Cees is a Congo African grey parrot, born in captivity. She's 10 years old (turning 11 this year) and lives with me and my boyfriend. We also have 2 dogs and 2 house chickens (serama chickens, the dogs are both mixed breeds).
Cees looovvees talking, whistling, destroying toys, imitating the fire alarm and getting scratches from my boyfriend. She knows some English words, but most words she knows are in Dutch because we are Dutch (🤣)
She has a big vocabulary, so be sure to expect some videos of her talking in the future!(with English subs probably)
I am Not allowed to touch her whatsoever. She takes to male humans a lot, so my boyfriend is her to go to person (so are my dad and my younger brother who visit some times) for scratches.
Cees and I have come to an agreement however; I am allowed to feed her and she only takes new, never before explored foods from me. I get a thank you sound from her when I feed her.
She also gives me kisses through the cage (she grabs the bars with her beak, which I am allowed to kiss) when she goes to bed or wakes up. But only if she feels like it, I get bitten on occasion 😅
Due to my living room being smaller than my dad's house, I no longer have Cees in her large wall cage. She now has a normal parrot cage we have her in when we are at work (6 hours tops) and when she goes to bed. Cees has a tree she can play in outside of her cage and I've put some toys above it (hanging from curtain rails) for her to destroy.
Cees loves her veggies and fruits and annoys us daily to give her some haha.
I once left her unattended on her tree in our living room, but I never will do so again. It probably was only 30 minutes before I discovered I accidentally left her there, but when I came downstairs she had already ripped off some wallpaper 🥲 she, of course, just laughed at me and watched as I picked up the pieces from the ground. I honestly just laughed with her at that point. I was lucky she went for the wallpaper, not the couch or the tv🫣
Well, enough ramblings for now, I am confident I will upload more stories/pictures/videos in the future for you guys to enjoy!
If you've got any questions, please do not hesitate to ask🥰
But do be kind, for I will not respond to unkind messages!
Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.
Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.
Word Count: About 5.3k.
He didn't want the cleaning service at first.
Too invasive, too fussy. Too awkward to let strangers enter a place that he was still learning to feel like a home. But his staff had insisted, gently but firmly. He was a public figure now. The service company came highly recommended as discreet and secure. No need for small talk or eye contact. Just clean surfaces and food that didn’t come in plastic bags.
The company had a key. They came while he was out. Twice a week, no more, no less. Floors scrubbed, bed made, fridge stocked with two fresh meals, laundry done and folded. Neutral. Efficient. He hadn’t asked for more.
Didn’t think he needed it.
And for almost two months, it stayed that way. Predictable and impersonal.
Then something changed.
It wasn’t obvious at first. Just a faint jasmine scent on the floorboards when he came in one Thursday. A softness in the towels that hadn't been there before. He didn't know what laundry soap she used now, but it remained faintly on his undershirts and stayed there, even under the starch and suits.
And the food. He didn’t remember requesting a change to "homestyle", but something about the new meals felt different. Simpler. Hearty. Less... curated. There were potatoes done the way his ma used to make them, string beans cooked soft and salted instead of bright and snappy. Meatloaf. Stew. Biscuits wrapped in a cloth napkin, like someone didn’t want them to go cold too fast.
He didn’t mind the change. In fact, he found himself looking forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays now. Found himself standing in the doorway just a little longer when he got home.
Found himself breathing deeper.
And he hadn't realized how much that mattered until the jasmine scent was gone, for two visits. A week without it. Like someone else had stepped in for the shifts and didn’t use her supplies. Whoever she was.
He didn’t ask the company about it. That would make it a thing. It wasn’t a thing.
But when it came back, subtle and soft under his front door, he realized he’d missed it.
----
It wasn’t supposed to be a long-term thing.
Just a stopgap. Something stable while she figured things out, something to get the rent paid, to keep food on the table, to keep her hands busy so her head wouldn’t spiral.
That was four years ago.
The flower shop had gone up with the smoke one winter night, an electrical fault, they said. Faulty fuse box. Nothing she could’ve done. And still, the insurance company found a way to wriggle free of every promise. Negligence was the word they leaned on. Cold. Precise. Final. She still dreamed of that smell sometimes, wet ash, scorched petals, the soil turning to a black sludge.
So she cleaned.
Her friend knew someone at the company and vouched for her. It was a clean-cut operation, specializing in silence, efficiency, and making life easier for the rich and important people without ever getting too close. Names weren’t shared. No questions asked. The job was: arrive, clean, cook if requested, and leave before the client came home.
Most were just properties, not homes. Untouched bookshelves, empty fridges, decor chosen by someone with a spreadsheet. She never lingered too much.
When Carla from the Thursday-Tuesday rotation quit -something about her kid and the commute- her boss messaged her directly.
“Solid client. Single guy. High profile. Interested?”
She said yes without thinking before asking for the address.
It wasn’t far. A decent building in a quiet street. She filled the product request form immediately, asking for the brands she liked, floor soap with jasmine, the laundry liquid that didn’t smell like hotel sheets, and the dried lavender flask. Her own little signatures. It wasn’t for them, it was for her. To stick with comfortable scents.
The first time she stepped inside the place, she noticed the simplicity. No clutter. No pictures. No smell of cigarettes. No designer furniture. Just white walls and clean counters and a coffee mug still wet in the sink.
A little lonely if you ask her, but simpler to maintain. She liked it.
Two hours later, the place gleamed, the fridge held two containers of stew, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and lemon balm. She clicked the door behind her with satisfaction.
It wasn’t a dream job.
But it was good enough.
And after what she’d been through, good enough meant everything.
----
She hadn’t meant to snoop.
It was just a quick wipe-down of the table near the entryway, as always, a change tray, a small pile of unopened mail. Standard. Most of the time, she didn’t even glance at the envelopes, just moved them aside with the back of her hand.
But that day, one slipped, and she caught it without thinking.
Her eyes hit the name before she could look away.
Barnes, James B.
Blocky letters. Government seal in the corner.
Her stomach gave a weird little flip.
She held the envelope longer than she should’ve, her fingers still pressed against the smooth paper. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
James Barnes.
It couldn’t be-
But it was.
She’d watched the hearings on the news like everyone else back then, back when Zemo’s little show had dragged old ghosts into the daylight. A face all over every channel. “The Winter Soldier.” The monster in grainy Hydra footage, all blood, violence, and blank stares. She remembered digging deeper online, reading words she didn’t even want to say aloud, conditioning, assassination programs, cryogenic freezing, psychological mutilation.
And now here she was. Wiping his countertops.
And then the pardon came. The press cycle burned out. People moved on.
Now, he was in a suit, making speeches with his jaw clenched too tightly, his voice low and unslick. Every opponent had tried to gut him with his past, throwing his record into the dirt, dragging out death counts like headlines. But he’d held. Barely. Visibly. A man trying not to bolt every time a flash went off.
A sharp breath escaped her lips. She looked around like the walls might suddenly see her differently.
So he was her boss.
It made sense now, the spartan apartment, despite the nice neighborhood. No trace of friends or family. The closed door at the end of the hall that was always locked, marked clearly on the service sheet as "no access."
She’d joked once, silently, looking at that door, that the guy had spy gear in there. Or was a serial killer, and the day she finds it casually opened and dares to enter… that is how scary movies started.
She placed the envelope back where it had been and straightened it.
He was just a man.
A man who’d been through hell, and wanted clean floors and warm food waiting when he got home. She stood there a second longer, her hand resting on the top of the table. Then moved on. Quietly, like always.
----
She didn’t tell anyone she’d figured it out. The company wouldn’t have liked it, and it didn’t matter anyway, her job hadn’t changed. Wipe. Sweep. Wash. Cook. Lock up. The routine stayed the same. But she didn’t.
Now that she knew who he was, really was, it changed how she moved through the apartment.
She caught herself slowing down near the closed door at the end of the hall, imagining what was behind it. She didn’t pry. Never would. But she started noticing the little things he did leave visible.
A stack of books on the coffee table. Nonfiction, history, psychology, one with bent pages about PTSD. The way he always left the light on in the kitchen window, like he hated coming home to a dark place. A blue coffee mug with a tiny chip on the handle that he still used every day.
And the food.
She started tweaking the meals. Small things at first. Mashed potatoes with extra butter. Slowly roasted chicken instead of grilled. Stew with more salt, more depth.
No complaints.
So she kept going.
On Thursdays, after she cleaned and cooked and made sure everything was just so, she started leaving something extra on the counter.
A small cake.
A batch of oatmeal cookies.
A little apple pie tucked into a glass container, still warm.
Never something fancy. Never store-bought. Comfort things. Something sweet to come home to.
----
It started with the pie.
He came home late that Thursday, later than usual, the suit jacket slung over his shoulder, tie half-pulled, his eyes prickling. He was tired. Not physically, he didn’t get tired, but mentally exhausted.
The apartment smelled like something sweet.
Not the jasmine, that was there too, soft as always. No, this was heavier. Baked. Warm.
He set his keys down and found it on the counter.
Pie. Still holding the faintest trace of oven heat. No label. Just there. Waiting. Like someone knew the kind of day he’d had. Like someone thought maybe a man like him deserved something that tasted like comfort.
He stared at it too long before putting it in the fridge. He didn’t eat it that night. Didn’t want to ruin it with his exhaustion.
But the next day, after a cold shower and half a night’s sleep, he sat at the kitchen island, bare feet on cool tile, fork in hand.
And it was good.
He didn’t tell the service anything. Didn’t leave feedback. Didn't know how. What was he supposed to say? Thanks for the pie?
But the next Thursday, there were cookies. Chewy centers, crispy edges, cinnamon that remained on his tongue longer than it should’ve. He ate them standing up, staring out the window.
By the third week -banana bread, nutty and dense- he started leaving that part of the counter a little clearer. No old mugs, no bowl with fruits. Just space, just in case something else showed up.
And it did.
Always something different. Never too much. Never presumptuous. Just… a simple gift. From someone he’d never seen, whose name he didn’t know, who folded his laundry and cooked his food and smelled like jasmine and something warmer he couldn’t describe.
He found himself trying to imagine her.
Not in a crude way. Not like that. Just- what kind of person did this? Left sweetness behind without asking for thanks? What kind of person looked at a stranger’s life, his particular, lonely life, and thought: he could use something soft?
He started looking forward to Thursdays.
Started coming home earlier, if he could.
And sometimes, on Wednesday nights, he caught himself wondering what she’d leave next.
----
He nearly stepped on it.
The soft clink under his heel made him freeze mid-step, one foot on the air, the other rooted to the floor. He looked down, expecting a dropped spoon maybe, or one of those damn loose buttons that always slipped free from his cuffs.
But it was a chain.
Delicate. Faintly tarnished. A single flower pendant in the center. Tiny petals worked in silver, something between a daisy and a wild rose. He crouched down slowly, brushing it carefully from the floor.
He held it up by the chain and watched it spin gently in the kitchen light.
Definitely not his. No one else had been here.
His mouth tugged into the barest line of surprise.
She must’ve dropped it. This invisible woman who moved through his home when he was gone, who left behind jasmine-scented floors and meals that tasted like someone gave a damn.
The pendant was feminine. A little worn at the edges. Something someone had owned for a while. Not a girl’s thing, not trendy. Something with history.
He found himself thinking: She must be older.
The food made sense now. So did the conditioner, the kind his ma used when he was young, not the chemical-heavy invasive crap most places sold now. And the way things were placed in soft order, not a strict pattern. Not hotel-precise, but thoughtful. Folded throw blanket on the couch. A corner of the towel lifted just so on the rack. She moved like someone used to making spaces feel lived-in. Comfortable.
He imagined her with silver hair twisted up loosely. Glasses maybe. Someone in her sixties. Maybe a widow.
He ran his thumb over the edge of the flower.
He’d return it, of course. Leave it on the kitchen island next visit, maybe tucked into a small dish so she’d see it. But for now… he pocketed it gently. Just for the night.
And for reasons he didn’t examine too closely, he kept it by his bed.
Just until Thursday.
----
She didn’t notice it was gone until she got home.
Her fingers went instinctively to her collarbone while she peeled off her sweater, reaching for the familiar curve of the chain, and touched skin instead. She froze. Then checked the hem, the collar, the folds of the fabric, like maybe it got caught somehow. But it wasn’t there.
She checked the pockets of her coat. Her bag. Nothing.
Her throat closed.
The pendant.
A silver flower, soft-edged with age. It had been her grandmother’s. A gift the day she opened the flower shop, “something to bloom beside you,” she’d said, pressing it into her palm with the fierce kind of pride old women had.
The shop was gone now. Ashes and soot. And now this, too.
She didn’t want to cry, but the grief crept up anyway, quiet and unwelcome. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her open hands like they might explain where she’d lost it.
It had to be today. It was clasped this morning. She was sure of it.
She hadn’t wanted to say anything. It was unprofessional, and the company discouraged personal contact. But after half an hour of chewing her lip and pacing the kitchen, she gave in and sent a message.
Hi, I think I may have left something at the Tuesday/Thursday apartment. A small silver pendant on a chain. Could you possibly reach out to the client to check if it turned up?
The reply came later. Too short. Too cold.
We’ll pass the message along, but please be more careful in the future. We cannot guarantee a response from the client.
That was it.
She didn’t know if they’d actually tell him. Probably not. He was important. A man like him had more to worry about than a necklace dropped by a service worker.
She sighed, rubbing the spot at her collarbone like she could will its shape back.
It felt stupid to mourn something so small. But it wasn’t about the chain.
It was about her grandmother’s hand on hers. The smell of peonies in the air. That little key they used to hang from the wall behind the register. The shop that had been her heart for six full years before it burned out.
Now that pendant would be somewhere in a trash bin, swept up with crumbs, or stuck to the back of a counter.
Almost poetic, really.
The flower shop was gone. Now the pendant was too.
----
He looked a it longer than he meant to.
He just… liked having it there. On his nightstand. In the quiet. It didn’t do anything, just caught the light in the mornings. But it felt like a presence. A reminder that someone moved through his life with gentleness.
When Thursday came, he gently polished the chain with a cloth, then neatly put it inside the dish where she usually left him the things she found on the floor, like buttons, coins, or a solitary cufflink. But it looked too bare like that. Too transactional.
He hesitated. Then grabbed his coat and headed down the street.
The corner market had a little stand, mostly overpriced bouquets, but he wasn’t after those. He scanned the selection until he found it, behind the roses and lilies. A single stem of fresia. Pale, almost white. Clean.
It reminded him of his ma’s apron pockets.
He took it home, trimmed the end with his pocketknife, and laid it next to the dish.
The necklace, and beside it, the flower.
No note. He wouldn’t know what to write. And she didn’t leave him notes either. He stepped back from the counter.
For a long moment, he just looked at it, this odd little shrine of softness in his too-empty kitchen.
For the woman who folded his shirts like with care.
For the food that tasted like memory.
For the silence that didn’t feel hollow anymore.
----
She wasn’t expecting anything.
By now, she’d accepted the pendant was gone. No one from the company had followed up. If they’d reached out to the client, she hadn’t heard about it.
Maybe she’d dropped it outside. Or it got tangled in the laundry and swept up by accident. Maybe it was meant to be. It was just another echo of the life she used to have. Another piece of the shop, of her grandmother, gone.
That Thursday, she came in like always. Hung up her coat. Tied her apron. She was about to drop to her knees in front of the cabinet under the sink to grab the spray and rag, but as she walked toward it, something caught her eye.
Not clutter -he never left clutter-. But something light. Pale. She stepped closer, curious.
It was a flower. It sat on the kitchen island like it had been placed with care. A single fresia stem. A little old-fashioned, but beautiful and with a wonderful scent. Her breath caught, but not because of what it was, but because of why it was there. Her pendant.
She reached out slowly, and her fingers remained at a brief distance just over the curve of the chain, like it might vanish if she touched it too quickly.
There it was. Pooled neatly inside the “found things” dish.
He’d found it.
She stood there longer than she meant to, with her hand still resting beside the little flower. It wasn’t just the gesture of returning it. It was the wayhe did it. With something lovely and thoughtful.
She decided to bake that lemon cake she loved for that day. The one with poppy seeds in the batter and the glaze. She had bought them to make it for herself, but she wanted to say thank you. So she reached for her purse and put the little bag with the seeds on the counter for later.
----
The apartment smelled faintly of lemon.
It swirled in the air differently than the usual jasmine. As he walked inside, he picked up the sugar, the warm scent of golden batch.
Not store-bought. Tangy-sweet and soft.
He moved toward the kitchen.
And there, right beside the dish, right where he’d left her fresia, A lemon cake, cooling on a small wooden board he didn’t even remember owning, golden, the white glaze still not dried.
He didn’t move for a second. Just stood there, looking at it.
He reached out and ran his index finger lightly over the glaze. It was tacky with citrus and sugar. Fresh.
He cut a slice in silence and sat at the kitchen island to eat it, the plate barely making a sound on the counter. He chewed slowly, letting the flavor unfurl, bright lemon, the crunch of seeds, the softness of something made from scratch.
It was the best thing he’d tasted in weeks.
And somehow, that mattered more than he wanted to admit.
The pendant had meant something to her. He knew that now. The flower had been his way of saying he saw it. And this cake, it felt like her way of saying thank you.
They still hadn’t met. Still hadn’t spoken, probably never will. But something was happening here, two people sharing a quiet room in mismatched moments of the day, still passing warmth between them.
He reached for a second slice.
And for the first time in days, he really smiled.
----
He should’ve checked the schedule.
The Capitol steps shone under his shoes as he stood there, blinking at the empty air where the aides and staffers should’ve been.
No session.
A recess day for constituent travel, or maybe one of those informal pro forma sessions that didn’t need his presence. Whatever it was, no one told him. Or maybe they had, and he hadn’t listened. Either way, he was there, alone, overdressed, and already caught by the click of a single paparazzi camera from across the street.
James Buchanan Barnes, rookie congressman, looking confused as hell.
He bit down a curse and didn’t give the lens anything else to work with, just turned on his heel and headed for the car, schooling his face into neutrality.
Halfway through the drive home, it hit him.
She’s there today.
He gripped the wheel tightly. He could turn around, kill time somewhere, a coffee shop, a walk in the park, or hit the gym even though he wasn’t in the mood. He could also disappear into the back room of his apartment without being noticed and pretend no one was in there.
But who was he kidding? He wanted to know her. The motherly voice behind the lemon cake. The gentle scent of dried lavender on the satchels she left inside his pillowcases, soothing, helping him rest. The woman who turned his empty apartment into something he trusted to come home to.
The elevator ride felt slower than usual. His pulse didn’t match the rhythm of the floor numbers ticking upward.
He reached the hallway.
He stepped in front of his door and heard it, the faint sound of music. Seemed like some kind of pop-rock thing.
Not what he had expected.
As he slowly walked in, he noticed that the music came from the kitchen, so he stealthily moved toward it. He didn’t want to stalk her, just… watch her a little without being noticed.
Baby, I'm preying on you tonight
Hunt you down eat you alive
Just like animals
Animals
Like animals
Ok. He didn’t expect that type of lyrics and the kind lady cleaning his house put together either. Curious, he reached the open door and-
Maybe you think that you can hide
I can smell your scent for miles
Just like animals
Animals
Like animals-mals
It wasn’t an old lady, that was for sure. No ache on her hips, since she seemed to undulate them following the rhythm, tantalizingly fine. Also, she seemed to know the song, since she sang it pretty well as she danced while wiping the counter.
A very suggestive prose, by the way.
He stared at her, and his brain tripped over the disconnection between the image he’d built in his head and the woman in front of him, completely unaware that she was being watched.
But I get so high when I’m inside you-
She turned.
Her yelp was half-squeal, half-breathless gasp. One hand flew to her chest. The other snatched her phone off the counter and slammed the music off with a panicked swipe.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, but a few strands had fallen loose as she danced, brushing her cheek. She looked flustered, very much not the prim apron-and-hairnet matron he’d imagined all these months.
They stared at each other.
Heat gathered at the tips of her ears and along her cheeks. Not embarrassment, no, something different. Like her brain was already halfway through cataloging every second of what he’d just witnessed.
Then her expression changed, as if she had snapped out of the initial surprise. She straightened her posture, pulling professionalism over herself like a second skin.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said quickly, looking at the floor. “I- I was supposed to be alone. If I’d known, I would never-”
“No, no,” he interrupted her, stepping forward instinctively. “It’s alright. I- uh. I wasn’t supposed to be here.”
It felt absurd, saying that in his own kitchen.
He cleared his throat. “Something came up, and I forgot today was your shift.”
The lie passed his lips smoothly.
She stood still, with her phone in her hand, every part of her body visibly tense, like one wrong move might get her fired. The cozy warmth from a few minutes ago was locked out behind a door of fear.
He didn’t want that.
He didn’t want her to feel that way at all.
She turned around, reaching for the dish towel she’d set aside, her fingers trembling visibly even as she tried to mask it. “I’ll be done in a few minutes, sir. Or if you prefer, I can return another day to finish-”
“No,” he said again, softer this time. “You don’t have to go.”
She glanced at him, faintly furrowing her brows.
He looked away.
The kitchen smelled like citrus cleaner and something hearty cooking in the oven. The kind of warmth he was craving to find in his nameplate apartment. And here they were, strangers, but he already felt her more familiar than she should be.
“I’ll stay out of your way,” he added, half-mumbling, and stepped back toward the hallway.
----
She didn’t move until she heard his retreating footsteps, and the door shut. The one she was told never to enter, the one locked every time she came.
Her heartbeat hadn't calmed down.
Not even close.
In four years with the company, she had never -never- crossed paths with a client. The contracts were built around that. No contact. No overlap. No room for awkwardness.
And now… this.
Congressman Barnes had just walked into his own home and caught her shaking her ass in his kitchen to a song about animalistic sex.
She exhaled hard through her nose and pressed the heels of her hands into the counter, trying to calm herself.
He didn’t seem mad. That was something.
Not a single sign of disgust or irritation. No barking orders. No tight-lipped reprimand about inappropriate conduct.
But that didn’t mean anything.
People in power didn’t have to scold you to ruin your job. They could just make a call. Ask for a switch. Flag you quietly. Label you unprofessional in one neat sentence.
Fuck.
She bit her lip and forced herself to move, grabbed the rag, and started wiping the faucet.
The pendant. The flower.
Those things had meant something. Or at least, she thought they had. A man who did that kind of gesture wasn’t cold. He wasn’t cruel.
But that was before this shitshow.
Before he saw her dancing around his countertops like a teenager with a hairbrush mic.
What if she got fired?
What the hell was she going to do?
The rent was due next week. Groceries were already thin. She didn’t even want to think about the dentist’s appointment she’d been rescheduling.
She wiped harder, moving her arms faster than they needed to, because if she didn’t keep moving, her hands would start shaking again.
And the thing that made it worse?
She hadn’t felt so seen in a long, long time.
And now all she wanted to do was vanish.
----
He tried to read the bill.
The same goddamn bill he’d opened five times this week and dropped five times more.
Something about infrastructure grants and zoning development for public parks in outlying districts. Important, supposedly. But it droned in his brain like static, paragraphs bloated with legal phrasing, clauses stacked like bricks in a wall he couldn’t make himself scale.
His eyes scanned the same sentence again.
Still nothing stuck.
Because underneath the words, under the dead weight of legislative jargon, he could hear her.
The subtle movements. Efficient. The soft drag of a towel over tile. The squeak of a cupboard hinge. Running water. Her steps.
She hadn’t fled.
But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.
He rubbed his jaw with the back of his knuckles and leaned back in the chair, briefly closing his eyes, trying to block out the memory of her startled face, of how she froze, how quickly she apologized, how she’d looked at him like he was someone who could undo her whole life with a phone call.
He hadn’t meant to scare her.
He hadn’t meant to catch her, either. The music, the sway of her body. That bright little pocket of joy had been private. Intimate in a way he wasn’t supposed to see.
What if she requested a transfer?
What if she told the company he was intrusive or uncomfortable to work around? What if she disappeared, and the next time he walked through his door, the air smelled like ammonia and pine, the food tasted sterile, and there were no more dried lavender satchels tucked into his pillowcase?
He wouldn't complain.
He’d never say a word.
But it’d affect him more than he liked to admit.
He looked at the time and did some quick math.
She usually left at a quarter past four. Sometimes earlier if she finished ahead of schedule.
If he went out there at just the right moment, said something -anything- it might make a difference.
He didn’t want to corner her. Didn’t want to put her on edge. But he also didn’t want his apartment to go back to what it was before she came.
So he waited.
Just long enough.
Let the minutes tick by.
And when he heard the final rattle of a spray bottle being returned to its caddy, he stood up, cracked the door, and stepped out.
----
She rubbed a bit of cream into her hands, working it into the skin between each knuckle, then reached for her coat and bag by the door. Almost done. One more minute and she’d be out.
She heard the footsteps before she saw him.
She turned her head, and her heart lunched all over again.
He was in different clothes now. Every day stuff, a dark pair of jeans and a worn blue henley that pulled a little across his shoulders. If she’d passed him on the street, she’d think he was a normal guy. Quiet guy. Maybe one of those who always held the door open without making eye contact.
But she knew better.
She straightened her back and made herself speak.
“Is there anything you need, sir?” she asked, almost a murmur.
He stopped a few feet from her and looked up. Sir. He didn’t like how it sounded, it felt awkward. But he understood the boundaries.
He scratched the side of his neck. “I just wanted to say I, uh…” His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to her. “I liked the lemon cake. A lot.”
A beat.
“And I was wondering if… maybe you’d make it again sometime?”
He shifted his weight, slightly uncomfortable. “I’ll get the seeds. The ones you used, if you tell me what they are, and leave them in the cabinet with the spices and the other stuff.”
There it was. A quiet request.
Not only a I liked it, but also a I want you to come back.
The weight in her chest lifted enough to let her smile without thinking.
“Poppy,” she said. “They’re poppy seeds.”
He found himself smiling too. A mirror of hers.
“And sure, sir. I’ll do it again if you want me to.”
There was a pause.
His fingers grazed the back of his neck, like the words he was about to say needed to be coaxed out of him.
“I know about the politics,” he said quietly. “The rules. But… we already broke one.”
His voice was rougher now, gentler.
“Would you mind if we introduced ourselves?” A beat. “Since I don’t know. I feel it’s the proper thing to do.”
She blinked just once, surprised. Not by his tone, but maybe by the fact that he’d asked. Then the surprise changed to a soft smile again, and she gave him her name.
He nodded. “James Barnes,” he said, almost sheepishly. His hands stayed loose at his sides, like he didn’t want to risk making her uncomfortable again. “It was nice to meet you.”
as you can see she was molting her red tail during this period. At one point she was completely without her red tail and I was kinda scared she was plucking. Thankfully she was just molting due to moving from my dad's house to my old one.
