ready without disrupting him. By the time you had come out of the bathroom, he was changed out of his pajamas, but his hair was ruffled, and his face was still a little puffy. It was something so small, but it made your heart race.

Walking back to the car, you had now had your morning coffee. Jake had his too, matching cups in your hands. And the world seemed manageable again. Not life-ending like yesterday morning at the airport.

Which was exactly why you held your hand out for the rental car keys.

Jake looked down at your palm. Then back up at you.

"No."

"What do you mean no?" you asked, slightly taken aback by his response.

"No," he repeated, lighter this time, like he was about to laugh.

You scoffed at this. "Why? Because I'm a woman?"

Jake's eyes widened.

"What?" His voice rose to a pitch you had yet to hear. It was almost amusing.

"You heard me," you stated, hand snatching the keys from his grasp in this moment of weakness.

Before you could react, he plucked the keys directly from your hand again.

"No."

He started walking toward the driver's side.

"Jake!" you called out, but he didn't stop. "Why? I feel great. And you did all of the driving yesterday."

He looked over his shoulder. Your face was scrunched up, and your free hand was in a fist by your side. The sight was pretty cute.

Despite this, he decided to tease you even further.

"Because I'm a gentleman."

You barked out a laugh. "A gentleman?"

"That's right," he told you matter-of-factly as you rolled your eyes at him.

"You flirted your way into a free cinnamon roll at breakfast," you said, brows furrowed at the memory of Jake laying it on thick with the barista this morning. He had come back with a wide grin and two forks. You swore the woman shot daggers your way the rest of the morning.

He shrugged at this. "I never said I was a perfect gentleman."

Still, as you settled into the car, you couldn't help but feel a little useless.

"You don't always have to take care of everything, you know. I'm a grown woman."

Jake's grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel as he peeled out of the parking lot. "I know."

The answer came too fast for your liking. Too automatic. Like he had given it no thought at all. Like you couldn't take care of yourself.

You turn toward the window, no real malice in your actions, just the need for space. "Sure."

The car fell quiet.

For a few moments, only tires against pavement filled the space between you.

Finally, Jake sighs. "I wasn't trying to say you couldn't do it."

You shrugged, voice struggling to remain light. "Didn't say you were."

But he could hear it anyway. The frustration. His eyes jumped over to your form. He saw the way your body curled in on itself, hands wrapping around your waist like they would keep you safe.

Jake swallowed. He didn't want you to assume anything. He just wanted you to understand.

"Growing up, my sisters were always getting hurt." His voice was steady in comparison to yours earlier, eyes now trained on the road.

You glance over briefly and see the small grimace on his face as he continues.

"They climbed trees that were too tall. Rode horses without the proper gear. Ran straight into bull pens without thinking."

A small smile tugs at his mouth, like the memory outweighed the feeling of fear.

"And?" you ask, voice still a little small.

"And I got really good at worrying."

The confession hung awkwardly in the air.

It wasn't charming, just honest.

"Oh," you said, chest finally feeling a little lighter. "I guess that's slightly better than sexism."

His eyes flitted over to you again. This time, your knees pointed towards him and your arms were loose at your side.

"Slightly?" Jake scoffed, smiling at you.

"Slightly," you repeated, trying to hold back a laugh.

જ⁀➴

The first few hours passed comfortably. To your surprise, the roads weren't busy, allowing for a peaceful way ahead in your journey.

Quickly into the drive, the radio became your shared entertainment. Every few minutes, you'd switch stations, pausing and listening, then switch again.

After the 5th song, Jake eventually glanced over. "You know you can connect your phone, right?"

You shrugged, like you had known that already. "Where's the fun in that?"

"The fun?" he asked, voice laced with confusion.

"Yeah." You continued scrolling through stations, not offering anything other than the one word. Jake shook his head at your actions, still a smile started to form on his face.

A small gasp was heard as a familiar song started playing. "There."

Jake looked in your direction once again, unimpressed. "You could've listened to that song whenever you wanted," he argued.

"Exactly." You pointed toward the speakers. "But I didn't."

His face twisted at this, ultimately settling in a frown. "I don't get it."

You laughed at his words. Jake's brows were furrowed, eyes trained on the road in front of him. Smiling at the sight, you explained, "When you find a song you love on the radio, it's exciting."

Jake looked like he was trying very hard to understand. "It's the exact same song."

"Jake, no, it's not."

"It literally is," his hand gestured to the radio and then to his phone.

You shook your head. "Nope."

He laughed. "You are ridiculous."

"Maybe," you said, leaning back in your seat. "But it feels more special when you weren't expecting it."

Jake couldn't help but smile at this. There was something oddly endearing about the way you found joy in things most people ignored.

After a few moments of silence, he spoke, "What else?"

You looked over at the man again. Now it was your turn to be confused. "What else what?" you asked, sitting up a bit at the question.

Jake glanced over at you, meeting your gaze, making his smile grow wider. "What else makes you happy like that?"

"Oh." The question surprised you; it was obvious by the way you were now sitting upright, at full attention.

Jake noticed immediately. "What?"

"You've never asked me something like that before," you told him, voice softer like it had been when you were settling down before bed last night. The sound of it made Jake buzz inside.

He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. Like he asked these types of questions all the time. "I want to know you too."

A swirl of emotions settled in your chest. You were glad Jake couldn't look at you fully right now. Surely you were a mess, making a stupid, surprised face. Still, you looked out the windshield for a moment while thinking, giving yourself a little space to calm the raging pounding of your heart.

Then you smiled at the thought that crossed your mind almost immediately.

"The community stories." Your voice was quiet, and Jake almost didn't pick up what you were saying.

To confirm, Jake glanced over once more. He saw a bashful look on your face, which made him even more intrigued. "The what?"

"You know." Your face brightened a bit more as you explained. "The little stories they do on local news."

Recognition slowly crossed his face. "The feel-good ones?" he asked, voice lifting at the end of his question.

"Yeah, those ones," you confirmed, head nodding.

Jake hummed before continuing. "Those make you happy?"

You laughed a bit at that. "Happy, yes. But, they make me cry."

His eyebrows shot up at the image he was conjuring. You sitting on the couch at the end of the day, sobbing to the news. "Cry?"

"Every single time." The confession was immediate and unapologetic. He could see the way your body relaxed at this, sinking back into your seat with a happy smile.

Jake shook his head, laughing at your words. "You're unbelievable."

"I know." You grinned, biting down on your lip at the ridiculousness of what you had just said. But still, you continued to bare your heart to the man next to you. "There'll be some story about a neighborhood raising money for somebody's medical bills or a little kid helping stray animals or something, and I'll completely lose it."

Jake was openly laughing now. "You're serious."

"Dead serious." You pointed dramatically. "And before you judge me, I strategically watch them before I do my makeup in the morning."

His laughter got even louder, the whole car filling with the noise, the radio long forgotten. "Oh, my God. You schedule your crying?"

"I schedule my happiness," you defended, trying to stay serious. But the smile on your face said otherwise. "Those stories remind me there are good people everywhere."

Jake's grin faded slightly as he saw you turn back to the window, pine tops and leafy trees whirling past you.

"No matter what else is going on, they make me grateful," you told him, voice now soft again, more contained. The quiet was back, only the hum of the dashboard and the small melody of the radio filling the car now.

Jake found himself staring at the road. Thinking. He wanted to push, but he wasn't sure what the right questions were to ask.

Eventually, you nudged his shoulder with your hand. "Your turn."

"My turn?"

You hum at this. "Mhm, what makes you happy?"

The obvious answers came first. Ones that would be rehearsed and polished. Something about flying. About the feeling of completing a hard mission. Words came to mind about how he touched down on the tarmac; the feeling it gave him of being infinitely lighter, stronger.

But after Madison, after Chicago, and after everything you'd shared with him, this answer felt incomplete. Still, he gave it anyway.

"I like finishing a flight."

You smiled knowingly, like you had sensed the war raging within his mind. This time, though, you didn't push; you just laughed. "That tracks."

"It does," he said steadily. But you picked up on the way his breath hitched, like he was trying to get something else out.

Then there was another answer. It was a second thought, a memory he thought he had buried a long time ago. Not something he had told anyone, not even something he had admitted to himself

It wasn't embarrassing, but as the thought formed, his cheeks flushed. "I like hearing birds in the morning."

Your head turned so quickly that your neck would probably be hurting in just a few minutes. "What?"

Jake groaned at this; he could see the smile forming on your face. "See."

"No, no, keep going," you urged, excitement dripping from your words.

He smiled despite himself as he recalled the memory, the feeling. "When I was a kid, my dad used to take me camping."

Your expression softened at this, trying to control yourself at the honesty he was giving you.

"Every summer," he started, eyes stayed on the road. "We'd wake up before sunrise."

You laugh a bit at this. "That sounds awful."

"It was awful," he told you with a smile, words not matching his emotions. "I hated it."

He could practically feel the sleeping bag and cold morning air from those memories. The ache in his muscles from the hikes he had partaken in the days before. The caked feeling of dirt over everything he brought with him, no real way to clean it.

"But every morning there'd be birds everywhere," he wistfully recalled. "Different calls. Different sounds. And eventually I started expecting it."

A small smile appeared on his face at the end of his sentence. You watched carefully as the muscles in his cheeks twitched and the steady rubbing of his thumb on the steering wheel began to come to a halt.

"Now whenever I wake up somewhere and it's completely quiet…" he trailed off, like he was living his words. "I get disappointed."

Your heart squeezed at this confession. Because of course it did. Of all the things he could have said, giving you a half-assed answer about flying, something he gives everyone else, instead, he told you about birds. And somehow it felt more intimate than anything he'd shared so far.

જ⁀➴

Jake climbed back into the driver's seat. You had pulled up to a little gas station to refuel. While Jake pumped the gas, you had booked it into the convenience store.

But as he reached to turn the car back on, he stopped immediately, keys swaying from his fingers.

On the center console, there was a can of Coke Zero, a bag of jalapeño kettle chips, and —

"Herbert's Watermelon Slices?"

You smiled at the goofy look on his face. "Yep."

Jake just stared at you, utterly confused. "How did you know?"

You shrugged, cracking open the can of soda you had gotten for yourself. "I guessed."

"There is absolutely no way," Jake scoffed, his eyes lighting up as he looked at you.

"It was kind of easy," you told him, taking a sip of your drink and putting it down, moving to crack open his can too.

"Easy?"

"Yeah," you nodded. "The burger at the diner, the fruit this morning, the constant waters at every restaurant."

Jake opened his mouth. Then closed it.

"But how'd you get here?" he gestured to the array of snacks between the two of you.

You rolled your eyes at him, like you couldn't believe you were still having this conversation. "I just notice things. Put them together"

"Yeah, I see that now," his eyes narrowed as you just shrugged. "Maybe I should be worried about you being the psycho-killer."

"Hey," you pouted as Jake laughed. "I buy you all these nice things, and this is what I get."

"It's okay, you can be honest, sweetheart," Jake teased as you scoffed.

"I'm never doing anything nice for you again."

Jake burst out laughing at this. He took a swig of the Coke Zero, and you seriously should've looked away. The bobbing of his throat made you squirm in your seat. And the way he licked his lips after was almost criminal.

"I find it flattering," he told you while sending a wink your way.

"Shut up and drive, Seresin."

જ⁀➴

The hotel room had barely settled around the two of you before you were pacing.

Jake watched from his bed as you crossed from one side of the room to the other.

Then back again.

Then again.

"You okay there?"

You stopped immediately.

"No."

His laugh came easily now. "What's wrong?"

"I've been trapped in a car with you for two days," you told him, not thinking much about the words as they left your mouth.

"Wow, rude," he joked, but still you whipped around.

"No, not like that. I mean, like the car," you tried to backtrack, but Jake just chuckled. "I think I'm gonna go for a walk."

At this, Jake sat upright in his place on the bed. "A walk? It's almost dark out."

"You're right," you said, crossing the room to get to where you had slipped off your shoes. Jake sighed at this, glad you were settling down. "I should probably get going then if I want to catch the sunset."

He heard the jingling of your keys and the click of the locks and shot up. "You can't go into a city at night by yourself, it's not safe."

You contemplated this for a moment. Bending down, you tossed Jake his shoes with a smile.

"Well then let's go."

Jake deadpanned you as you paced back and forth by the door. "Seriously?" he asked as you just nodded. "Unbelievable."

But still, he tied his laces and let you lead the way.

The city is busy at this time of day, the sun just about to set on the horizon. Apparently, Jake isn't walking fast enough, because you tug on his hand, lacing your fingers through his as you urge him to hurry. He smiles and isn't sure if it's because of the urgency of your words or the feeling of your smaller, softer hand in his.

Coming to an outlook at a nearby park, Jake and you stand side by side to watch the pinks and oranges of the sky turn into purples and dark blues.

"Go stand by the railing," you tell him, hand dropping from his. His eyes immediately track it, searching for it. But he sees you reach into your jacket pocket for the old camera and just shakes his head.

"Just me?" he asks, brows draw in the middle.

"Yes, just you. Just for me, okay?" you ask, smile on your face as the camera shifts to life in your hands. And when you put it like that, Jake can't help but agree, leaning against the railing without any more complaints.

You raise the camera up to your face, and Jake smiles as the flash goes off, not noticing any of the sweet looks you both are getting from people around you. However, a young girl comes up to you and you nodded vigorously while handing over the camera.

For the second time in two days, you're standing next to Jake for another picture. This time, though, his arm slips over your shoulder like muscle memory, and your hand comes around his waist with a squeeze that makes him jump.

The moment is captured in a blink, Jake looking down at you with a surprised grin while you bury your head into his chest, laughing sweetly.

She comes back up to you both after snapping a few more pictures, handing you back the camera with a blush. Jake almost misses it; the girl is quite shy and only looking at you, but he hears the passing comment as she hands off the camera.

"You guys are such a cute couple."

You laugh at this, not mockingly, but like it actually made you happy to hear the words. Before you could respond, she hurries back to her family with a wave and smile.

Jake just watches you. The crinkling of your eyes and smile lines around your mouth. Every time he looks at you, he finds something else that fascinates him.

"I've never met anyone like you," he admits, the words coming out without him meaning to say anything at all.

But just as he's about to backtrack and explain himself, you smile brightly and repeat the sentiment, "I've never met anyone like you."

You're smiling up at him now, looking at him like you really believe what you've just said. He can't help but glance down at your lips.

As he catches himself, he looks back up at your eyes and sees you do the same to him. But quickly, your eyes meet again and you just laugh.

"Come on, I'm hungry," you say, but there's no real push in your voice. Jake listens anyway and nods.

The park is dark now, only spaced-out lampposts illuminating your way. Still, you walk with confidence, as if you know the city like the back of your hand.

"Are you sure you know where we're going?" Jake asks, voice laced with skepticism.

"Yes, I promise. I had the best veggie sandwich at this little stand just a little bit this way, like 4 cases ago," you tell him, steps not faltering.

"What do you mean case—"

"Here! I told you!" You cut him off as soon as a small food truck comes into view. Sure enough, Sal's Sandwiches stood at the edge of the park. Small picnic tables taken up by families, couples, and groups of friends surrounding the structure.

Scanning the area, you point to a table not too far away from the truck.

"Can you go save that one?" you ask as he follows your finger and nods. "Thanks, Jake."

You split from him, heading towards the line. Jake watches as you go, your head on a swivel for the first few seconds before you settle in line and begin talking with the person in front of you, because, well, of course you do.

Jake chuckles at your behavior, watching as you light up, talking with the people around you. What's especially odd, though, is that when you make your way up to the window of the truck, an older man comes rushing out and scoops you up into a hug.

He can see the way the man fuses over you, but you wave him off, offering another hug. He sees the way some of the other workers poke their heads out to say hi to you as you wave. Soon enough, he's patting you on the back and sending you on your way with a bag and two canned drinks.

As you place the objects down on the table, you start talking immediately, "I got you the Meat Tornado, fresh jalapenos, don't worry. Sal says it's yummy."

"Sal?" Jake asks with an amused look on his face.

"Yeah, come on, try it!" you urge, unwrapping your own sandwich.

As Jake's teeth sink into the fluffy bread and perfectly flavored meat and veggies, he groans. "Oh, my God."

"Right," you laugh, taking a bite of your own sandwich now. Jake has to look away as your eyes roll back into your head with delight.

"I swear this is the best sandwich I've ever had," he tells you, mouth still full. You laugh, hand coming up to cover your mouth.

"Stop, you're gonna make me choke," you say, slapping him lightly on the chest as he laughs.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologizes as you shake your head at him.

You sit for a few moments like that, just eating and enjoying each other's company. That is, until a black beetle finds its way onto the table between you.

You all but throw your sandwich in the air and scream bloody murder when it crawls towards you. Quickly, you rise to your feet and run over to hide behind Jake.

"Seriously?" he asks, throwing a teasing look over your shoulder, but when he sees the fear on your face, he quickly turns back to the bug, swatting it away.

A few moments pass, and you make your way back to your seat. "Sorry, they just freak me out," you explain, but the way your eyes don't meet his makes Jake think this might be something deeper than just an irrational fear.

"No biggie, all got our stuff," he says, giving you an easy out. You just nod at this, hands still placed in your lap and eyes still trained on the ground.

Jake reaches out for your hands, encompassing them with his own. The action finally makes you look up at him, he can see the tears brimming on your lashes.

"Y'know if we were out in the woods right about now, I'd be exactly the same as you are now."

Your brows furrow at his words, but he can see the way they've temporarily distracted you, and that's enough for him to keep going.

"When I was a kid, I ran away from home. I was that age where if I didn't get what I wanted, I just started running."

You laugh softly at his admission. He just slides closer towards you, body fully facing you now.

"This one night, I ran into the woods before dinner started. My mom made chili, and I wanted hot dogs. Not a great night for me. So I took off, and before I knew it, the sun had set, and I was all alone out there. No idea where I was," his voice was careful. Not trying to make you feel like he was patronizing you, but still concerned.

Your breathing slowed down a bit now, chest not heaving as much as it had been a few minutes ago.

"I was out there for what felt like hours. Only tall trees around me, wherever I turned. I didn't know if anyone would find me, if anyone was even looking in the right spot."

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth as a tear slipped down your face. God, so empathic, he thought. Thumb coming up to wipe away wetness and hold your face in his palm.

"But my dad found me, just around dawn. I remember running into his arms and crying all the way home. My sisters and mom fussed over me as soon as we came through the door. She never made chili again," Jake joked.

You laughed, watery but there.

"Yeah, but I, uh," Jake's face twisted, and now it was your turn to squeeze his hand.

He cleared his throat before continuing.

"Two years ago, a buddy of mine and I were flying over these forests on a mission. Everything was going good, we were just reserve, not really doing anything but surveillance and back up," his voice shakes at the memory.

"It's okay," your voice is barely there, but Jake's eyes find yours immediately.

"No, I want to," he tells you as you nod, hand gripping yours even tighter now. "But we were flying one minute, and the next we got separated. An ambush. It was just for a few seconds, but I lost him. The radar lost him. I didn't know where he went. Still don't."

His breathing hitches at the thought, something that still haunts him.

"I don't," he starts, voice weak. "I don't want to go like that. I can't leave my family like that. Not like that."

You nod, a hand coming up to meet the one on your cheek. Jake's eyes find yours, and he smiles, something wobbly, but he tries for you.

"I'm sorry, Jake."

But he just shakes his head. "Not your fault, don't gotta be sorry, sweetheart."

You can see the walls coming back up, protection and shields all taking their place.

"About a year ago, I was out in Iowa, of all places," you huff, a laugh bubbling despite yourself. "And, um, I got stuck in this barn. For a while. And there were these black beetles that would crawl from under the floorboards and gaps in the wood at night."

Jake sees the distress on your face at the recall of the memory.

"And I couldn't move. They crawled all over me, and I couldn't move. It was three days until my team found me. But by then I had all these little bites across my skin, didn't know where I was."

Another tear slipped down your cheek, but this time Jake's hand caught it before it could drip down your chin.

"So I can't do bugs. Those bugs especially."

"That's okay," Jake told you, voice still soft. "Bugs are dumb anyway."

You laugh at this, fully this time. It makes Jake smile. "So dumb. Just like the woods."

Now it's his turn to laugh, eyes finding yours. "So dumb," he repeats.

You share a look, something like recognition, like understanding. You lean in and collapse on Jake's shoulder. Nose finding the softness of his neck and hands wrapping around his broad back. His hand shifts to hold the back of your head, rubbing soothing strokes in your hair. The other finds your lower back, bringing your body even closer into his hold.

જ⁀➴

"There he is!" Javy's voice rang out from across the hotel courtyard.

Jake grinned at the sight of his squad, all done up in dress whites for the event tonight.

"Thought you'd never make it, Bagman," Nat jests as he just rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, where've you been, man?" Rooster asks, hand coming down to clamp on the man's shoulder.

"Roadtrip. My flight got delayed, so we decided to drive from Minneapolis," he shrugged.

"We?" Javy's brows furrowed as he looked to his best friend. The squad all looked towards Jake expectantly.

Like a deer in headlights, Jake froze at the slip. "Yeah, me and this girl I met at the airport."

"Oh, my God. This sounds like plot from a shitty rom-com," Nat laughed as she watched Jake's cheeks heat up.

"Shut up, Phoenix," he swatted his hand in her direction as her laughs grew louder.

"No, no, she's right. Are you guys in love now?" Rooster chuckled as Phoenix continued to cackle next to the tall man.

Jake recalls the end of last night. How you had walked back to the hotel, hand in hand. He remembers the look you gave him after coming out of the bathroom, hair still damp and dripping at the ends. He can still hear the crinkling of his sheets as he moves to make room for you. He swears he can still smell the freshness of your hair and the sweetness of your body lotion as you sank in next to him in the sheets. He knows he'll never forget the feeling of your soft skin under his rough hands, the contrast not lost on him. But the way that you had relaxed further in his hold only reassured him, hand coming to wrap around your body tighter, pulling you closer.

"Holy shit, he is," Javy spoke, mouth hanging open a bit.

"Shut up," he said again quickly.

"Well, where is she?" Bob asks, eyes finding Jake's.

"I don't know, actually. She dropped me off here earlier today, still need the rental car for this weekend," he explained, hand instinctively reaching to find his wallet.

"What about her number? Don't tell me you didn't ask," Phoenix questions, invested fully now despite her jests.

"We were with each other 24/7, I guess I just didn't think about it," Jake's voice is uncharacteristically soft as he talks. His hands dig into his wallet, fingers grasping the photo strip. He holds it out in Javy's direction.

"Damn," he says breathlessly, passing it to Rooster next.

"Are you an idiot, man? Do you see the way she's looking at you here," Bradley huffs, handing the strip to Phoenix.

"Forget her, look at Bagman. He's head over heels," she says, giving the photos to Bob.

"Wow, man. You gotta find her," Bob tells him, eyes wide as he takes in the pictures.

"I don't even know where she's staying. Or even where she lives or what she does for work," Jake groans.

"How did you not talk about this? Didn't you spend, what, like two or three days together?" Phoenix asks, voicing her disbelief.

"We talked about other stuff. Deeper stuff," Jake shrugged.

"Oh, Jesus," Bradley laughs out. "You've got it bad, man."

"Don't you think I know that, Rooster!" Jake groans as the squad laughs at his misery.

"Alright, aviators, it's time to head out," Maverick's voice boomed. The group rose to their feet and made their way out of the hotel. Somewhere in between the shuffle, the photo strip landed back in Jake's hand. He looked down at it once more, eyes finding your smiling face. There was nothing he could do now, well, at least not until after the State Dinner.

જ⁀➴

"Oh gosh, he's dreamy," Penny tells you as she looks at the photos from your trip.

"I know," you sigh, slumping further into yourself as you sit at the table. The form-fitting dress seems too constricting for your dramatics, digging into your ribs as you slouch.

"I could always look him up, y'know. Track him. You said he's in the city, right?" she asks, hand already reaching for her phone.

"No, no, Penny. We can't do that. He didn't ask for my number or anything when I dropped him off. I don't want to push it," you ruminated over the memory. "Maybe I just made it all up. Like it was all in my head."

She cooed at this, hand coming to rub soothing circles on your shoulder.

"I'm sure he felt it too. Maybe he just wasn't thinking," she offers. You groan at the thought.

"He went out this morning. Early, before I got up. Got us pastries and coffee from this place we passed by last night. They were so yummy," you whine as she laughs a bit.

Jake ran his fingers through your hair to wake you this morning. When you opened your eyes, you were met with the sight of a brown paper bag and a goofy smile. It made you flush even now, just thinking about it, thinking about him.

"And he checked the hotel room both nights before bed. The locks and windows. I didn't even get the chance to do it," you tell her with a frown.

"Dream man," she teases.

"You have no idea," you say, ignoring the teasing lit in her voice. "I told him about Iowa."

"Really?" The woman next to you now in shock at your words.

"Not everything, obviously, but I told him. And it felt good. He made me feel safe," you confess as she looks at you with a sad expression.

"Well, come on, let's get a drink in you. Maybe that will help," Penny tells you, beckoning you to follow her to the open bar.

You sigh, but walk with her and eventually order your usual drink.

Sipping on your drink, you spit it out almost immediately as it hits your tongue, a loud voice ringing in your ear.

"It's you!"

You and Penny look at the man next to you in curiosity. He had a handlebar mustache and a big grin on his face. Neither of you recognized him.

"Stay here, please. Just stay," he said, setting his drink down and rushing across the room.

Looking back at Penny, you frown. "What the hell was that about?"

She opens her mouth to respond, but you see a stunned look overcome her face. "Oh, oh!"

"What? You're freaking me out," you question as she begins to jump up and down a bit.

"You never did tell me what you did for work. Policy analyst? Campaign strategist?" a familiar voice says from behind you.

Turning around, you see him. "Jake." You face lights up at the sight of him.

"So am I close?" he teases as you pull him into a hug.

"I can't believe you're here." Your voice is muffled as he pulls you closer into his grasp, your face buried in his neck as his comes down to dip over your shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm here," his tone is tender now, not teasing. You can feel his hands wrap around your waist, fingers almost digging into the silky fabric of your dress.

You pull back just enough to look at his face. Jake's mouth stretches into a goofy grin, eyes not leaving yours.

"FBI agent," you tell him, watching his brows shoot up.

"Wow. Seriously?" he asks as you just nod shyly. "So that's why you had so many serial killer questions for me."

You laugh at this, head thrown back a bit, completely missing the look of adoration Jake throws your way.

Jake laughs against your forehead, still holding you close.

"You have any idea how close I came to having one of my squad members file a missing persons report for a woman whose last name I didn't know?" Jake admits, voice quiet, so only you could hear.

Your eyes widen at this. You feel your heart beating wildly in your chest. "You were looking for me?"

Jake gave you a look as if you had said something so unbelievably obvious. "Sweetheart, I spent the last hour getting roasted by every pilot I know because I couldn't answer a single question about you."

The admission settled warmly in your chest as you looked into his eyes.

For the first time since Minneapolis, neither of you was rushing somewhere. No delayed flight. No rental car. No hotel checkout.

Now, it was just the two of you. The sound of classical music and soft chatter in the background, but you only heard Jake's steady breathing, grounding you in this moment.

"I was looking for you too," you confess quietly.

He was quiet for a minute, not expecting your words. "You were?"

You nod, head dropping into his strong chest as the words spill out of you, "Penny offered to run your name through three different databases."

He barks out a laugh. "That's terrifying."

"That's what I said," you mumble, cheeks flushing a bit at the thought.

"No, that's actually terrifying."

Meeting his eyes again, you can't help but start laughing. Jake joins in, and the sound eases something that had been wound tight since the moment you dropped him off that morning.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

The ballroom buzzes around you. Glasses clink. People talk and laugh. Somewhere across the room, you hear a man loudly telling someone he deserved credit for this reunion.

But all of it fades into the background.

Jake's gaze softens as he looks to you.

"You know what I've been thinking about?"

"What?"

"The radio."

You smiled immediately, face twisting a bit in confusion. "The radio?" you parrot.

"The stupid thing you said," he offered, like it would help you narrow things down.

Your grin widened. "You're gonna have to be more specific."

Jake rolled his eyes, smile still on his face. "About songs."

Recognition flashed across your face, mouth parting as you spoke, "Oh."

"You said it felt more special when you weren't expecting it." Jake glanced down for a moment before looking back up. "I think that's what this was."

The words stole the air from your lungs.

A delayed flight. A cancelled trip. A random seat at a gate in Minneapolis. A road trip that never should have happened.

And somehow, here he was. Here you were.

Jake smiled nervously, something you hadn't seen from him before. It made your tummy turn in the best way possible.

"But I don't really want to leave the rest of it up to chance," he spoke once more.

Your breath caught at his words. "No?"

He shook his head. "No."

Then he reached into the pocket of his dress whites and pulled out the photo booth strip. The edges were already worn, like he had pulled it in and out of his wallet every few minutes.

"I think we should go on a date. You know, a proper one."

You laughed at this; the simple statement seemed so ridiculous and at the same time riveting. "A date?"

"One where we aren't fleeing an airport," he offered. You tracked as his thumb brushed across the photo.

You pretended to mull it over, eyes looking towards the ceiling. "That does sound nice."

"And maybe one where we don't share a rental car for three days first."

"Hm. I don't know. That's become kind of my standard," you deadpanned.

Jake groaned at this. "You're impossible."

"But you're asking anyway," you spoke quietly, hand coming to meet his on the photo strip.

His smile returned immediately. "Yeah."

"Good."

Jake's eyes searched yours, boyish charm now all worn off. You only saw vulnerability and wonder across his face. "Good?"

"Because I'd really like another picture for my scrapbook," you told him with a smile.

The grin that spread across his face was brighter than anything you'd seen from him since Minneapolis.

His hand comes up from your waist and lands on your cheek. You nodded slightly, tongue coming out to wet your lips quickly.

When he kissed you, you felt yourself melt into his touch. Thoughts of missed planes, long stretches of road, and cheap diner food are all gone from your brain.

The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.

“I-I…are you her…”

“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”

The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.

“I was on a date.”

Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”

“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”

You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”

He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.

“I told you, that was a date.”

“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”

You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”

Craig’s smile falls a little.

Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.

“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”

Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“

“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”

You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.

When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.

“He’s out of prison, you know.”

You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

“He keeps asking about you.”

Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”

Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.

“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“

“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.

Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.

And then it was all over. Just like that.

Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”

“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”

You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-

“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”

Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”

-

Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.

Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.

You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.

-

“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“

“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”

“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“

“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”

Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“

“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…

Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.

“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.

“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”

-

He’s in the yard.

Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?

He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.

He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.

“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.

You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”

-

“You’re bleeding.”

You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.

“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”

Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to  tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.

“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.

He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”

You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.

“Why? Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.

His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kill someone for me.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.

But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.

This is not that plan.

And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-

His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.

“I’ve gotta…go inside.”

He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.

-

“We should talk.”

You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.

“Let go of me.”

He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”

“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.

You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.

As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.

But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.

The job. Focus on the job.

You can do this.

-

You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.

You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.

So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.

It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.

When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.

“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”

“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.

“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”

You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”

~

Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.

Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.

You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.

But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.

Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.

And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.

“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You snap.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.

“Stop it.”

“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.

“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.

When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”

“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”

He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.

“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”

You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”

He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.

“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.

The world explodes.

His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.

You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.

And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.

His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.

“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.

His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.

It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.

His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.

Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.

You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.

The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.

After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.

He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”

“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”

He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”

-

The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.

Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“You look nice.”

“Shut up.”

The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.

“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”

“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.

“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.

When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.

Fine.

-

“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”

“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”

“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”

-

You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.

Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.

You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”

At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.

“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.

“What?”

“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”

“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.

“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-

He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.

That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.

-

“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”

Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…

“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.

The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-

“We need to talk.”

You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”

“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“

“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-

The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”

In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.

Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.

He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.

His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.

It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.

“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”

“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”

-

When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.

Pope punched him back.

When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.

“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.

“This is bullshit. They-“

“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”

You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.

“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”

She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”

-

“What the fuck was that?”

“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.

“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”

He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“Pull the truck over.”

He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”

“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”

He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”

“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”

“Just let me talk to you. Please.”

“No.”

His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.

You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.

-

Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.

“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.

“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”

You frown. “Then why did you…”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“I was never-“

“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”

You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”

He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.

You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.

“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”

He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”

You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.

“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”

“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”

You snort. “Craig-“

“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”

You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.

You believe him.

-

When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.

“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”

“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”

“What?”

“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”

“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”

“Tell me what?”

“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.

“Tell me what?!”

“Just tell her.”

“I’ve been trying-“

“Tell. Me. What?”

“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”

Oh. Oh.

‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’

“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.

You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.

And then you walk into his room.

You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.

Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.

“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”

He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.

Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-

You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-

Fuck.

“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He watches you. You watch back, tense.

“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”

You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”

“Three years.”

Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”

“Three. Years.”

“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.

You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.

“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.

“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”

And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.

For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.

His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.

But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.

Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.

His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-

You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.

“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.

“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

You push past him, and walk out the door.

For once, he doesn’t follow.

-

“Where is she?”

You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out. 

“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.

“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”

Yeah, sounds like you.

“So, you gonna talk to her?”

Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.

But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.

When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.

Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.

But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.

He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.

He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.

Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.

Just…not yet.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.

-

The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.

It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.

He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-

His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.

“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.

Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”

Son of a bitch.

“He’s joking.”

“Three.”

Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.

“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.

“Two.”

And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.

“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”

“Who was that?”

“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“

His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”

You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.

It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”

Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”

“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”

“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.

“We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.

He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”

You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.

And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…

You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.

“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”

You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…

Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.

His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-

Goddammit.

“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”

The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.

You don’t say another word.

You just leave.

-

The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.

Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.

“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.

“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…

Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”

Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.

“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”

You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.

Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.

And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.

His.

-

When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.

Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.

And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.

You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.

Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.

You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.

“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.

“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”

Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.

“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.

“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”

Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.

You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.

“Do you want a sandwich?”

You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.

“Sure.”

-

The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.

When Pope opens the door, there you are.

Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.

“You fixed my door.”

He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.

Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-

“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.

“Yeah.”

“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”

His brow furrows a little more.

“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.

“It was creaking.”

“How many times have you broken into my house?”

Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Andrew.”

You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.

“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”

“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.

“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”

“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”

“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”

“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”

“You don’t know that I still love you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”

You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.

“You fucked up my job.”

“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”

Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”

You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”

“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.

“Coffee?”

You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”

And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.

-

Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.

Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.

Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.

But you did well. Really well.

And then, after dinner, you disappeared.

Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…

“Hi.”

Shit. “Hi.”

“Wanna sit down?”

Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.

He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.

“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.

He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…

“So what’s wrong?”

You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”

“Too well?”

“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”

He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.

“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”

Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.

His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.

“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.

And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”

-

It’s a fucking whirlwind.

You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.

He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.

The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.

“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.

“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.

He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.

“Tell me you want this.”

You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.

You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.

You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.

“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.

And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.

It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.

“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”

You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.

For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.

“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.

And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.

“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”

-

Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.

At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.

“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.

“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.

-

The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.

Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.

“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.

“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”

“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.

-

For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.

And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.

He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.

There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.

Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.

He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.

You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.

And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.

You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.

He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.

You’re not ready for that.

So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.

“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.

You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.

Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”

He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”

“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”

“Or both.”

You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.

Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.

“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”

Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sure. Where are you?”

-

Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.

Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.

“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”

“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.

Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.

He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?

“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”

“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.

“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“

“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.

“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.

-

Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.

You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.

And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.

You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.

“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”

“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.

And then you smash the glass against the wall.

“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.

“Gimme another.”

He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.

And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.

And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.

That is, until Pope Cody shows up.

You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.

That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.

“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.

“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.

“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.

“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”

Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.

But you’re too late.

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”

Pope punches him in the face.

You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.

Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.

You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.

The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.

Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.

You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…

And puke on his shoes.

You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.

“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.

He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.

You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.

You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.

It feels like home.

-

“Look who finally decided to come home.”

Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.

“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.

You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.

Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”

It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.

“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”

That hits you. Harder than it should.

No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.

…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-

No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.

Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.

And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.

And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…

You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.

That’s love.

And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.

“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”

Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.

You walk out the door, instead.

-

He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.

He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.

You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.

“You’re mad at me.”

You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.

His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.

“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”

You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.

He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.

“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”

You curl a little closer.

“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”

He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.

“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”

Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”

And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”

-

The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.

And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.

“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.

“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”

You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”

Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”

Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.

Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.

“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”

“You broke up a bar fight.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“It was…between me and Craig.”

You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”

“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”

Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…

“Have you slept?”

He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”

Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-

“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.

His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”

He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.

“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“

“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”

He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”

“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”

Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”

“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”

He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.

“You two back together?”

“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”

You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”

His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.

You scoff. “Shut up.”

-

That’s the problem with good things. They always end.

You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.

“Do you wanna go home?”

You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.

You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-

Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”

You leave before he can follow.

-

“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.

“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”

“Pope had nothing to do with that.”

Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

“Fuck you.”

“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”

You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”

You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.

“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”

He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.

-

“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.

You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”

“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“

“I need it now.”

He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.

His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.

“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”

“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”

His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”

“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.

It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.

Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”

He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.

God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.

Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.

“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.

“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.

“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.

“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”

“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”

“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”

“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.

Fuck.

“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”

Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”

You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”

“He’ll just take it off.”

“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“

You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.

“Get. Away. From. Her.”

Shit.

“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.

Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.

“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.

“Where is he?”

“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”

And he does.

One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.

But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.

And you let him.

Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.

You’re waiting for him in the hall.

You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.

“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.

“No.”

You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.

“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”

He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.

-

A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.

When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…

To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…

He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.

You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.

When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.

“What was that for?”

He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”

“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.

He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”

You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.

You believe him. You really, really believe him.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”

“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.

Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.

Well, not anymore.

“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.

“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”

“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.

It all happens so fast.

In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.

This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.

The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.

You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-

And then the gun goes off.

-

You wake to an empty bed.

Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.

Huh.

The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.

Naked. Staring at the moon.

He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.

“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”

“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.

“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”

When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.

“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.

“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”

You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.

“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”

He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.

“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.

“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”

-

For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.

It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.

You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…

Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.

“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”

You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.

You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.

Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.

“No. No no no no no!”

Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.

There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.

Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”

Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.

“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.

When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.

-

“Holy shit. What happened?”

Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.

He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”

“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.

“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”

You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”

“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”

“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. He looks like he might have been crying.

“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not lying.”

He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”

“Too late. You done puking?”

He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.

And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.

“I love you.”

You stop, and furrow your brow.

“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”

Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”

“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”

You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.

Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.

“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.

“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.

He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”

-

Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.

Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.

“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.

“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”

He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.

“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”

“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”

There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…

-

“I love you.”

The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.

You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.

“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.

You shift, and he goes very, very still.

“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.

“…Hi.”

“You just said you loved me.”

“I…thought you were sleeping.”

You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.

“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”

He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.

“Andrew?”

“…a while.”

You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”

His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”

“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”

-

A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.

“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”

“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.

But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.

“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”

You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.

Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.

“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.

“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”

You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…

-

When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.

You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.

Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.

“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.

He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.

“I thought…I thought you were-“

“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”

He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“

“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”

“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.

“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”

“Since I first met you.”

“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”

“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”

“Never found a perfect time.”

“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”

He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”

Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”

“I’m glad I did it.”

“I know.”

And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.

“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.

“When the drugs wear off.”

You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”

“When they say you can.”

Hm. “Can we have sex?”

He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”

“I like where this is going.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“Keep talkin’, Cody.”

“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”

“Take me now.”

The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”

-

You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.

He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.

It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.

But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.

A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.

His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.

“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”

He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-

And pulling back.

You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.

“I have another idea.”

“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”

His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…

And pulls out a ring.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.

You grin. He grins back.

“You make a compelling argument.”

He kisses you, and you kiss him back.

PRIOR 

It will be a simple mission. No undercover needed. It won’t even take a day. Get in, get out. All things Fury and Steve had both said in response to your disagreement of No. This is a bad idea. Send someone else. 

Or rather, just send him. They were right after all, in theory, it was a simple mission. Just east of the Sakha Republic, in a rural little snow covered town. It wasn’t like it was a rescue mission. There were no hostages. Hell, there weren't really any hostiles. Just information kept on a small drive in the backroom of a bunker, put there with the idea that no one would think to even look in the small, barely inhabited town. It was famous for its record low temperatures, and therefore not a place people chose to necessarily “settle down” in. Not unless their family was native, not unless they were used to the climate from generations of acclimating. 

Which meant the drive was not heavily guarded. Why would it be? Who would have thought to look there? Only someone who had been there before. Someone trained by the same organization to be one of the most lethal tracking agents in all the seven continents. Someone who had leaned against the wall in the corner of the room when Steve gave you the mission file and your orders to stick together. 

The same man who said nothing when you tried to reason with Steve, and then again with Fury. When you turned your head to see if he’d chime in, tell them how ludicrous this is, he had his head turned to stare at the door with that unfeeling expression. Like all he wanted to do was leave. 

Orders are final. Fury had said while stamping the file and sliding it across the desk. Stick together. This isn’t a mission where you split up to cover ground. Get in, get out. 

And so you turned, following Bucky Barnes out the door with the file in hand. 

₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · ·

PRESENT

Turns out getting in and getting out wouldn’t be a problem. No, you would find that went just fine. Smooth as can be. Aside from the usual bickering. 

“Cover me.” He whispered when you both turned the last corner, guns raised just in case. You hadn’t needed to pull the trigger once. 

“What? No. You cover me.” You scoffed as though it were obvious. It wasn’t that you weren’t capable, but you were considerably newer at this than him. Didn’t it make sense for the man practically dressed in weapons to do the covering?

“No. I’ll retrieve it, you stand watch.” His voice turned cold as you both approached the door. 

“That doesn’t make any sense!” You take focus off your gun to raise your hands in confusion. 

But his head snaps towards you with reflexes that can only be credited to the serum in his veins, one hand snapping over your mouth and the other grabbing your wrist to return the gun's aim down the hall. His eyes were cold enough to rival the tundra outside when the unspoken words passed between you: keep it down.

You watched him pull in a slow breath, his eyes dropping to where his gloved hand rested over your mouth. A second later, he dropped it and the hand around your wrist once he knew your focus was back on the hall. 

“It makes sense because I know this place,” he drops his tone low to match the whisper, “I can find it quicker and most likely be back before you even need backup.” 

You open your mouth to retort, only to close it again. Damnit, he was right. You had watched him lead you through these halls like he knew them personally, and you supposed he did. It briefly made you wonder what else happened in this bunker, what other memories these walls held for him. 

You didn’t respond, instead clenching your jaw and turning your back to the doorway to watch the hall in front of you. He must have understood that to be an agreement, because then he was sneaking into the room and disappearing in the dark. 

Replaying the conversation brought you back to why you disagreed with the mission assignment in the first place. You knew Steve saw the dynamic between you two, because everyone did. It was hard not to when you seemed to be the only person on the entire team that Bucky could not stand to be in the same room with. 

It hadn’t always been like this. When Natasha recruited you, the team was welcoming. Your degree in biomedical engineering gave you much to talk about with both Banner and Stark, although you discovered quickly you still had a lot to learn. You hadn’t had much time to go further into the career after college, when you lost your adopted parents suddenly. You had turned to every physical outlet possible to handle the grief–the anger–and that’s how Natasha found you. Lying on your back at midnight in the middle of a sparring mat at the local gym. She gave you an offer that sounded like exactly what you were looking for. 

You hadn’t always been great at making friends, but it didn’t matter much. Sam was so outgoing, you barely had to talk half the time. Tony took pride in teaching you and Peter what he knew. Banner shared your love for comfortable silences. Natasha and Steve took over training, and Wanda quickly became one of your closest friends. Turns out you both needed a good friend, someone to talk to about lighter, kinder things. Someone to remind you that girlhood was a necessity.

Bucky… was fine at first. You picked up on his quiet nature, noticing he really only became talkative with Sam. That was fine, you knew it wasn’t personal. 

Until one day, a few months in, when everyone had a down day for once. Wanda had asked if you wanted to visit the city with her, mumbling something about finding something to wear out with Vis. You planned a whole day around it, did your hair up in your favorite blown out curls and everything. You needed a girls day.

You had entered the common room, humming a Sinatra song you hadn’t been able to get out of your head. You had greeted everyone like usual, excited to be out of uniform and planning to leave the tower for something other than a mission. 

But the atmosphere changed when you met his eyes, or rather his snapped to yours. You watched in confusion as his eyes swept down over your knee-length dress to your Mary Jane’s. Something almost stricken passed over his face, but it was gone the next second. Then he cleared his throat, mumbled something under his breath, and left the room with tension across his shoulders. 

You looked skeptically down at your a-line skirt, red with white polka dots, that hugged high on your waist and flowed at the knees. Then, you turned to everyone else, and asked “Did I do something?” 

But everyone shook their heads, apart from Steve, who looked to the door he left through with an expression of contemplation. And that’s how it was from that point on. Intentional avoidance. He left rooms so abruptly you found yourself asking Thor if you smelled or something. He basically refused to train with you, always having some sort of excuse. The only time he didn’t find somewhere else to be were mission briefings, where he stuck to the wall. Those didn’t seem much different except that he visibly disliked being put on the same team, and he would often argue your role on the mission if there was any level of danger to it. As if you weren’t capable. 

That’s when you started speaking up, and that’s when it started getting ugly. He was shocked the first time you asked: “What the hell is your problem?” But only for a brief second before his eyes turned cold and he snapped, “I’d rather not have a liability on a mission I’m supervising.” 

The sad part was, you respected him. You knew his story. Hell, you were required to write papers over your hypotheses on the engineering design behind the metal arm in college. You knew how far he’d come when you saw his ability to joke with Sam, smile with Steve… but not you. No, you were a problem, apparently. 

The sound of your name snaps you out of whatever headspace you found yourself in, watching metal fingers snap together in front of your line of sight. You blinked several times, backing away from the hand and turning a glare to the man in question. 

“Were you even paying attention?” He looked astonished, unbelieving.

“Yes.” No. You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment, but narrowed your eyes at him all the same. Daring him to question you. 

He stood straighter, looking down his nose at you in some form of a staring contest you didn’t remember signing up for. He was good at it, so good you looked away with a sneer. You refused to look back, not wanting to see the smirk you no doubt heard in his voice when he said: “Let's go.” It was as easy getting out as it was getting in. Retracing steps, evading guards at the front doors, and you set off back into the treeline to the jet. 

Which is exactly what you did not account for. The jet. 

Mind you, this was Stark designs you were working with. These jets survived situations many would think incapable. But where you were, the temperature had the ability to reach a negative sixty eight degree celsius (-90 F). It was already hard to keep yourselves warm, and partly why you were glad there were no hostiles around. The layers under your snow-colored gear were harder to move in than you were used to.

“It’s not starting.” Bucky sighed after the third time turning the engine. 

“It has to start.” You said behind him, more to yourself than anyone else, trying to will it into reality. You didn’t listen as he grumbled something else, coming to stand beside him, “Scoot.” 

“I doubt it’s going to behave any differently for you.” He didn’t budge. 

Fine then. 

You crouched next to him, hearing a sharp intake of breath as you crawled under the dash. Putting yourself right between his knees. 

“You could have just–” he made a frustrated noise and stood back several feet. You didn’t turn to look at him, just shaking your head as you worked on removing the dash panel. It came off after you found the tabs holding it in place. 

“What? Been that long since a woman came near you?” You found him standing behind you, watching you work with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Honestly, you had a hard time believing what you had said when you were reminded of what he looked like. Even in layers, the mere span of his shoulders and biceps was obvious. He’d shed his jacket when entering the jet, and you wondered if the serum gave him better temperature regulation. 

His eyes narrowed, watching you set the panel down, “Been so long since a man's been near you that you don’t understand personal space?”

Okay, ouch, but fair. 

“I asked you to move,” You responded in a sing-song voice, turning your attention to the cables and wires under the dash. You didn’t want him to see on your face that yeah, it had been a long time. You hadn’t bothered with any sort of dating in college, too busy, too focused. Then after, when the accident happened and the grief took over? It wasn’t even a thought on your mind. You had no hunger for it. It was only this past year that you found yourself discovering that you could still… feel that for another person. 

You especially didn’t like that the grumpy cyborg behind you had helped with that epiphany. 

“And you could have explained why before you practically bent over in front–”

“I did not bend over!” You cut him off with a shout, keeping your eyes on the wires. “I crouched!”

“Well you might as well have–”

“Has it really been that long that you’ve forgotten–OW!” You hadn’t expected the wires to still be circulating electricity, so you hadn’t exercised much caution when inspecting them. You pulled your electrocuted finger back, popping it into your mouth on instinct because it burned. “Fuck–” you mumbled around it.

Bucky was crouched beside you the minute he saw the spark, forgetting the argument entirely. He brought a hand up to your wrist, prying the finger out of your mouth. 

“Hey!” You tried to scoot back, finding the pilot seat behind you, “Now who doesn’t know personal space!” 

“Shut up and let me check it.” He yanked on your wrist, using merely an ounce of that superhuman strength. 

“It’s just a burn.” You grumbled, looking from your pointer finger to him as he assessed. When he discovered it was, indeed, just a small burn on the tip of your finger, he eased his grip and moved his eyes to the wires. 

“Why’d it do that?” His voice rasped, like he didn’t like that this wasn’t something he knew. 

Yeah, suck it Barnes. Tracking skills can’t help you with this. 

Small victories. 

You cleared your throat, pulling your hand away to stabilize yourself since the shock had thrown you off balance. You followed his eyes to the wires, explaining, “The internal mechanisms must still be functional, it’s the external bits that are frozen over. Meaning energy is circulating, hence the shock, but it’s too cold for the ship to respond to it.” 

Bucky nodded, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he processed what you were saying. Then he stood, moving before you found yourself eye-level with his thighs. You noticed a burning sensation in your chest at the action, as if part of you was displeased that he turned away so quickly. You quite literally swallowed it down, pushing it as far away as possible. Not even noticing that through the struggle, you were staring. 

Until you heard a huff, your eyes snapping up from his thighs to where his brow was raised and his mouth was tilted into a smirk. He looked down at you, still on your knees, as if he had caught you. Damnit. 

After a second, you noticed him waving his phone by his ear, “I’m gonna call Steve, see if he or Stark have a plan for this kinda thing.” He explained before walking off into the back of the ship, phone pressed to his ear. 

Your brows furrowed because, why did he need privacy to call Steve? 

You rose, looking between the dash and the door he disappeared through. It wouldn’t be professional to eavesdrop but… then again, you didn’t really give a fuck. 

You kept your steps light as you walked over, feeling the constant chill in the air that you’ve felt since you landed. Your hairs have been on end this entire time, goosebumps rising under the layers of thermal gear. 

You stay on the outside of the door, knowing he will hear you if you go any closer. With a hand over your mouth and nose to cover your breathing, you lean closer to the door. 

“There’s gotta be a quicker way out of this…” he sounded frustrated–no, aggravated. Beyond. 

“It’s negative fifty degrees, she’s not built for this and even I haven’t adapted yet.” 

It wasn’t often you heard him complain about comfort, you weren’t sure he thought much of it after decades in captivity. But he was right, you weren’t built for this. Him being right twice in one mission was not a statistic you were interested in. 

“Don’t leave me like this, man…” his voice caught you off guard, made something in your chest give. He sounded almost defeated. A small moment of stretched silence before he continued lowly, “stranded...with her.”

With her. 

With her? 

You stepped back, face twisted so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if it stayed like that. That interaction, his tone, the idea that he was almost distraught at being stuck with you. So much that he called not only his best friend, but his captain. 

Thoughts raced through your head of the past year and a half you’ve spent with the team. You wished you could go back to every single moment, every possible word you exchanged with the Winter Soldier. Anything that would tell you what the hell you did. You hadn’t disliked him until he started treating you like a plague. In fact, the opposite. 

Last time you dated, when you were much younger, you didn’t care much for muscles or facial hair. You thought your type would stay the same forever: lean, charismatic business types. But after a nine year break where you barely noticed men, you would find out you were wrong. There was something magnetic about a man broad enough that you know he’d throw you over his shoulder without a bit of struggle, and yet he was still so gentle, so soft-spoken. Until he wasn’t. Until he found something lacking in you. 

You had paced several meters from the door when it finally opened, his phone call apparently being over. You turned, meeting his eyes with a blank expression. He was leaned against the doorway, his arms crossing over his chest. 

“Steve says Tony is working on sending another jet, but since we’re so far out…” he looked away, like the words physically pained him, “it’ll most likely be tomorrow.” 

Tomorrow. 

When his eyes turned back to you, you kept that calm expression and nodded, “Okay.” 

His brows rose immediately, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard, “Okay? That's it?” 

You shrugged, biting your lip and surveying the ship. “Should we try to head into town?” You asked.

He still didn’t look like he believed that was all you had to say, “No. Hydra will have discovered its files are missing by now, the town is too small to not be spotted.” 

Right. 

Another nod from you, then in the most business-like tone, “We’re going to need to check for supples… see if we have any MREs.” Not to mention blankets. The sun was still up, probably for the next few hours, meaning the temperature was bound to drop more. It was only going to get colder, and you were already trying to hide the shivering behind clenched teeth.

Bucky only pushed off the doorway, planting his feet wide with that stare. Like he was looking into you, eyes narrowed like you were a language he was trying to learn.

“What’s wrong?” Came abruptly, drawled in that Brooklyn accent. 

The mere question made you blink in shock, taken aback. But you only allowed another shrug and, “Nothing.” Because what were you supposed to do? Demand he tell you what you did to make him hate you so much? Listen to the first man you’ve been attracted to in years list your faults one by one? You had at least a night together, maybe more; you were cold enough that stretching your fingers was a feat; and defending yourself didn’t sound like the best use of energy. 

When you didn’t get an immediate response, you turned to find the jet’s storage unit. You only got a few steps before you felt a hand wrap around your upper arm. You were gently tugged to a stop, turning to find his eyes already on yours. This time there was a different look in them, closer to concern if you didn’t know better. 

He opened his mouth to say something, maybe searching for a reaction from you. But then you watched as he faltered, eyes dropping down to where his flesh hand wrapped around your jacket. His grip tightened for a second, testing, before loosening. 

“You’re freezing.” He said as if it were a shock, and not a probable scenario with your surroundings. Except that you could feel him through the many layers, much like he could you, and he was considerably warmer. Your hypothesis about the serum enhancing his homeostatic balance in terms of temperature was panning out. 

“‘m fine.” You mumbled, pulling away only to be met with resistance when he held strong. You pulled in a slow breath, “Bucky–” “That’s it?” He said again, eyes flickering between yours, “No complaint, no insult?”

You searched for anything to say because, yeah, you were tempted to throw something at him about the situation. You were tempted to scream, to challenge him to a spar just to get the energy out. After a minute, you found you were tempted to cry. 

He must have seen something pass over your face, because he studied you for a few more moments before his face fell back into that blank expression. It wasn’t as blank as the soldier, who you’d only seen in pictures from news articles and files, but it was still impressive how he could just… turn off. His eyes moved over your head before he dropped your arm completely and brushed past you. 

You resisted a roll of your eyes when he didn’t even say what he was doing, turning and following him back into the storage compartment. You had planned on going back there anyway in search of extra clothes. Figured he’d be busy searching for food for the night, since the cold clearly didn’t bother him as much. He moved fluidly, you felt stiff. 

So it was a surprise when you turned the corner and found him reaching through tubs and totes, pulling out blankets and seeming to assess them. You watched him frown, dissatisfied with the ratty pieces of cloth he was finding. This jet was SHIELD's before the Avengers took over, you didn’t expect to find much. 

“Thought you weren’t cold,” you kept your voice low, trying not to sound accusatory. Maybe he was cold; you had just made an assumption based on his shock at finding you freezing. 

He didn’t miss a beat when he said, “I’m not,” and then held a blanket up to test its length. It dropped from just below his chest, where his arms held it, to where it brushed the floor just so. He turned suddenly, looking between you and the blanket. After a moment, he cocked his head and set it down away from the ones he deemed disappointing. 

Your eyes widened, was he…? 

“Why don’t you go check the nook for any MREs?”  He cut off your thinking, already turning to go through the next tote.

“I…” it was your turn to look confused. He was just on the phone with Steve, sounding like being near you was a life-or-death scenario, and now he was sorting blankets when he wasn’t even shivering? 

As you backed away, you made the distinct decision that the cold must be getting to you. Something wasn’t adding up, unless you just didn’t understand some aspect of superhuman nature. 

You pulled your scarf up over your nose as you walked to the nook, the power was out there as well. The whole reason it wasn’t as cold as it was outside was because the jet was so well sealed off, designed not to be affected by any external stimulus. But this room had an external wall, and you could definitely feel the drop in temperature. You pulled your gloves back out from your pockets, slipping them on as you searched through cabinets.

A half hour later, you had searched through all that you could find and came back almost empty handed. You knew they had given you a backup ship because it was supposed to be simple, in and out, you were never supposed to need any supplies besides your gear. But still, it was frustrating walking back to the main deck with only one MRE in hand. You expected a fight over it, maybe him to say you hadn’t looked hard enough, that you were just trying to make things harder. 

What you didn’t expect was to find Bucky walking out of the storage compartment, wearing new clothes and carrying more in his arms. The ones he found fit snug over his thermal layers: grey sweatpants and a dark blue hoodie. You didn’t like that they looked good. 

He stopped when he saw you, holding the one MRE in your hand, “That all that was back there?” 

You bit your lip, glancing down at the meal, “Yeah, turns out they don’t stock this ship regularly.” 

He only shrugged, “This isn’t one of the mains.” He didn’t look mad, just as frustrated by the entire situation as you. The air was starting to feel denser, a small glance showing you that the sun was setting faster than you had thought.

“You changed.” The words were really just to fill the silence you felt creeping in. An observation that seemed to remind him what he was doing. 

“Yeah,” he stepped forward, holding up two more pairs of pants and another thermal shirt with a hoodie, “You need more layers, especially for nightfall.”

You looked down at the clothes, none looked particularly clean. You didn’t like the idea of wearing someone else’s clothes either. 

He must not have liked the hesitation, because then he was grabbing the MRE and shoving the clothes toward you, “It’s this or hypothermia. You choose, doesn’t affect me either way.” He growled. 

And there it was. 

You took the clothes with nothing but an, “I’m aware,” as you stalked off to change.

Nightfall did indeed come quickly, as apparently it does in the north. After you changed, you did your best to keep busy. You tried every panel under the dash despite knowing it probably wouldn’t do anything, you were just grateful for a distraction from the cold creeping into your bones. You listened to the sharp clicks of Bucky sitting in the back of the deck, sharpening his knives and checking his gear. It was quiet, which would be nice if it didn’t feel… charged. 

The thing about the bionic staring machine, was that you could feel it. When his eyes moved from his guns up to where you were kneeling under the control module, the hairs on your neck would quite literally stand on end. It happened a lot. You weren’t sure if he was checking that you hadn’t frozen over, or just silently cursing your name. 

By the third hour in, you couldn’t sit still. It was cold, too cold. Colder than anyone should ever be able to handle. The cold wasn’t just in your bones, it was licking up your spine. Bucky had gotten up at some point and searched for even more layers, cornering you until you quit your pacing. 

You hate how his hand on your shoulder felt like heaven, like you had been living in this cold all along and there he was inviting you into warmth and shelter. You pulled away. 

“You need more,” he held up the long-sleeve shirt, eyes piercing yours in a way that did not invite argument. 

You weren’t even sure what you mumbled before taking it and adding it to the layers under the hoodie. 

When you reemerged that time, he was making a cot. All you wanted to do was keep pacing.

“Bucky–”

“Don’t.” You could tell he was way past pretenses, mere seconds away from dragging you, when he latched onto your wrist. His tug was gentle as you led yourself to the blankets, but you got the idea behind his fingers curling into your gloves. You sat, and watched him methodologically position the blankets around you. Not even blinking when he wrapped his hands around your ankles and prompted you to pull your knees to your chest, he then tucked the blankets until they were so tight you couldn’t move. 

“Thought it didn’t affect you either–”

“Shut up.” He cut off your slurred words, knowing exactly where you were headed. He didn’t meet your eyes the entire time, but there was something frenzied in his movements that you didn't attribute with the soldier or sergeant. 

He left briefly, or maybe it was longer, you weren’t sure. You were tired, your eyes felt heavy. You didn’t even realize as you began to nod off—

“Nuh uh,” suddenly he was in front of you again, kneeling down and using his teeth the pry open the MRE. 

You groaned, shaking your head and pulling away, “No–” 

He cut you off with your name, but you kept shaking your head incessantly. 

“You’re bigger,” you reasoned, not wanting to give him another item on his list of issues with you, “you need it–”

“You need the energy,” he focused his hands on assembling the rations, “Digestion generates internal heat, and we need to keep your body temperature up.” 

You knew that, you’d probably remember going over it in college if thinking weren’t so difficult at the moment. Still, you slurred through chattering teeth, “But you–”

“I’m enhanced, doll,” his voice was gentler this time, “I can go longer without nutrients, and I adapt quicker to drastic temperatures.” Then his hand came up, prompting you to raise your chin. 

You found yourself trying to wriggle out of the blankets, bringing your hands up before he stopped you. His metal hand closing over where the blankets overlapped, a disapproving hum that only added to the confusion fogging your mind. You must have made some sort of noise to match the feeling, because he was shushing you next. Then, in an action that cemented the idea that the cold had you delusional, he lifted the spoon up to your mouth. 

Your eyes widened, piecing together what was happening. This man, who you could still hear complaining about your company in the back of your mind, was now… dotting on you? Waiting expectantly with a spoonful of noodles and broth for you to open your mouth. 

An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in your chest, along with that same inviting warmth. It was kind in a way you hadn’t expected from him, nor from anyone in the past half decade at least. Since you became an adult, and more so after losing your parents, it was you and only you. You took care of you. Even when you were sick, you didn’t expect anyone to look after you like the romcoms raised you to believe. No one else was needed.

But even through the brain fog and heavy eye-lids, you weren’t too stubborn to admit that now? You needed someone else.

The broth was warm, at least warmer than you were. You welcomed the taste, and from there didn’t once resist when he held out the spoon expectantly. He didn’t say anything more, didn’t comment on the possibility of the situation being awkward. No, he made it seem almost natural. His eyes moved over your face as you ate, checking to make sure you’re still with him with open concern. 

Only after you finished and looked slightly more comfortable did Bucky hesitate before standing, like he wasn’t sure about putting distance between you with you like this. It seemed like he was the one who couldn’t sit this time, his shoulders raising with tension. You buried your nose in the blankets and watched as he looked out the front dash at the night sky. It was well past the middle of the night now, the temperature probably reaching its lowest. If you could both hold out the next several hours, the temperature would slowly start rising again. If only just. 

You felt warmth in your stomach from the broth spreading through your middle, but it didn’t stop the chattering of your teeth. You pulled in ragged breaths, watching the air thicken when you exhaled. You found yourself entranced by watching it happen again and again, like a slow type of hypnosis…

“Okay, come here.”

His voice snapped you out of it, turning your attention back to the man pacing the length of the upper deck. You didn’t even have it in you to ask what this time, just watched as he marched over and dropped fully onto the floor next to you. He carefully, but quickly, started pulling the blankets apart until you were back down to your hoodie, then he pulled his over his head. “What are you doing?” Your voice took on a higher pitch as he moved the hoodie over your head instead. 

“Trying to keep you alive, you’re losing color.” Bucky grunted, pulling the larger hoodie over yours. 

“Are you not…?”

He was quiet for a moment, contemplating before, “I lived in this kind of temperature for seventy years. I adapted.” 

You weren’t sure what to say to that. You didn’t have time anyways, because the next thing you knew, he was pulling you away from the wall you were propped against. Then he stood, only to move into that space behind you. 

He must have seen the look on your face when he took your shoulders to pull you back against his chest, because he said, “Humor me,” in a low rasp that stripped you of your defenses. Especially with that same warmth, that was so much more comforting than the soup and noodles. You were melting into him without a conscious thought to the reaction, your cheek hitting the fabric of his thermal shirt while he pulled the blankets around you. You’d feel ashamed in any other situation, but with that smell that was so distinctly him you couldn’t find an ounce of it anywhere. 

His slow exhale of relief encouraged that relaxation you felt. Then he was arranging you in his lap, his legs on either side of you as he turned you so more of your body was pressed to his. The ability to feel him through the layers was tribute to how cold you were, or how warm he was able to remain. 

You could have moaned when he brought his right hand up, pulling the hood tight over your head before settling on your cheek. Or maybe you did, judging by the way his breath hitched. But he kept it there, rubbing warmth into your cheek while his left arm bracketed your back. 

What caught you off guard most was when his hand drifted down to the neck of your hoodies, slipping inside only to rest against the slope of your shoulder, his thumb brushing over your pulse. You had half a mind to ask what the hell, but then his chin came to rest on top of your head. And as your pulse beat against his thumb, you could feel the tension melt from his posture. 

You decided at that moment that maybe you had been missing out, if this was what it was like to be held by a man. Even with this man who you had thought would like to throw you off the tower's helipad several times, you suddenly had no doubt that you were safer right here than you could have been anywhere else. This time, instead of the brain fog, you found your eyes closing for an entirely different reason. But you still had one question… 

“…Why?” 

You were asleep before you could hear his response. 

₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · ·

The morning was still frigid, but considerably warmer than the night. So much so that when you woke, still curled into his chest and listening to the sound of his heart beating in time with yours, something told you it was time to move. Though your bones did not want to yet. There was an ache in your stomach that felt a lot like indignation at the idea of prying yourself from Bucky. But it was warm enough that the seven layers you now had would allow you to move. The sun was out too, giving you the chance to inspect the ship with more light. 

The other reason was, well, you appreciated what he did the night before. You were quite literally to the point of not feeling your limbs before he bundled you in more clothes and blankets, offering you food and shelter. It was so unlike him, except it wasn’t. It was exactly like the man Steve described to you in stories. The one that took him in when he was at his worst, that stood between him and everyone who tried to tell him what he couldn’t be. But you knew how he felt about you specifically. You didn’t want to push the hospitality he gave… didn’t want to overstay your welcome. 

So, even when a voice in the back of your head, one more tender and delicate than you’d heard from yourself in years, piped up with Stay. It’s safe here, you forced yourself away. You carefully untangled from the blankets, not wanting to wake him yet. Once you were standing, you turned back around to adjust the blankets so they would remain over his chest and arms. 

You paused when your eyes caught him, still asleep and more relaxed than you’d ever seen. No furrow between his eyes, no indent below his cheekbone from where he would grind his teeth; just a dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose from where the cold had seeped in just a little. His mouth rested, so unlike the sneer usually reserved for you. Something about it made you want to run your thumb over his bottom lip and–

You stood, took several steps back.

That indignation in your belly turned into something akin to longing. You forced a breath through your nose, pushed the feeling down and away. Then you, too, turned away. You didn’t know when Stark would be able to get a team out here, might as well find something to keep yourself busy. 

You bit hard down on your lip under your scarf, tasting copper as you turned the flat screwdriver. 

One more time.

You wedged it into the space between the stereo and where it was mounted on the interior wall, trying to find the right angle to…

Little more to the left.

Angle, and–

Music burst from the speaker, jumbled and incoherent as it wasn’t tuned to the channels, but music nonetheless. You laughed in pride that your hypothesis about the stereo being isolated enough from the elements to work with a few… adjustments, was correct. You moved your scarf and dropped the screwdriver between your teeth, balancing on a chair as you messed around with different buttons, searching for the antenna system. 

Rock… country… rap… pop…

“What are you doing?”

His voice was brusque, almost impatient, and you jumped at the intrusion. You hadn’t even heard him approaching. 

You turned from the radio, finding him standing in the doorway with that usual wide-leg, crossed arms posture. His face was set in something strict, as if he had just woken up and remembered where he was. 

You removed the screwdriver and cleared your throat, brushing off his tone, “Trying to get us some music… maybe we won’t be bored to death.” 

Something passed over his eyes, they became wide and cautious as he stepped forward. “We don’t need music,” he said. 

You only scoffed, turning back to mess with the radio some more, it was on some heavy metal station now. “What do you mean? I thought you liked music?” Sam had said so at least. 

You knew you liked similar music, so you didn’t really see the issue. You had always loved music from the 40 and 50s specifically. When you were very young, your parents had found your biological grandmother. They said they wanted you to know some of where you came from, and she was more than grateful for them reaching out. Your best memories were listening to her sing Eta James, or dancing to Bill Crosby over the radio. You carried it with you after she passed, along with anything she shared about her childhood. 

“We have better things to be doing.” He reasoned, but it sounded more like an excuse to you. You weren’t about to let his gruff attitude ruin you trying to find a little entertainment. 

You disguised the jab with a lighthearted tone, “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the deck,” another jab at the stereo system, “You said we can’t go into town. So, no. We really don’t have better things to do.”

He growled your name, but it was too late. 

The music cut out for several worrisome moments before the stunning voice of Ella Fitzgerald came through as the station leveled out. You gasped in delight, jumping off the chair and stepping back as if you could see the music notes filtering out of the speakers. 

You felt like jumping up and down, spinning to the rhythm of dream a little dream of me. Something about it made the cold just that much more tolerable. It brought back memories of stories your grandma told you. You would come to learn your biological parents had been from New York, and so had she. She would take you and your mom and dad to coney island, tell you all her stories from there, then you’d sing something like this on the way home. She’d let you go through all her big hats that her mother had passed down, and her mary janes.

You did end up spinning in a slow circle, singing along–

Until the music stopped completely.

You froze, turning to find the stereo completely disconnected from the wall. When you followed the sparking wires as they fizzled out, you found a metal hand clenched tight, then two blue eyes set on you. 

Your mouth opened in shock, all he did was stare you down. Still in just his thermal layers, you noticed the tension that melted last night was back in full force. That divot in his jaw appeared along with the strain around his eyes. You’d think someone had kicked his cat for how offended he looked. It almost forced you a step back, almost, except this was the man you knew. This was the man you were sure fantasized about throwing you off roofs. You knew this man.

But weren’t you doing a nice thing? You didn’t understand. You had heard Sam tease him for not knowing modern classics, and heard him mumble about how much he liked listening to music that reminded him of home. 40s music. So, what had you done wrong? 

You expected him to speak, to say something. But then he dropped the stereo, let it fall to the ground, and turned his eyes away from you. With a look that must have been all soldier, he turned for the door. 

But as you stood there and stared at the radio that had been ripped from the wall, hearing it glitch as the room fell into inevitable silence, you found that the action had hurt you. More than it probably should have. Or maybe it was all the actions up to this point: the obviously insincere kindness from last night mixing with this moment. You didn’t care anymore about being nice. About being civil. Not about the phone call or the mission briefing or any of it. 

You turned to him with a fire in your throat, “What the hell is wrong with you?!” You shouted at his back. You had to admit it felt good to give the frustration somewhere to go. 

You saw him freeze in the doorway, practically watched the cyborg gears turning in his head. They must have short circuited, because then he was turning back and curling his lip in a way you were all too familiar with. But that was okay, you could work with this. This wasn’t the uncomfortable feeling you got from being cared for. 

It didn’t exactly give you that same warmth either, but you told yourself you didn’t need it.

 “Excuse me?” it was deadly, the tone he used. You were sure it made many targets roll over and show their bellies, not you. 

“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” you took a step forward, motioning back to the broken radio, “What the fuck kind of problem could you possibly have with the radio?” 

“You know damn well I don’t have a goddamn problem with the radio,” he snarled, matching your step forward, “my problem is you. Always has been.” 

You could have acted shocked. You weren’t, you were almost relieved. Let him tell you. Let him remind you that pining after him was useless. Let him remind you that you hate him, and he hates you, and you’ve never needed anyone. Never will. 

“Yeah, I got that. ‘You ever going to tell me why?” You shout back, another step forward.

“Because you go and do shit like this!” 

“Like what?! Try to give us something to do while we’re stuck here? Put on music we both like–”

“You remind me of the 40s!”

His snarl cut through the room, loud and rasped, and you flinched back from the shock of the words. The room fell into silence. You were close now, maybe no more than a foot of space between you, chests heaving from how quickly you got worked up. Your face twisted in skepticism. What could that possibly have to do with anything? What did it even mean in the first place? 

You didn’t have to ask, because he was leaning closer the next second. You were reminded once more of how his eyes rivaled the tundra. 

“Do you know how infuriating it is to be constantly reminded of a home that no longer exists? To do the work, to become comfortable in modern times when the world has completely changed and your mind is still in another century, only to learn that none of it matters–”

“What are you–”

“Uh-uh,” he held up a finger to you, “none of it matters because here comes my little teammate wanting to play dress-up. Wanting to pretend she’s different because she knows Sinatra, or because The Shop Around the Corner is her favorite movie! Listen to me, it doesn’t matter. You know nothing. You’re a little girl biting off more than she can chew with this team because you had no where else to go, and then you had to go walking around in your polka dot–” 

You didn’t think before your hand flew out, all you knew was that you wanted him to shut up. You were done listening, done letting him pretend he knew anything. 

The slap rang out across the space, his head snapping to the side probably out of shock more than actual force. You were somewhat shocked too, it wasn’t like you to resort to that kind of thing outside the sparring ring or field. You didn’t like it. You had been raised to talk it out, not to resort to fists unless they started it first.

Yet when his eyes came back to yours, that typically cold blue now blazing, you found you didn’t really care when your hands planted on his chest and shoved. Hard. He barely moved. 

“You–” it was your turn to point a finger, “are a piece of shit, James Barnes. You don’t know anything about me or who I am–”

“Ya’ seem pretty easy to read to me.” He snapped, his Brooklyn accent thicker in the midst of his anger. 

“Well, news flash!” You mocked, “You know fuck-all! And honestly? I don’t believe that’s the entire reason. You like being reminded of your home, I’ve seen you!” 

“I’m allowed to!” He turned it on you, “You don’t get to take something you know nothing about and pretend–” 

“I’m not pretending! Why would I be?” You scoffed, “It was passed down to me by the only grandparent I had left, you asshole!” 

“Exactly, I–” He stopped short and looked down at you, then at the lack of space between you two. You were tempted to drop your eyes under the scrutiny, but you didn’t, you chose to watch as several emotions passed by his eyes.

It looked like he was about to speak again when the crew door opened suddenly, the cold outside air wafting in. The conversation was immediately dropped when potential danger was sensed. You both turned, legs wide, and reached for your guns. 

But it was only Sam and Natasha, standing just below the jet with expectant looks. 

“Heard you two needed a rescue,” She called up to the deck, your heart just about burst. 

“Better late than never, aye, tin man?” Sam jogged up, clasping Bucky over the shoulder while you grabbed your bag and walked past both of them. 

“Thank god,” you mumbled as you reached Natasha. 

She looked you over, then above your shoulder to where Bucky stood behind you, “That bad, huh?” she asked after noting that neither of you were injured.

You sighed, “Consider it a miracle we didn’t kill each other.” 

You didn’t bother to tell her that last night would have made a completely different story, and that you honestly felt whiplashed at the back and forth. No, you just followed her to the Quinjet. Sam and Bucky entered behind you, but you didn’t pay attention. Only returning a smile to Sam’s teasing before finding a spot in the back of the ship beside a window. You didn’t bother making small talk the rest of the flight. 

When the jet landed, you were the first one off. Throwing your duffel bag over your shoulder and not even looking back. The climate here was better, meaning you needed out of your six layers, one was discarded in the jet, now. You brushed past Steve and Tony, which would have felt a little rude if their expressions didn’t look like they expected it. Everyone knew the two of you couldn’t get along, and yet the look on Steve’s face was almost devastated. You almost wanted to ask why he looked like someone had crushed his hopes and dreams, but honestly, you were already done for the day. 

The only person you saw for the rest of the day was Wanda, who had stopped by after you had gotten cleaned up. She must have sensed you needed a debrief, because she just listened while you paced and ran your hands through your hair and called him every name under the sun. You appreciated that she heard you, that you felt seen.  What you did not appreciate was what came after. When you groaned that you hated him and she cocked her head at you from her spot on the bed, “Are you sure?” 

You stopped, dropping your hands and turning to her with a face that said: have you not been paying attention? 

She shrugged, “It’s just… I’ve seen how you look when you dislike someone, and you’re not the combative type. This energy is… intense,” she looked at you as if she could literally see said energy, “I just wonder if there’s something more…” 

You huffed, “There isn’t.” You would speak it into existence if you had to. Or, more correctly, out of existence.

Wanda just hummed, slowly nodding, like she was piecing observations together. Then she concluded with, “You just seem riled up.” 

“I’m just frustrated by the entire situation. I mean, he accused me of playing dress-up, who does that?” You forced yourself to shake off the memory, because replaying it only aggravated you more. 

“Maybe you need a distraction?” 

“I don’t feel like going to the gym right now…”

“I didn’t mean the gym,” Wanda stood from her perch, walking to your wardrobe and shifting through the hangers. You turned, watching with a furrowed brow before she found what she was looking for. Then she turned to you, holding a hanger with a frilly, white beaded dress. It was one of your favorites because it looked just like something you had seen in photographs of your grandmother and great grandmother. 

But you weren’t sure what she was getting at now, “Wanda…”

“You need a break,” She closed your wardrobe and hung the dress on the outside of it, “Maybe not today, but tomorrow? Several of us were assigned to missions this morning, so the tower will be mostly empty.” She turned back to you, something conflicting in her expression as she placed her hands on your shoulders, “Go do something you enjoy. Wear your dress, listen to as much Sinatra and Armstrong as you want, and ignore him.’’ 

She left not long after, and you sat in bed staring at the dress where it hung. She was right, you should just ignore him. He had no right to get under your skin, and you were ashamed that you let him. Except you would rather hang onto the anger than what happened when you laid down for bed that night. When your cheek hit the pillow, suddenly you were back in that jetship in the middle of the night, except the cold wasn’t in your bones this time. The pillow very quickly became the hard muscle of his chest, your blankets feeling like the protection of his arms if you didn’t know better. Even his scent was ingrained in your memory. 

You forced yourself awake every time it happened, pushing the memory away. You didn’t like how many times you had to do that before falling asleep. It made you wonder if, by some chance, he was having the same trouble. 

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“You wanna talk about it?” 

Bucky barely glanced up at the sound of Steve’s voice, who stood in the doorway looking at him expectantly. He thought about not responding, maybe even pretending he was invisible. But Steve was giving him that look he always did, that told him he saw right through his bullshit. It didn’t help that he was sitting in the common room in the middle of the night, his duffel bag still on the carpet in front of him, not unpacked nor in his room. He was on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. So yeah, he wasn’t doing much to hide his distress. 

He sighed, finally lifting his head, “Why’d you put us on that mission?” Because he had to have known it was a bad idea. You didn’t like him. He was already incapable of not making a fool of himself, but this time he’d set a record. 

Steve pushed off the doorway, giving that token Captain America headshake of disappointment, “Because I get it.” 

Well, if that wasn’t the most vague answer possible. “What’s there to get?” Also, what could he possibly get? 

There were several moments where Steve looked to be choosing his words wisely before he met his eyes again. This time with more confidence when he said, “You’re different now, Buck. You’re not the same man you were in the 40s, neither of us are.” 

Bucky scoffed, turning away, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” 

“I’m saying,” he stopped on the other side of the coffee table, “that it can be hard to experience intense feelings again after decades of nothing… especially in a new time and place.” 

Bucky’s eyes snapped back, face twisting in obstinance. Steve was right, he knew it, they both knew it. He didn’t hate you, he wasn’t even the least frustrated by you… at least not how he’d portrayed it. He was just… struck. Struck was the only word for it. Dumbfounded, too. He thought he’d never get to go home except in photographs and literature. He often visited his parents' street in Brooklyn, but never felt anything fill that ache in his chest. 

Until you walked in that day, humming Ole Blue Eyes with your hair pinned in big curls. He wasn’t sure how you did it, how you transported him back in time with just the sway of your dress around your knees. But in that moment, it was 1942. He was untouched by war and torture, with nothing to do but spin the most beautiful girl he’d seen around the bar all night. He felt light. He felt sick. It was the kind of pleasure that hit you hard enough that you weren’t sure it was pleasing at all. 

And Steve was right. He wasn’t the James Buchanan Barnes of the 40s. He didn’t have the same charm, the perfect lines. All he had was his fear of anything intense. Anything that wasn’t mundane, because mundane was safe. Alone… alone was safe. So, he lied. To you, yes, but even more so to himself. Told himself you were performing, playing dress-up, maybe even compensating for what you never had. The entire time he was falling… hanging onto every moment he saw you in polka dots or plaid. And then when he learned who you were? Smart as a whip, confident, compassionate? He knew he was fucked. 

Steve had to have seen this on his face, because he said, “Talk to me, pal.” 

Bucky wasn’t sure he had the words when he dropped his head back into his hands. With a groan, he admitted, “I said some horrible things, Steve.” 

He nodded, and Bucky was grateful for the lack of judgement in his expression. He was already beating himself up, he didn’t need anyone to add onto it. 

When he didn’t immediately respond, Bucky continued, “She started showing symptoms of hypothermia early in the night… I was so panicked, all I could do was cover her up.” He swallowed hard, dropping his hands and hanging his head, “I held her all night and in the morning I woke up to her hardwiring the radio to play 40s music and I… I couldn’t handle it.” 

“Did you try to make it right?” He asked. 

“I didn’t have time. She ran the minute the jet landed,” He looked back up at Steve, “I don’t think she’d listen anyway.” 

“If you told her the truth, I bet she would.” 

“I wouldn’t even know what to say… like you said, I’m not who I was.”

Steve shrugged, gave him a smile, “You don’t need to be, I don’t think lines would work on her anyway. Just be honest.” 

Bucky scoffed and pushed off the couch, he wrung his hands out to fight the urge to pull at his hair. “It’s been a year of this, there’s no way–”

“I’ve never known you to not work for what you want.” Steve cut him off with a voice that said he didn’t have a doubt about the statement. 

And it happened to be exactly what James Barnes needed to hear. He’d come too far to back down from a challenge. He knew how to put in effort, put in the work; but, as awful as it sounded, “I think I’d rather her hate me than lose her altogether.” 

Steve only had one response to that: “But what if you didn’t lose her? What if she didn’t hate you at all?”

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In the end, you did exactly as Wanda said. While your body was still exhausted, probably from working overtime to keep homeostatic balance in the frigid climate, you forced yourself up and out of bed. You threw your hair in heat rollers and buttoned the delicate beads of the dress. Delicate was the perfect word for it, which is why it was one of your favorites. You spent so much of your time in tactical gear that you enjoyed the soft silk fabric brushing your skin. It made life feel more peaceful. You didn’t feel ashamed of the femininity of it, not when you knew part of your femininity lay in your strength. Neither could be taken from you. 

You spent all day in the sunshine, walking through the parks of NYC and listening to the birds and the sound of squirrels playing in the trees. It was refreshing, feeling a breeze that didn’t chill you down to the bone. You drank hot coffee just to feel the warmth of it in your belly, and the pain in your hands when it got too hot. You sat on a bench and watched couples picnic in the park, and smiled at how in love they looked. You forced down the pang of jealousy when you heard a man compliment the woman he shared a checkered blanket with, it wasn’t their fault you were alone. Or that, when you did have taste in men, it was untimely and poor. 

You shook the thought from your mind several times as you walked along the sidewalk, your kitten heels making soft noises against the concrete. You windowshopped and browsed through stores you couldn’t afford, just to feel like a normal New York citizen and not like a member of the Avengers. 

Alas, when the sun began to set and your legs grew tired, you knew you had to head back to the tower. The halls were quiet with the absence of the team, and you wondered who was gone and who remained behind. You figured you’d know soon as you walked the hallway to the kitchen, looking for dinner. 

It was your name being called behind you that made you stop before finding your way through the door. You turned around, and there he was. Halfway down the hall, Bucky stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing one of those stupid henleys that sat too tight across his chest, and his hair was rumpled. Messy. Something about it matched the look in his eyes and they way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he stared at you.

You pulled in a deep breath, feeling the lace of your bodice brush against you. You knew you’d have to face him at some point, and there was no real reason to put it off. He was also your teammate, whether he liked it or not. You never had an issue with him besides how he treated you, and that you wanted to know why. Now that you did, you weren’t sure what to do. It was an absurd reason, and also not one you had any care to do anything about.

You cleared your throat, “Yes?” 

There was a moment where he looked… unsure? You weren’t sure you had the word for it, and yet that was all it could be. He genuinely looked nervous when he glanced at his shoes then back at you. Several moments passed before you felt your patience waning, your brows raised expectantly. Only then did he mutter, “I want to explain.”

Oh. Straight to the point. 

You shrugged, “You explained clearly, there was no misunderstanding.” Wanting to leave it at that, you took a step closer to the kitchen. You figured he’d let you, and that he’d let it go. You could be teammates and mind your business outside of missions. You’d watch and listen and wear whatever you wanted and it wouldn’t have to bother him, because it didn’t have to affect him.

But he only stepped closer down the hall, “I mean that I want to apologize.” The words were rushed, as if out before he could really form them. 

You looked over your shoulder, your face twisting, “Excuse me?” You must have misheard. 

And yet, “I want to apologize.” He said after pulling in a breath. Then he dropped his shoulders and stood straighter, lifting his chin as if embracing the statement. You saw that confidence you were used to, at least a little of it. “My behavior was hurtful and I–”

“You were honest.” You cut him off, still half turned away, because this was awkward and you didn’t know how to navigate it, “Now we can–”

“But I wasn’t.” It was several steps forward this time, and that desperation crept back in his tone. He was no more than a few meters away, his hands out of his pockets and limp at his sides. “I wasn’t,” he repeated, “I…” he looked pained, his eyes flickering over your face as if testing your reaction. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you were this confused in an interaction, yet you decided that fine, you’d bite. You gave him your full attention, “What do you mean, you weren’t honest?” 

The question didn’t seem to help, and you couldn’t help but notice how he couldn’t quite look at you. He’d glance at you, at your dress and curls, and then pointedly away. “I called you infuriating, which you are… it’s just that…” he trailed off, going quiet. 

You felt your eyes narrow, he was just here to rub it in, “Thanks for the reminder, Barnes–” 

“No!” He stepped closer, then back again. “I meant that–that you are, just not in the way I said.” 

What? 

You froze, shaking your head slowly as if trying to find sense in the words. 

But he only kept going, “You are infuriating in your ability to pin me without so much as a look. Really,” he said your name like a plea, “everyone sees it but you. You walk into a room, and I’m done for–”

“I walk in a room, and you leave–”

“Because I don’t know what to do! Do you have any clue what it's like to feel nothing for seventy years, and then everything in the span of a few seconds?” He looked at you now, lifted a hand over his heart as if to show you, and you felt yours stop as you got an idea of what he meant. 

But he couldn’t possibly–

“You walk in a room,” he repeated slowly, “and suddenly I’m twenty, standing in a crowded speakeasy trying to remember how to ask the most beautiful girl in the room to dance.” 

Oh. 

But your head shook, your heel taking a step back, “Bucky, this isn’t funny–”

“I’m not joking.” He said immediately, his face broken, “I wish I was. But, God, doll, of all the things I’ve done, I don’t think joking about this is one I could manage.” Doll. You’d heard that before, through frozen ears. It made your stomach flutter then too. “I don’t understand.” Your voice breaks, your feet suddenly feeling shaky in your heels. 

“I know,” he nods, “I know. I’ve been horrible to you, and I’m so unbelievably sorry. I… I don’t have any excuse besides that I had no clue how to process it. I didn’t only lie to you, I lied to myself every time I saw you…” his eyes lifted to your hair, dropped to your dress, “every time you wore something like this and I felt sick, I told myself I hated you… but I don’t think I ever even believed myself.” 

You stared, and stared… and then stared some more. Your mouth dropping open and your eyes blinking as if testing if he’d disappear. He didn’t. He stood in front of you, strong and broad like the soldier you knew, but with heartbreak in eyes that were usually steele. You suddenly understood the nerves, feeling them yourself too. A hundred thoughts raced through your mind, and yet you were still at a loss for words. 

He splayed his hands as if begging, but you knew he never begged. And yet, “Please say something…” 

Your mouth moved wordlessly for several moments, the past year rushing through your mind just as it had when he broke the radio. “So this whole time… every insult…” 

He was already shaking his head, “I didn’t mean it. I don’t even know why it started, I just know that when you snapped back that first time… suddenly any attention from you was enough. I’d take whatever you’d give me.” 

That statement, more than anything else, brought a reaction out of you. The butterflies and the nerves were still there, yes, but suddenly you were angry. This entire time you had scolded yourself for finding him attractive when he was… 

You found yourself closing the distance, only to plant your hands on his chest with a shove and, “You idiot!” 

He seemed to take that as rejection, lifting his hands and stepping back, “Okay, I’m sorry–” 

But you didn’t let him, immediately stepping into his space, “You’re telling me we’ve been arguing and–and I’ve been shaming myself for feeling anything for you when we…” you trailed off, that anger dissipating into realization. He hadn’t actually said he wanted you,  and you knew better than to get your hopes up. 

He said your name in the form of a question, but you were already shaking your head. 

You felt an unfamiliar sting behind your eyes when you sneered at him, “You know I have no one, and I’m okay with it. I’m used to it, so trying to toy with me isn’t going to work–” 

You went to step back, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into him with another call of your name. You didn’t want to look at him, but when he caught your cheek and turned you, all you saw in his eyes was awe. Pure affection that stripped you down and made you feel exposed. A look that you weren’t sure any man had ever given you. He didn’t even say anything, just met your eyes and made sure you saw everything he felt. 

And then he was kissing you. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, pulling you in while he kept you close with the hand over your cheek. It was soft, if a little hungry, his lips moving over yours and coaxing a response. It took a minute before you realized that you did indeed need to respond, and slotted your mouth over his.

Except that anger wasn’t completely gone, something just as intense burning deep. So, after moments of matching that gentle back and forth, you sunk your teeth into his bottom lip and pulled. As if to say, don’t make me regret this. 

The minute he felt it, his mouth following yours as you tugged, he groaned deep in his chest. A sound you weren’t even sure he was aware of. But then his hand was sliding from your cheek into your hair, his arm wrapping fully around your waist and gripping your dress. He fisted your hair tight, forcing your head back so he could kiss you harder. You felt trapped in his arms in a way that felt entirely safe, like nothing could touch you here. There was no world, no avengers, no accident. Nothing to worry about but the taste of him on your lips and the press of the wall he backed you into. 

And when you both pulled away, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “You have me. All of me. You have always had me.” 

Thursday had become his favorite day of the week thanks to you. 

His favorite passenger. 

Someone bright and soft during his long shifts and rough nights. 

He came to a stop in front of your building, making sure he adjusted the heat so you wouldn’t be too cold. There was a blanket in the back just in case it wasn’t enough. He also changed the radio station to something he knew you’d enjoy but kept it low enough in case you wanted to talk. 

He liked it when you talked to him. 

“Do I look okay?” he asked himself, checking his hair in the mirror before he chuckled. 

Bucky didn’t dress up a lot since he drove a cab for a living, but he tried to take a bit of pride in his appearance. Clean clothes and a subtle amount of cologne. Beard and hair kept neat, too, even with the bit of gray showing more in his chestnut strands these days. 

He liked to think it gave him a refined look. 

Something you might notice.

The steady hum of the engine grounded him as he looked at the door, his breath catching when you stepped outside. You paused on the top step, your gaze sweeping along the street as you adjusted the bag on your shoulder. Something warm bloomed in his chest when you spotted him and gave him that familiar soft wave and smile. He wanted to believe that smile was reserved just for him. 

Get it together. You’re just her driver. Nothing more.

It didn’t stop him from hoping. 

He straightened up when you made your way to the car and opened the door. 

“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, sliding into the backseat. 

The corner of his lips twitched at the familiar greeting. Not “driver” or “sir” or anything like that. Just Buck. Steve was the only other person who called him that. 

It sounded right coming from you. 

“You mean Friday Junior,” he teased, trying hard not to make a show of breathing in your scent.

There were plenty of passengers who practically bathed themselves in colognes and perfumes. It was enough to choke on before he aired out the cab. But not you. You always smelled so nice. So sweet. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Get a grip. 

“Same thing,” you teased back, slipping your shoes off and tucking your legs beneath you. 

The first time you asked if it was okay for you to take your shoes off, he almost laughed. It surprised him more than anything that you cared enough to ask. Like you cared about his space and him. He didn’t mind as long as you were comfortable. 

He always wanted you to feel comfortable and safe in his presence. 

“We made it through another day,” you sighed. 

“And your prize for making it through another day is spending time with me,” he joked.

You laughed, a soft sound like music to his ears. “Lucky me,” you said without a hint of sarcasm. 

He cleared his throat, his heart skipping a beat. “Blanket back there and the heat’s on.”

“Thanks,” you said, adding above a whisper, “You’re so good to me.”

Bucky opened his mouth and closed it. “Just doing my job,” he said, the words bittersweet on his tongue. 

“Well, I appreciate it.” You hummed a little as you dug through your bag. “And… I got something for you.”

He already knew what it was.

“Protein bar?”

“Protein bar,” you confirmed. 

He made an offhand comment in the beginning about his favorite brand. 

You surprised him by giving one the following week, and you have brought him one every week since then. 

Part of him wanted to save the wrappers, but Sam shut that down by saying it was serial killer behavior. 

Your fingers brushed his when he reached back to grab, a jolt running through his body and settling deep in his chest. “I think you’re too good to me,” he said. 

It was a thoughtful thing for you to do. 

“Just being a good passenger,” you said casually, but he caught the hint of affection there. 

Something soft… and real.

Bucky glanced at you in the mirror, his gaze lingering longer than it should’ve when you covered yourself with the blanket and settled into the leather with a sigh. His chest puffed out a little, a sense of pride filling him since you used the blanket. He picked the softest and warmest one he had. 

You looked completely at ease, like you belonged there. 

“Heading to your brother’s place, or you gonna switch it up on me?”

“Same trip as always,” you replied. 

Of course.

A visit to your older brother’s place on the other side of the city. Dinner. Helping your sister-in-law with some chores. Spending quality time with your niece and nephew. 

Every Thursday.

He knew about your routine more than he probably should, but he couldn’t help but pay attention. It was nice knowing that you had family close by. Nice that you got to spend time with them.

Some nights though, you looked a little worn down by the time he brought you home. 

He carefully pulled away from the curb and glanced in the mirror again, catching your eye. “How was your day?”

Bucky was polite to his passengers, but didn’t typically initiate small talk. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the people he transported. He did. But his job was to get people where they needed to go, not force them into conversations to fill the silence. If he sensed that they wanted to talk, he’d engage. Most were glued to their phones anyway. But not you. 

Never you. 

You groaned, your head falling back against the seat. “Work was a pain today. Short-staffed. Didn’t really get a full break. You know how that goes.”

He hummed sympathetically. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Don’t be. Not your fault,” you said with a small shrug. “On the plus side, we’re close to the weekend, and I can relax once I get home.”

“Glad you can still see the bright side,” he said. 

It wasn’t always easy to do that. 

“I try.” You lifted your head with a soft smile. “How are you?”

He swallowed hard. It was nice to have someone outside of his normal circle ask him sincerely how he was doing. “Not too bad. Some guy tried to correct my driving.”

You sat up straighter. “Are you kidding me? You’re the best driver in the city.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest from how fiercely you defended him. You stated it like it was a fact. He wasn’t one to brag, but he was an excellent driver.

“I want his name,” you added, narrowing your eyes. “I’ll handle him.”

He laughed. “Oh, you’ll handle him, huh?” he asked, turning his blinker on. 

“Oh, yeah,” you answered, his heart racing faster. 

“I appreciate that,” he said above a whisper. 

You really were something.

“And if I can’t, Alpine can scratch him up for me,” you mused lightly. 

A wide smile broke out on his face. “Al’d make sure he never messed with anyone ever again.”

Alpine, his beautiful white cat. He found her in an alley when she was just a kitten, trying to stay warm on a chilly day. One look in her blue eyes and he knew he couldn’t leave her there. 

“My place isn’t much,” he warned her when he crouched down. “But it’s warm and I have milk.”

She curled right in his arms and tried to burrow her face in his leather jacket. 

She became his partner-in-crime from that day forward.

The feline flourished in his apartment, making herself right at home and sticking by his side whenever he was around. He admittedly spoiled her with toys and such, but she deserved it. She was also protective of him, quick to hiss at anyone who got too close, and could imitate his grumpy stare well. He knew she’d adore you.

He certainly talked about you enough to her.

He talked about you with his younger sister, too. 

“Becca messaged me a bit ago, too,” he said, smiling a little. “You know how she likes to check in and make sure I’m not living off just protein bars and stubbornness.”

Becca didn’t live as close as your brother did, but he visited when he could. She visited, too, between work and her new boyfriend. She seemed happy, and that made him happy. 

“And here I am giving you protein bars. I hope she doesn’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he promised. “She knows one extra bar a week won’t hurt.”

You smiled softly. “She cares a lot about you, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah,” he said warmly. “She does.”

And she liked that he had someone like you who cared, even when he tried to argue that you were just being nice. 

“She isn’t just being nice, big brother. She cares.”

He liked to think so.

“Hey!” you said suddenly, leaning forward in your seat. “You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“This is the thirteenth Thursday that you’ve driven me around.”

“Is that right?” he asked softly, knowing full well exactly how many Thursdays he had seen you.

Because he had been counting.

“That is right.” You settled back into your seat with a smile. “Feels like ages… and not long at all.”

It seemed like only yesterday to him.

He remembered the exact shade of blue you wore on the first ride, something pleasant against the harsh city lights. How you shivered when you slid into the car, and the smile you gave him when he turned the heat on. You were so beautiful. And kind. 

The kindest passenger he had that day.

“Thanks for getting me here safely, Bucky! Happy Friday Eve!” 

“Friday Junior,” he’d called after you like an idiot.

“Same thing!” 

He was a goner.

Every week his crush grew stronger.

But every week he told himself he was just your cab driver and nothing more. 

“Thirteen Thursdays,” he said. “That why you look so nice today?”

Your gaze flickered to your lap, smiling. “You think I look nice?” you asked gently. 

His heart hammered in his chest. “Yeah. You always do,” he said honestly, willing himself to concentrate on the road.

Don’t make it weird. Don’t make her uncomfortable. 

“Thanks, Buck,” you whispered.  

He should’ve left it at that, but he didn’t.

“You sure I’m taking you to your brother’s and not some date?” he blurted out.

The air thickened in the cab, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Something uncomfortable twisted in his gut. He paid enough attention to know that there wasn’t a ring on your finger, and you hadn’t mentioned having a boyfriend. 

Not once. 

But what if there was someone? What if one day you dressed up for someone else? What if you gave some other man that soft smile you always gave him?

His jaw clenched and he was thankful you couldn’t see his expression. 

I have no reason to be jealous. She isn’t my girl. She can see whoever she wants. 

I just wish it was me.

“A date?” Your laughter made its way to his ears. “Please. I’m very single.”

For a moment, all Bucky could hear was the sound of his heart slowing to a steady rhythm, effectively blocking out the moving vehicles around him. His next breath was easier, his grip loosening. It shouldn’t have been such a relief to hear that, but it was.

Single. Good. That’s good. Stay single. Stay away from bad guys. Stay… here. With me.

…I’m in deep. 

“Haven’t dated in months,” you added.

That made him pause. 

“Months?” he repeated. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, it’s true,” you said, quieter than before and gazing out the window. “Guess I haven’t caught anyone’s eye.”

Your words wiped out his relief. You didn’t have to say out loud that you were lonely. He sensed it. Recognized it. 

It just didn’t make sense to him that you were alone. You were a catch. How were guys not lining up down the block to ask you out?

Your words also weren’t true. Because he was there and he saw you. Wanted you.

“Or… maybe you have,” he said carefully. “And they just haven’t said anything yet.”

A beat passed. “Maybe,” you said. 

He tapped the wheel when he stopped at a red light.

Say it. Tell her. Tell her that she caught my eye. Tell her that she’s…

He sighed to himself, the cab feeling smaller than usual. He wanted to admit how he felt, but he couldn’t like this. It wasn’t right when he was in the driver’s seat and you were back there. 

“And what about you?” you asked, turning away from the window. “You seeing anyone?”

He huffed out a laugh. “No.”

Women weren’t exactly fighting to date a cab driver. 

“My ‘date’ nights are me, a book or a movie, and Al,” he told you. “That or kicking the guys out of my place once the pizza and beer are gone.”

You smiled. “Those sound like good nights to me.”

“They’re not bad,” he said casually.

As if the idea of a date night with you wasn’t painting a picture in his mind.

“You know,” you said, snuggling into the blanket more. “If you ever need anyone to critique your book or movie choices, I’m available.”

He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to trip over itself, but it did. “Yeah?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

“Yeah,” you said casually, but your eyes flicked to the mirror. “I mean, I’m sure you have great taste, but it doesn’t hurt to get my own confirmation.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You smiled. “You better.”

The cab fell into a comfortable silence after that, but something shifted. You had given him an opening that would’ve been easy to take. But maybe you were just being nice. Maybe it didn’t mean anything at all. 

Or it might mean everything.

He eased the car to a stop at your brother’s building minutes later. “Here we are.”

You slipped your shoes on and folded the blanket as best as you could. “Thanks,” you said, holding out the cash for him. 

He reached back automatically to grab it, feeling that spark again when your fingers touched. He didn’t need to count it to know it was all there, along with a nice tip. You were generous. 

Always. 

“Anytime.”

You lingered when you opened the door. “Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You look nice today, too,” you said.

It was a simple compliment, but it hit him square in the chest. 

“Yeah?” he managed to ask. 

“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “You always do.”

It was an echo of his own words to you. 

Before he could respond, you slipped out and tapped the roof twice. “See you later. Drive safe.”

“See ya,” he whispered.

He didn’t leave right away. He watched as you made your way inside safely, his hand still clutching the cash. Glancing at the protein bar on the seat beside him, he exhaled. 

You said he looked nice. Offered to watch a movie with him. Kind of. 

But he was just your driver. 

Nothing more. 

“I’m in trouble,” he muttered. 

By the time Bucky pulled back up to your brother’s building later that night, things felt quieter. But his mind didn’t. It was too busy racing with thoughts of you and wondering how long he could keep his line drawn in the sand. 

You waved to him when you stepped outside, your steps a little slower. Your smile wasn’t as bright as earlier, but it was still soft and easy. It made sense. Family time after a long work day was tiring, even if it was nice. 

“Hey,” he said once you got in. 

“Hey,” you echoed, settling in. 

“Good night?” he asked, easing back into the road. 

“It was,” you replied, laughing a little. “But those kids wear me out.”

He smiled to himself. No way they didn’t adore spending time with you. “Sounds about right.”

“Did you have a good night?”

It was the best night because he got to see you again. 

“Not too bad,” he answered. 

You checked something on your phone and put it away. “Random, but I have a few extra dollars in my account, so I may do takeout for dinner tomorrow as an end of the week treat for myself.”

You could have takeout with me.

“Get those noodles from the place you like on 5th,” he suggested instead. “The number seven, right?”

Why did I say that?

“That’s right.” You giggled. “Am I that predictable?”

He almost said, “I notice everything about you.”

“You’re not predictable,” he replied instead, easing his foot off the gas. “I just… pay attention.”

Because you’re… you.

It was quiet for the rest of the ride. 

He glanced back a few times and saw that your eyes were heavy. He hoped you were able to relax more when you got back to your place. You deserved the rest. 

A pang of disappointment hit him when he got to your place, the drive seeming quicker than normal. “Here we are.”

You stifled a yawn. “Thanks.” 

“Anytime.”

“Oh. I almost forgot.” You sat up, seemingly more awake now. “I have something for you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You already gave me a protein bar.”

“Well, this isn’t from me,” you said, handing him a folded piece of construction paper along with the cash. “It’s from my niece and nephew.”

He opened it carefully, his heart melting on the spot. 

A drawing of a car stretched across the sheet. It was lopsided with uneven wheels and windows that were too big. There were two stick figures inside. One in the back with a large smile that was clearly you. And one in the front with brown hair, blue eyes, and a small smile. 

It was him. 

There was a message in crooked letters above the car, surrounded by glitter glue. 

BUCKY DRIVING AUNTIE! YAY!

His throat tightened unexpectedly. “That’s us?” he asked with a hint of disbelief. 

You mentioned him to your family?

“That’s us,” you said affectionately, making him wonder if that was for him or your niece and nephew. “They wanted to thank you for always getting me there and back every week.”

He swallowed, his throat dry. “You… talk about me?” 

“Of course, I do,” you said like it was obvious. “You’re part of my week.”

He folded it back up like it was something fragile, your words slowly sinking in. 

You talked about him. Your family knew he existed. Your niece and nephew had never met him, but still made him a card like he mattered. 

His heart felt full. 

And he didn’t know what to do with that feeling. 

“Tell ‘em I said thanks,” he said quietly. “Really.”

“I will,” you promised, hesitating when you reached for the door handle. 

You waited long enough for him to look at you over his shoulder. Long enough that his heart thudded. Hope flickered deep within. 

She feels something, right? It can’t just be me. 

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, but your eyes were soft. “I…” Your gaze flickered down before looking back at him, sighing a little. “I’ll see you next week, Buck.”

He exhaled, trying not to let disappointment show. Something passed between you. He felt it. It was real. 

Or… maybe he just imagined it. 

“Yeah,” he said, offering you a small smile. “Next week.”

“Good night.”

“Good night,” he repeated. “And thanks again for the card and tip.”

You smiled softly before you got out. 

He leaned against his seat and once again stayed to make sure you got inside safely. You didn’t rush inside when you got to the door. You paused instead and glanced over your shoulder at the door, like you were waiting for him. It was an opening. Maybe. 

But he didn’t take it.

He kept that line drawn. 

You waved before you went inside, and he closed his eyes, the quiet surrounding him once again.

His fingers brushed the construction paper in his lap.

Steve and Sam would flip when he told them about it. Hell, they already did whenever he talked about you. He could practically hear them now once he gave them the recap of tonight’s events.

Sam shaking his head and saying, “She gives you protein bars, offers to watch movies with you, her family knows about you, her niece and nephew made you a card, and you didn’t ask for her number?”

Steve, a little quieter but no less insistent, with, “Buck… you’re allowed to want something.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. They acted like it was simple, like he could just ask and it wouldn’t change a thing. It would change everything. 

He didn’t want to risk losing you or holding you back when he didn’t have you to begin with.

For now, he’d continue driving you where you needed to go and leave it at that.

Coward. Life’s too short.

He set the card aside and took one last look at your building.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m in big trouble.”

Bucky arrived a couple of minutes early the following Thursday. 

He told himself it was habit. Being mindful of traffic. Not because he was eagerly waiting for you. 

Not at all.

And you also weren’t the reason he spent ten extra minutes picking out a shirt.

Just because she said I look nice…

He made a mistake of checking the group chat he had with Steve and Sam while he waited.

Sam: “Be a man and get her number.”

He gritted his teeth, quickly typing. He almost regretted confiding in them about you. It would’ve been easier to keep his mouth shut. 

“Fuck off, Samuel. I am a man.” 

The dots appeared with both of his friends writing something back.

Sam: “OOH. Samuel. My full name. Hit a sore spot, huh?”

Maybe he did.

Stevie: “Just go at your pace, jerk. We got your back.”

Some of the tension left his shoulders. 

“Thanks, punk.”

He put his phone away and smiled just a little. They were good guys. Had been with him through thick and thin. Brothers.

Sam definitely acted like an annoying brother in the most supportive way.

And as much as he adored Becca, he didn’t want to bother his little sister with his lack-of-relationship woes. She had enough on her plate. He’d be just fine.

Eventually.

His attention snapped in your direction when you left your building and everything else faded away.

There you were again.

The same familiar sweep of your eyes along the street before you found him. The soft smile. The small wave. How you always looked incredible no matter if you dressed up or down. 

Like tonight, you had on the same soft sweater you wore last month. It reminded him of comfort. It also made you look gentle in a way that made him want to take care of you.

The instinct hit him harder than before.

Yeah. I’m royally fucked.

He straightened up as you walked closer, his brows furrowing. You were still smiling at him, but your steps didn’t look as light as normal. There was tension in your shoulders. 

“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, unfolding the blanket with extra care. 

There was a touch of weariness in your tone under the warmth.

It would’ve been easy to miss if he wasn’t paying attention. 

“You mean Friday Junior,” he said automatically.

“Same thing,” you murmured. 

“Your brother’s place?” he asked gently.

“Same trip as always,” you replied just as gently.

He looked at you in the mirror after pulling away from the curb. You were already gazing out the window, relaxed but not completely. His chest tightened when he spotted the slightest frown on your face.

It didn’t belong there.

Is she okay? Was work extra rough?

He waited a couple of blocks before he asked, “Long day?”

Bucky didn’t want to push if you didn’t want to talk, but he did want to make sure you were okay. If something upset you, he wanted to fix it. If someone upset you, he wanted to handle it.

Let me help however I can.

“Yeah,” you replied after a second. “Long week, actually.”

“Those are the worst.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “Becca always tells me to take a breath and not let the week eat me alive.”

“That’s good advice.” Something soft and a little sad flickered in your eyes. He didn’t know if his words triggered a memory, but it felt important. “Especially coming from a sibling.”

“It is,” he replied. “Siblings just get it some days.”

You hummed in agreement, but didn’t say anything else. 

He bit his tongue. It was times like this when he wished he wasn’t driving. He wanted to turn around and give you his attention. You deserved it.

“Would it make you feel any better if I said you look nice today?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. 

That brought a smile to your face. “It does make me feel better,” you said, your tone almost back to normal. “Thank you.”

He smiled back gently, the sound of the engine and low music filling the space for a moment. It didn’t fix your long week, but he was glad the compliment helped. He’d consider that a win.

“You look nice, too.” You craned your head to look at him. “I really like that color on you.”

His pulse jumped. The usual ease was coming back, the cab lighter. And you noticed his shirt. 

I chose well. 

“Oh, this old thing?” he teased, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Really brings out my eyes.”

You giggled. “It sure does.”

He stole another glance at you when you looked out the window again. You were tired, but you were okay. Still warm. Still you.

He felt like he could breathe again.

“Hey,” he said after another block, reaching into the console. “I, uh… made you a list.”

“A list?” Your eyebrows went up. “What kind of list?”

“Movies. Some I like. Some I think you’d like,” he clarified, passing it back to you before he could change his mind. “You did offer to critique them.”

“And you’re taking me up on it?” You gasped, putting a hand to your chest. “I’m both shocked and flattered.”

“You should be,” he deadpanned before grinning.

You smiled, a little tired but genuine. “The first title has a star next to it.”

“Because it’s my favorite and a good one to start with.”

“Did you get Steve and Sam’s seal of approval?”

He scoffed. “They’d like it. Enough oldies for Steve, and Sam has somewhat decent taste in recent stuff… but he’ll never know I said that.” He coughed into his hand and added, “They’ve heard about you.”

You smiled. “Is that right?” 

“Yeah, I talk about more than I probably should.” He shrugged, but his left foot lightly tapped. “You’re a good passenger.”

And I’m just your driver.

Your smile faltered, just for a second, before you smoothed it over with a laugh. “And you’re a good driver.” You scanned the small piece of paper once more. “You put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?”

Warmth rushed to his cheeks. “You should see the book list I’m making for you,” he muttered. 

He valued your opinion, and the lists were a way for you to think of him between rides. A way to keep you two connected. Maybe it was selfish that he wanted you to have him on your mind. 

But maybe it wasn’t.

“You’re making me a book list, too? Oh, I can’t wait for that.” You folded it neatly and put it in your bag. “I’ll watch the first movie tomorrow night.”

Another Friday night with no date? I wish I could man up and change that.

“I expect a full report next week,” he teased.

“You got it, Sarge,” you teased back.

His breath caught. “Sarge?” he repeated. “You remember my military ranking?”

Sergeant Barnes.

It was mentioned only once, just like the protein bars. A passing comment and nothing more. But you listened. 

You remembered.

“Of course, I do.”

The same thing you said about mentioning him to your family. 

He blinked rapidly, trying to steady the emotions stirring inside him as he drove. You continued to surprise him with your soft words and smiles, making him feel special in your eyes. You undid him in ways nothing or no one else could.

“Here we are,” he said minutes later.

“Thanks, Buck.” You gathered your things before you stopped, your inhale sharp. “Oh… you kept it.”

He followed your gaze to the dashboard. Your niece and nephew’s card was proudly on display. It was a beautiful reminder of you.

“Of course, I did,” he said, trying to play it cool. “It’s a nice drawing.”

“That’s really sweet, Buck.”

He shrugged a little, but heat crept up his neck. “It deserved a front and center spot.”

Your gaze softened more. “They’ll think you’re the coolest guy ever when I tell them.”

They made him feel cool by giving him the card. 

“Guess I’ll have to try to live up to that.”

“You already are,” you said without missing a beat, passing him a protein bar with the cash. 

His heart pounded in his chest. Another thoughtful gesture. More words that made him feel good. 

Say something. Do something. 

But he didn’t. 

There was a small pause before you sighed and got out, the door gently closing behind you. Tap. Tap. The familiar rhythm against the roof should’ve felt normal and comforting. 

But why did it feel like you were disappointed?

“See you later,” you said. “Drive safe.”

“See ya,” he exhaled.

He watched until you went inside, half tempted to hit the dashboard since he chickened out. He held himself back. There was no sense in taking his frustration out on the car. He could hit a punching bag later.

Maybe he could knock some sense into himself, too, and man up. 

“Should’ve said something,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. 

Some of the frustration at himself faded when he looked at the card. He imagined your niece and nephew were the kind of kids who loved when the garbage men came by every week or drivers dropped off packages. They’d probably have a blast riding around in his cab, cheering him on for driving you around. If Becca ever had kids, they’d likely be the same way.

He wondered, briefly, if you’d ever meet her, and the thought didn’t scare him the way it should.

But what would your brother think of me? Would he think I’m good enough?

At the end of the day, didn’t it matter only what you thought and saw in him?

His phone buzzed. 

Sam: “Well??? We’re waiting.”

Bucky stared at the message before typing back. “Dropped her off. Didn’t ask.”

Three dots appeared immediately. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t need the additional salt on the open wound of his self-doubt. 

But he looked since he was a glutton for punishment. 

Sam: “Man, if we can even call you that, you're killing me! I’m gonna lose the bet.”

Bet? What fucking bet?

Stevie: “There’s no bet. You’ll do it when it’s right.”

Sam: “Don’t make me get Becca and Sarah involved. I’ll do it.”

He tucked his phone away and shook his head. Tough and gentle love. He needed both. 

And he needed just a little more time to convince himself to erase the line he had drawn. 

The next passenger he picked up, a man complaining about the state of the economy, didn’t shift his focus fully away from you. The restaurant he dropped him at seemed like a nice one to take you to, something quiet and romantic. A couple of women he drove after that mentioned an acoustic concert in the park, which made him picture you leaning your head on his shoulder while listening to music together. Every passenger was like that, managing to tie something back to you. 

He still got everyone where they needed to go safely since that was the job. 

He just couldn’t stop thinking about you. 

By the time he arrived to pick you up again, the city lights had taken over the streets. He spotted you immediately, your arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm. You looked about the same as when you went in. A little more tired, but okay. 

And you still gave him a smile when you got in. 

Smiling like she’s happy to see me. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied, double checking the heat. “Kids wear you out again?”

“You know it. They had so much energy tonight, and I almost stepped on a lego when I was chasing them around.” 

“Occupational hazard of being a great aunt.”

“You know it.” You laughed a little. “They were also thrilled that you have their card up.” 

That warmed his heart. “So, they think I’m cool?”

“The coolest.”

He smiled at the sincerity. He believed that they believed that. It was a feeling he needed to lean into more. 

“Did you have a good night?” 

“Yep. Just driving. Getting everyone where they need to go,” he answered. 

And thinking of you. Always thinking about you. 

He turned the radio up a notch after that instead of trying to fill the silence, letting you relax. For a moment, he pictured swaying with you. Minus the quick brush of your fingers, he hadn’t touched you in any way. 

To hold you would be a gift.

“Hey, Buck?” you asked once he pulled up to your place. 

“Yeah?”

You bit your lip. “I wanted to give you something.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his chest tightening in anticipation as you reached into your bag. 

You hesitated before you nodded. “Yeah.”

Your hand shook a little when you passed him a small slip of paper with the cash. He unfolded it, blinking hard to make sure he was reading it correctly. He turned it over, too. 

It was your handwriting. Your name. Your number. 

You gave him your phone number. 

His heart forgot how to beat before it thundered. He imagined this scenario for weeks, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the reality of it. He didn’t think the universe would be that kind to him.

“I just figured, this way you don’t have to wait until next week for my report on the movie. You could just text me and see what I think,” you explained, trying to play it off casually. “Or if you ever want to send me pictures of Alpine. Or you’re just… bored.”

His pulse roared in his ears. You wanted to hear from him. You gave him another opening while he kept mentally blocking the door with his foot. 

You trusted him enough to want a connection outside of the cab and the rules he internally created and enforced.

“But you don’t have to,” you added quickly, reaching for the door handle. “I can wait until next week to talk to you and-”

“Wait,” he begged, trying not to panic. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he didn’t want to reach out. “I’ll, um… give you mine, too.”

You met his gaze in the mirror. He wanted to memorize how you looked at this moment. Hopeful. Beautiful. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. 

He found a pen and a receipt, making sure his writing was legible as he jotted it down. Your smile when he handed it over soothed his nerves. The smooth thing to do would’ve been to put his phone number on the movie list when he gave it to you earlier. But this was better. 

This felt more right. 

“Thanks.” You tucked it away like it was something sacred. “I’ll text you.”

He nodded, his throat tight. “I’d like that.”

You stepped out into the cool air, glancing back at him. The tension was almost completely gone from your shoulders. The glow from the street lamps made your eyes sparkle. 

He couldn’t look away from you if he tried. 

“Good night, Buck.”

“Good night.”

Once you were inside, he glanced at your number again, reading it until the numbers ran together. He reached for the phone to message the guys and Becca before deciding against it. Sam would lose his mind. Steve would tell him not to overthink it. Becca would be somewhere in the middle. He didn’t need that tonight.

He wanted to hang onto this just a little longer and let it sink in that it was real. 

Besides, it was just an exchange of phone numbers. You didn’t ask him out. He didn’t ask you out. He was still being professional. 

But he did check his phone immediately when a new message popped up. 

“Happy fourteenth Thursday. Thanks again for the ride.”

Still counting like me. 

“Anytime. Get some rest. And let me know when you watch the first movie.”

A neutral message. Polite. Professional. 

“I’m still in trouble.”

And he grinned like an idiot because of it.

You messaged him on Friday night.  

He saved you under his contacts as MFP, my favorite passenger.

MFP: “Halfway through the movie.”

His fingers hovered over the screen. If he typed back too quickly, he’d look desperate. If he waited too long, he’d look aloof. 

A full minute was enough time. 

“And?”

He winced at himself. That was too short. Too blunt. 

MFP: “They switched part of what happened in the book. Trying to reserve my judgement until the end.”

A sense of awe filled him. You read the book. Of course, you did. That made him want you even more. 

But he couldn’t say that. 

“I didn’t like the switch at first either, but keep watching. Trust me.”

MFP: “I trust you.”

That made his breath catch. 

He scratched behind Alpine’s ear, smiling when she purred. “She’s watching it and texting me. That’s good, right?”

She meowed happily. 

He put the movie on, too, in the hopes that he wouldn’t keep checking his phone. 

You messaged him again an hour later. 

MFP: “My score: 8/10. Adventurous, heartwarming, and visually stunning. I see why it’s your favorite.”

He smiled, typing out, “Dinner and tell me more?”

He deleted it and started over.

“8/10? I’ll take it. What didn’t you like besides the book switch?”

MFP: “A one point deduction was for the book switch. Another deduction for the bad wig. I mean, a huge budget like that and they couldn’t give the lead some good hair? Tragic.”

Bucky chuckled. “You make a good point. It was pretty bad.”

MFP: “But movie wise? So far, so good for your taste.”

That was a win in his book.

You didn’t message him again until Saturday night. 

MFP: “Is brinner an acceptable choice on a Saturday night?”

He smiled immediately. 

“Brinner is an acceptable choice every night.”

MFP: “I knew you’d understand. I can eat while I watch the second movie on the list.”

“I bet you’ll give it a 7/10.”

MFP: “We’ll see if you’re right. Hope you're having a good weekend.”

He reread that statement twice. It felt measured. Careful. 

“You, too.”

He read the message again after sending it. 

Maybe it was another message that was too short. 

And it was too late to erase it. 

You sent him a photo of a white cat on Sunday. 

MFP: “Is this Alpine’s doppelganger?”

He chuckled. The image wasn’t too far off but Alpine was prettier. He was a bit biased when it came to his feline. 

“There’s no cat like Al.”

MFP: “I believe it. And you were right, but the way. 7/10. I deducted two points for the one terrible accent.”

He tilted his head and laughed again. He had almost forgotten about the bad accent. It was amazing how one actor or actress could throw off an entire scene. 

“Much deserved deduction. Al would approve.”

MFP: “I’m honored.”

He didn’t hear from you for the rest of the day. 

It was his turn to message you first. 

“Hope you have water and caffeine to get you through Monday.”

He stared at it after sending. Maybe that too personal. Maybe it wasn’t enough. 

MFP: “Do I have to have water?”

He laughed, picturing you scrunching up your face. 

“Need you to stay hydrated.”

Because he cared.

MFP: “But what if I try to live on stubbornness like you?”

You’re too good to live on stubbornness. 

“Still need water.”

MFP: “Yes, Sarge.”

Oh, that did something to him. 

MFP: “But only if you drink some water, too.”

“I will.”

He would for you. 

He didn’t hear from you on Tuesday. 

That was fine. You were busy. You had a life outside of him. And he didn’t want to bother you. 

But he checked his phone more than he should have. 

You messaged him first thing on Wednesday. 

MFP: “Is it Friday Eve yet?”

Relief hit him faster than he expected. 

“Almost. You surviving?”

There was a delay this time. Long enough for him to notice. 

MFP: “Barely, but I’m trying.”

He frowned a little. 

“Hang in there.”

He hesitated before adding another message. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There was another pause. 

MFP: “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

He stared at it longer than he meant to. 

Something about it felt different. Quieter. He could’ve been imagining it. 

He sent one more message before he could stop himself. 

“Can’t wait.” 

He meant it. 

Even if something told him tomorrow would feel different.  

Bucky waited at the curb as patiently as he could, checking his hair three times. Just like every week before, he looked forward to seeing you. But this felt different because the texts had been good overall. Almost effortless.

Almost. 

Tonight could be a turning point.

Bucky checked his phone again, even though he told himself he wouldn’t.

Sam: “You better not fumble this now that you got her number.”

Stevie: “Ignore him. Just be yourself.”

He huffed under his breath, locking the screen.

Like it’s that easy.

He turned his attention back to your building, his heart sinking the moment you stepped outside.

The usual sweep of your gaze didn’t happen since you were looking at your feet. You hardly seem to notice or care that your bag slipped from your shoulder. When you finally lifted your gaze, you looked worn out in a way he had never seen before. 

It was like someone took the light inside you and dialed it down.

Everyone had bad days. That was a normal part of life. But this was you. 

It didn’t sit right with him at all.

“Happy Friday Eve,” you stated with a dim smile, hugging the blanket against your chest like a pillow. Your fingers trembled just enough that he spotted it. 

“Friday Junior,” he said because that’s what he was supposed to say.

Same thing.

You didn’t say it. 

You looked out the window, your jaw tight enough that he could see the tension in your neck. There was no teasing either as he drove. No references to any of the messages between you, like brinner or the bad wig or accent from the movies. No jokes about staying hydrated or calling him Sarge. 

There were no comments on anything. 

Just the kind of silence that for the first time felt off between you two.

Something was wrong.

I fucked this up, didn’t I? 

He thought back to every message he sent like he could figure out the exact moment things flipped. 

He responded in a timely manner. He initiated at times so it wouldn’t all fall on you. They weren’t overly flirty but they weren’t cold either. 

Maybe you expected more and he let you down.

Or maybe he leaned in too far with the “can’t wait” message and now you were pulling back. 

“Hey, um…” He cleared his throat, his grip shifting on the wheel. “If I said something wrong, or if I upset you with one of my texts…”

“What?” Your head snapped toward him, your brows pinching. “Buck, no.”

He blinked, surprised at how quickly you shut that down when his mind was screaming at him. “You sure?” He bit the inside of his cheek. “You just seem off, and I didn’t want it to be because of me.”

He was sure he could handle just about anything but that.

He didn’t want to lose the one bright part of his week because he misread a moment or sent the wrong text.

“Buck,” you said, even gentler this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His shoulders dropped. “Really?” he pressed, needing to be absolutely certain.

“Really. I like talking with you… a lot,” you promised, a shallow breath leaving your lungs. “I swear, it isn’t you.”

The weight in his chest eased enough for him to breathe but not enough to feel okay since your voice cracked. You liked talking to him, which was good. Better than good. But if he wasn’t the issue, it was something else. Something you weren’t telling him.

It worried him.

“Can I ask you something?” you asked softly.

“Yeah. Anything,” he said honestly. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this.” You paused to consider your words. “Why do you drive?”

He inhaled. It wasn’t unusual for you to ask about him. But most people didn’t care enough to ask why he did this job. 

You weren’t most people there, were you?

Your gaze was back on him instead of looking out the window, waiting patiently for his answer because you wanted to know.

Like Becca said… you care.

“I guess the easy answer is having a flexible schedule, getting decent money on the right nights, and it beats being in an office with some boss hounding me.”

You gave him a knowing, very small smile. “And what’s the real answer?”

He took a breath. “You remember I served in the army.” You nodded in acknowledgement. “When I got out… there was no clear objective. No structure.” His voice stayed even, but quieter. “It was just… a lot of noise.”

He stared at the taillights in front of him, lost for a moment. 

His smile had been wrong for days when he got out. Everything seemed like too much or not enough. And the world didn’t slow down just because people couldn’t keep up. 

“I had my friends. My sister. I wasn’t alone,” he said like it mattered because it did. Not everyone had that support. “But it still felt like I was supposed to be doing something… and I didn’t know what that was.”

You didn’t interrupt or rush him, so he continued.

“But this?” He gestured around the cab. “It gave me something again.”

A sense of purpose. A mission. 

“I have an objective… orders,” he explained, tapping the dashboard. “I pick a passenger up and I get them from point A to point B. That’s the job.”

You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

“And how I get you there? That’s on me.” He tapped his chest. “If the weather’s bad, I take it into account. If there’s awful traffic, I adjust. If my usual route is blocked, I find another way.”

“So, it gives you a sense of control,” you mused. “You know what you have to do, but you choose how you execute it.”

He nodded. You seemed to understand. Not everyone did.

“It’s simple in a good way. Discipline and structure with adaptability.” He ran a hand along the wheel, smiling to himself. “I know what I’m supposed to do. I know I can do it well.”

He glanced at you in the mirror, vulnerability shining in his eyes.

“And at the end of the ride… I get someone where they need to go. Safely.”

He paused, the sounds of honking horns and engines surrounding him. It was strangely comforting. But the most comforting thing was your presence and tender expression. 

“And sometimes… that’s enough,” he finished. 

“It is. It matters,” you insisted, gently but firmly. “More than you think.”

You make me feel like I matter. 

“I do my best.” The words came out nonchalantly but he meant it. “I can’t control what others do when they’re on the road, just like they can’t control me. But if something does happen, I fix it.”

Your expression shifted. “And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”

Bucky stilled before he realized it. That didn’t sound like you were talking about driving. He had a good read on people, but he couldn’t read between the lines of this. Couldn’t figure out why you were asking that. 

What needs fixing?

“I just keep driving,” he finally answered. “Like Steve always says… We have to move forward.”

You shifted in your seat. “I guess it’s all we can do,” you said more to yourself than him. “And for what it’s worth, you really are doing a great job,” you added.

He inhaled sharply. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You help people every time you drive. You don’t just drive well. You do it safely, like you said,” you pointed out, giving him a small smile. “I always feel safe when I’m with you.”

Those words landed in the middle of his doubt in himself, threatening to tear it apart. There was trust within your compliment. It was pure in an impure world.

“Good.” He had to swallow to keep his voice steady. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

You smiled again, but it didn’t reach your eyes. 

His chest ached. Every smile seemed to take more effort than it should, like you were chipping away little pieces of yourself. He hated that.

He hated that he couldn’t shoulder the weight still pushing you down, even just a little. 

“Here we are,” he said once he stopped, quieter than before. 

“Thanks, Buck,” you said, handing over a protein bar with the cash. “And I’m sorry if I made you think that you upset me.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, turning around as best as he could so he could see you. “You don’t have to do that with me.”

There was no reason for you to apologize when he was the one overthinking.

“But are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, searching your face for the answer your lips may not say. 

Lean on me if you aren’t.

Something passed in your eyes and then it was gone. “I will be,” you assured him.

His stomach dropped when you took the blanket with you, like you forgot you were holding it. You clutched it like a lifeline as you walked away from the cab. He watched you go, reaching for the door handle. You disappeared into the building before he could follow, which he had never done before.

You weren’t okay.

For the first time since he met you, he had no idea how to fix it. 

But something told him he was about to find out.

By the time he came back, he was tense. He told himself you just needed time with your family tonight. That whatever was on your mind eased with some laughter and familiar warmth. 

It had to have helped. 

…Right?

His heart didn’t sink when he saw you.

It cracked.

You had the blanket around your shoulders, trying to hold yourself together as you put one foot in front of the other. The look of sadness on your face wasn’t fleeting or light. It was the kind that settled in your bones.

What the hell happened?

You forced a smile when you met his eye and it twisted something inside him painfully. 

Don’t do that. Please, don’t do that.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you replied, your voice thin. 

He didn’t drive off right away, giving you a moment to get your bearings. 

But you didn’t. 

You didn’t slip your shoes off or tuck yourself in. The blanket stayed around your shoulders like an afterthought. Your breaths were too measured. Too careful. 

He held the wheel so tight that his fingers ached.

You were a heartbeat away from unraveling.

“Ready?” 

“Yeah.”

The city bustled around like normal, but nothing inside the cab felt the same. 

The air felt even heavier than earlier. The silence was too loud.. Louder than any word you ever spoke.

And you simply stared ahead like you were bracing yourself for impact.

His teeth snapped together, trying hard to keep himself in check. His job was to get you home safely. If you wanted to confide in him, he’d listen. But you didn’t have to lean on him. He was just…

Your breath hitched on the next turn. 

He made it three more blocks before he couldn’t take it anymore. 

Fuck this. I’m not just your driver.

He switched lanes and turned down a road he had never taken on your route before. It was familiar to him, of course. Away from some of the noise. It had a soothing view, too. 

Exhaling through his nose, he stopped the car and turned to look at you. 

He recognized pain when he saw it. Had lived through it. He couldn’t recall ever seeing you look so fragile. 

It’s okay to break with me. 

“Hey,” he said carefully because you needed something gentle. “I know you said you’ll be alright… but you’re not.”

“I will be,” you said quickly, your lower lip trembling. “I have to be.”

“Hey…” he whispered again. 

You don’t need to be strong tonight. 

You shook your head automatically, your next breath shaky. “I don’t want to dump this on you.”

“You’re not dumping anything on me,” he promised, needing you to believe him. “You’re hurting.”

Your eyes filled and you tried to blink the moisture away. 

He didn’t think when he got out of the cab, his body moving on instinct at the sight of your tears. He got in the back with you, leaving you enough space so you wouldn’t feel cornered. His hands rested on his knees, making sure not to touch you since he didn’t know if that would help or make things worse.

 But he wanted to be there for you.

“Please, let me help,” he begged, his voice thick. “Even just a little.”

That did it. 

A sob burst from your chest, your hand coming up to cover your mouth and failing to keep it in.

His heart stopped, his fingers curling to hold himself back from hauling you into his arms.

You hastily wiped your tears away that fell, like it would hide them. Your shoulders shook the more you tried to hold them in. Another broken sound escaped, the threads inside you slowly pulling apart.

“He’s sick,” you whimpered. “My brother…”

Your words were like a punch to the gut.

Oh, no…

“He has been for a while. They thought he was getting better, but the last couple of weeks have been bad,” you admitted, your face crumbling. “He barely made it through dinner tonight before he had to lay down.”

His jaw tightened in that helpless way when grief felt too close and overpowering. 

“And the kids… They don’t get why their dad is so tired or why their mom looks so sad when she thinks no one’s looking.” You hiccuped, the sound raw. “And I’m trying to help when I can. I’m trying to be strong for everyone, but I’m scared and… I can’t fix this.”

His throat went tight. 

“And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”

It all made sense now. 

The nights where you looked a little worn down. Your smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. Your light dimming. The talk earlier tonight.

While he had been overanalyzing his interactions with you, you were carrying this.

Alone.

And he couldn’t fix it for you.

“I help cook, clean, make the kids smile, but I don’t know what to do anymore,” you whimpered, looking at him with teary eyes. “It hurt for me to smile tonight.”

Trying to smile through pain was one of the hardest things a person could do. 

“I’ve been holding this in and I… can’t anymore.”

Bucky couldn’t keep staying behind the line he drew.

Not anymore.

His arms went around you without another thought, strong and steady, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. You clung to him, your fingers curling in his shirt as you sobbed painfully into his neck. He closed his eyes, willing whatever being was watching over them to feed some of your pain into him. 

Don’t do this to her. Give it to me. I can take it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, cradling the back of your head as your cries continued. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t say it was okay because it wasn’t. But he was there. Solid and real. Nothing else mattered except you. 

“He’s my big brother. He’s a good guy. He’s supposed to be okay,” you choked out between sobs. “But he isn’t, and I can’t make it any better.”

He pressed his cheek to your temple. He knew how afraid Becca had been when he served and how relieved she was when he came back. If he were to get sick now… If anything happened to him…

“You just need to love him,” he whispered against your ear.  “And you do. You have such a big heart.”

You cried harder, making him hold you closer. 

“Just let it out,” he urged, rubbing your shaking back. 

Minutes passed before your cries eventually slowed to small sniffles. Your body slumped against his, the tears wearing you out. And he held you through it all, letting you feel his warmth and comfort. 

You lifted your head slowly, your cheeks wet. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for that,” he said, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “Sometimes saying it out loud makes it more real and it opens up the floodgates before you’re ready.”

Like me being a coward about my feelings for you. 

You leaned into his touch briefly. “I didn’t want to be a burden,” you said, your voice wrecked. 

“You’re not.” He pulled back enough to really look at you. “You never could be.”

You searched his face, your lip trembling again. “Am I doing enough?”

Your grief already cut open his heart, but your question made him feel the blade all over again. 

“You’re doing more than enough. You’re showing up for everyone. That matters,” he swore to you, echoing some of your earlier words as he held you tighter. “More than you know.”

Your eyes shimmered again, but the tears didn’t fall. 

“And you can lean on me whenever you need to,” he added, giving you a tender smile. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

You smiled back faintly. “Thanks, Buck.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Anytime.”

You let go of his shirt, but didn’t make an effort to move out of his arms. He didn’t move either, taking a second to breathe with you and memorize how it felt to hold you. He’d keep you in his embrace all night if he could.

“Can I just...” You glanced down, your fingers absentmindedly tracing a pattern on your thigh. “Can I say something?”

“Anything,” he answered, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders. 

Say whatever you need to. I got you.

“Seeing you… talking to you,” you began. “I always look forward to it.”

You lifted your gaze, somehow more exposed and vulnerable than your earlier tears. 

“It’s the best part of my week,” you admitted. 

Bucky froze completely. 

You exhaled shakily, like you said too much. 

“I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you,” you went on while his brain was scrambling to catch up. “But everything felt heavy and I just… I felt safe enough that I could. So… thank you. For that.”

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Your words flowed through him, filing every crack he couldn’t seal shut himself.

I’m the best part of your week? 

Not work, your friends, or even your family?

Me?

Since the beginning, he told himself to stay in his lane and keep things simple. To be professional. Driver and passenger. That was it.

But you were here in his arms, trusting him enough with something so raw and admitting that he was the one thing that made your week a little lighter. 

Him.

And he was still acting as if there was a line he shouldn’t cross?

His thumb brushed your shoulder. You looked to him for comfort tonight. You needed him in a way. 

Maybe you wanted him, too.

If that were true, what the hell was he waiting for?

Don’t rush her. Don’t make this about me.

“I appreciate you telling me that,” he whispered once he found his voice. “Let’s get you home, okay?”

You nodded, your energy spent as you shifted from his hold. He felt the loss immediately, the cab feeling colder. But he didn’t linger, as much as he wanted to.

He moved back to the driver seat grudgingly and started the engine. 

You weren’t too far from your place, but he drove a bit slower and checked the mirror more than he needed to. You had your legs curled up now, your eyes heavy but open. Not distant or shut down. Just tired. 

You had a good reason to feel tired.

But you also gave him a smile when you caught him looking the last time. A small, real one. Because you felt safe. 

You’re safe with me.

The lights didn’t seem as harsh when he turned onto your street. The breeze wasn’t as strong. The world seemed to realize you needed little wins after breaking down.

Neither of you moved right away when he parked. 

“Hey.” He turned slightly in his seat, your expression glassy but more clear when you handed him the money. “I’m gonna walk you to your building tonight.”

It wasn’t a question or suggestion.

Should’ve been doing that since the first night. 

“I’d like that,” you uttered. 

“And you can take the blanket,” he offered when you started to fold it. “If you want.”

“Really?” Your eyes widened in realization. “Oh, my God. I took it with me earlier. I’m so sorry.”

Bucky had to smile at the way you looked genuinely distressed, like you had done something unforgivable. 

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You had a lot on your mind.”

You hesitated, but didn’t set it down. “Are you sure I can take it with me?”

“Yeah.” His gaze softened. “I put it back there so you’d be comfortable, and it kinda defeats the purpose if you don’t use it.”

He wouldn’t be there to hold you tonight if you cried again, so the blanket would have to do. It was a small piece of comfort. A small piece of him. 

Warmth filled your eyes. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he replied, meaning it in more ways than one. 

He stepped out first, going to your door to open it. He didn’t rush you as you gathered your things, letting you go at your pace. He understood how the body lagged sometimes after everything spilled over. 

And his hand was already outstretched to help you out if you wanted it. 

You took it. 

Instead of the usual spark when your fingers touched, something steadier and grounding moved between you both. 

It felt like your hand belonged with his. 

It feels right. 

He helped you out and fell in step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. Your thumb brushed his skin, making his grip tighten a fraction when he glanced at you. Faint exhaustion lingered in your body, but you weren’t as tense. Your breathing had evened out. 

The hurt was still there, but you were safe.

You made it to the door, the light above it casting a glow over you, but you didn’t reach for the handle or let go of his hand. 

The soft good nights usually happened at the car, but not tonight. 

“Thank you for tonight,” you said above a whisper. 

He nodded, everything from the last few weeks pressing into his mind. 

Sam on one shoulder. “Be a man and get her number. 

Steve on the other. “You’re allowed to want something.”

The teasing. The smiles. The protein bars. The card your niece and nephew made. The movie list. 

How you quietly gave him your number. The careful texts. The deeper talks. 

The way you trusted him and broke in his arms tonight.

The way you said he’s the best part of your week. 

The way he was done pretending that there wasn’t something there between you. 

Time to erase the line for good. 

He kept your hand in his, refusing to retreat into neutral territory. “I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “I was thinking.”

You gazed at him expectantly. 

“I know things are… a lot right now,” he said, trying to be careful and not add pressure when you had so much on your mind. “With your brother and everything.”

Your grip tightened on the blanket, but you nodded for him to continue. 

“And I’m not trying to…” He huffed a little, almost frustrated with himself. “I’m not trying to make things harder for you.”

That was the last thing he wanted to do. 

“You’re not,” you said, stepping closer. “You never could.”

That gave him just enough courage to keep going, taking one last deep breath.

Just say it. 

“I just… I don’t want to keep pretending that I’m just your cab driver anymore. Not after tonight,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. “Because you’re the best part of my week, too.”

Your breath caught enough that he felt it. 

“So. When things feel less heavy, or you just need a break…” His heart was pounding now. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

He didn’t breathe as the question hung in the air. 

Opening up and asking you out wasn’t going to magically erase the pain or worry you felt. It wouldn’t fix what was happening with your brother. But you didn’t need to go it alone. 

You stared at him, almost like you were afraid he’d take the offer back. “Dinner?” you echoed.

“Yeah. Dinner. With me,” he said, his voice low. “No meter running or route. Just… us.”

Just the two of you enjoying each other’s company. 

“Because I want to see you outside of the cab.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I want to critique movies and books with you and eat pizza or noodles or brinner and just talk. I want Al to finally see my favorite passenger in person.” 

A small laugh escaped you, the sound like sunlight appearing after a storm. 

“But only if you want, and only when you’re ready.”

You stared at him for a long moment before you smiled, one that reached your eyes for the first time tonight. 

“I’d like that,” you said 

The rush of relief hit him so fast it almost made him lightheaded. You wanted to have dinner with him. You wanted to see him outside of the weekly routine. 

“Yeah?” he asked, just to be sure.

“Yeah,” you replied, tender and certain. “Is… tomorrow too soon?”

Bucky blinked, genuinely thinking he misheard you. 

Tomorrow?

His heart stuttered. He expected an offer to check your schedule or something weeks down the line. But not this. 

“Tomorrow?” he repeated breathlessly. 

You nodded, a tad shy. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re free… and it’s not too fast or anything?”

Too fast?

I’ve been waiting fifteen Thursdays now for this. 

“It’s not too fast.” He shook his head, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It’s actually kinda perfect.”

“It is?”

“It is,” he said, more certain. “Tomorrow’s great.”

Tomorrow meant you wanted this. Not just someday down the line, but now. Even with everything going on. 

“We can keep it easy,” he said, his thumb moving over your knuckles again. “Whatever you’re up for.”

“Movie?” you suggested, a small hint of your usual warmth slipping back in. “And noodles?”

He laughed. “Number seven?”

“Number seven,” you confirmed, your smile widening. 

“Alright. Noodles and a movie at my place.”

“It’s a date,” you whispered.

A date.

You were still standing close. Close enough that if he leaned in just a fraction… God, he wanted to kiss you. More than anything. 

The two of you took an important step. He finally stopped being a coward. You didn’t hold everything in. 

But he didn’t kiss you. 

Tonight wasn’t about that. 

His forehead, however, did intentionally brush yours this time. 

“I’ll text you,” he murmured. 

“I’ll be waiting.”

And I’ll be counting down the minutes. 

You squeezed his hand before finally stepping back, his blanket tucked against your chest. “Good night, Buck.”

He memorized the way you gazed at him,  basking in that glow. “Good night.”

You slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. There was no drop in his stomach. No nerves. 

He didn’t have to wait for another Thursday to see you again. 

He finally turned back toward the cab, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to physically process what just happened.

Dinner and a movie. 

You wanted to spend time with him. 

“Jesus,” he muttered happily under his breath as he slid back into the driver’s seat. 

His gaze drifted to the backseat, landing on the empty space where you had been curled up just minutes ago, his blanket wrapped around you, trusting him with something rough and fragile.

When he picked you up tomorrow, you could sit in the front beside him. 

His phone buzzed, his heart picking up before he even saw your message. 

Of course, it was you. 

MFP: “Curled up on the couch with your blanket. Thanks again. For everything.”

It gave him peace of mind knowing you made it into your place safe and sound since he only walked you to the building door. 

“Thanks for letting me help.”

He made a difference tonight. 

He almost set the phone down when another message popped up. 

MFP: “My brother was awake when I reached out.”

He held his breath. Was he okay? Did something happen?

“Yeah?”

Three dots appeared long enough that he sat up straighter. 

MFP: “I told him we’re having dinner tomorrow, and he said he’s looking forward to meeting the guy who keeps me safe every week.”

He reread the message until the screen went dark. 

Your brother, the one you were terrified for, wanted to meet him. 

Becca would want to meet you. 

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to ground himself. Something earnest and dangerously close to overwhelming spread from his chest, the card on the dashboard staring at him. It brought a smile to his face. 

“I’d be honored to meet him. I’ll have to make a good first impression.”

As a big brother, Bucky sensed and respected that he would be a bit protective of you. 

MFP: “You already have.”

The additional layer of assurance did wonders. 

MFP: “Get some rest tonight, okay? Happy Friday Eve.”

There it was. 

Soft, familiar, and you. 

“You, too. And it’s Friday Junior.”

MFP: “Same thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he whispered, happiness filling him to the point where he thought he’d float away. 

He shot off a quick message to the guys and Becca. “Got a date tomorrow night. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

With a smile, he put the phone away. He could already see Sam losing his mind and Steve would try and fail to act subtle about it. Becca would demand every detail after. He’d wait until later to see and hear their stunned reactions. 

For now, he was going to drive and get a few more people where they needed to go. 

But not before taking one last look at your building and picturing you curled up with his blanket. 

Fifteen Thursdays.

Fifteen weeks of watching you slip into his cab with tired eyes, soft smiles, and sweetness that made a difference in his day. Fifteen weeks of falling for you in steady increments. Fifteen weeks of chances he almost let slip by because it took him some time to feel brave. 

And tonight he erased the line he drew in the sand for good because you mattered more. 

You let him see you and it was a beautiful thing. 

“Tomorrow,” he said again like a promise, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. 

Tomorrow there wouldn’t be a meter running or rearview mirror glances. No pretending it was just another ride. It would just be you and him. 

He was counting down the minutes. 

And for once, he didn’t feel like he needed to second guess any of it. 

Whew! Did we make it? This isn't the end for these two. It's very much a beginning. Would love to hear your thoughts!

Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”