ᴄᴀʟʟ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴇᴛ ʟᴏꜱᴛ
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky barnes doesn’t know what to do with freedom. so he does the only thing he can think of—he makes a flyer.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › mentions of alcohol/drinking, handyman bucky, post tfatws, lowk grumpy x sunshine, semi slow burn, some fluff, heavy banter, yearning to the max, acts of service love language, strangers to something more, domesticity, first kiss, soft bucky, reader is a little too trusting but it works out, not beta read we die like men. ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 10.9k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › guys if this is ass plz lie, ive lost my writers spark entirely and this is something i had to drag out from the bottom of the barrel so i apologize in advance.
Bucky's staring at a blank wall in his apartment.
It’s been blank for three months.
He hasn’t put up art, hasn’t mounted shelves. Hasn’t even leaned anything against it to pretend he might one day decide. The paint is that neutral off-white landlords choose when they don’t want tenants getting ideas, it reflects the late afternoon light in a way that makes the room feel larger than it is.
Larger. Emptier.
He folds his arms over his chest and studies the wall like it’s a problem he’s been assigned.
He’s “free” now. No handler. No mission briefs. No coded directives slipped under doors or encrypted messages lighting up burner phones, no one telling him where to go, who to be, or what mistakes to fix. He thought freedom would feel big. He thought it would be loud in a good way, like fireworks or a door kicked open. He thought it would feel like breathing after being underwater too long.
It doesn't.
It feels… empty.
The kind of empty that echoes. The kind that makes every sound in the apartment too sharp, the refrigerator humming, pipes ticking in the walls, the faint traffic noise drifting up from the street.
He shifts his weight.
Bucky knows what you need to have in today's world to do something, to be something that matters. He doesn’t have half of it. He never went to college, the war kind of interrupted that. He doesn't know where he would start with a resume, “Assassin, covert operative and international fugitive” doesn’t format well in bullet points. He tried LinkedIn, once, then deleted it in under five minutes after they asked what his minimum salary was at a past job.
He doesn't have a plan, he's got what he always thought he wanted from his life and now that he has it, it's collecting dust in his empty apartment.
He knows what he does have. A truck. Old yet reliable, rebuilt twice over with his own hands. Mechanical skills. He can fix almost anything with an engine. Most things without one. A terrifying resting face, that he’s been told scares even the brutalist of criminals away. More than once.
And time. So much time.
He runs a hand over his jaw, exhales, and finally looks away from the wall. He tried therapy. He still goes once a week where he sits on a couch across from a woman who asks him what he wants now that he’s allowed to want things.
He doesn’t have an answer.
He tried the gym. That just made him feel like he was waiting for something.
He tried walking around Brooklyn without a destination. That lasted two hours before he found himself counting exits and scanning rooftops out of habit. Freedom is supposed to come with direction, that’s what people imply. You earn it, and then you use it.
Bucky doesn’t know how to do that, how to do freedom. He moves into the kitchen, if you can call it that. It’s more of an open counter situation, and pulls open a drawer. Inside are exactly three pens, a rubber band, and a folded takeout menu.
He grabs a pen. Stands there for a long moment. Then he finds a pad of paper in another drawer that thick, slightly yellow, the kind meant for grocery lists and tears off a sheet. He sits at the small table by the window. The city moves outside. Car horns, voices, someone laughing. Someone arguing, a siren in the distance.
He stares at the blank page. He doesn’t need a career, per say. He needs… something to do. Something simple. Something useful. So he writes in block letters.
NEED HELP?
He pauses. That’s vague, he thinks, but maybe vague is good. He continues. Adding in things like, Protection. Heavy lifting. Fixing stuff.
He considers crossing out “stuff.” Leaves it. He taps the pen against the table thinking with a hum, people won’t call a stranger without reassurance.
He sighs and writes: Not a serial killer.
He leans back and stares at it. It’s terrible. And honest.
He adds his name and cut little strips into the page, writing his number on each one as a DIY tearoff. He learned that word from Sam when he told him he should look up some DIY key holders for his apartment.
He studies the finished product. It looks like something a bored teenager would tape to a telephone pole as a joke. So he makes another one.
And another.
By the time the light shifts toward evening, there are fifteen slightly crooked, slightly uneven flyers spread across his table. He stares at them like they might explain themselves. This is stupid, he thinks to himself. This is civilian nonsense. And it is defintely not a plan. But at least it’s something, and it's better than staring at a blank wall trying to guess how many layers of paint are on it.
He grabs a roll of tape from under the sink, shrugs into his jacket, and gathers the stack. The hallway outside his apartment smells faintly like old carpet and someone’s overcooked dinner. He heads down the stairs instead of taking the elevator, an old habit, and steps out into the early evening air.
Brooklyn hums.
He’s lived here long enough now that the rhythm of it doesn’t jolt him anymore. It’s background noise instead of threat assessment, mostly. He tapes the first flyer to a lamppost outside his building, presses the tape flat with his thumb and steps back.
It looks ridiculous, he moves on to the next one anyway.
He tapes one outside a laundromat, another near a bus stop, one by a small grocery store on the corner. He hesitates outside a coffee shop, then shrugs and sticks one to the bulletin board already crowded with yoga class ads and guitar lessons and “ROOMMATE WANTED” strips.
He doesn’t overthink it.
If he overthinks it, he’ll stop.
By the time he’s done, the stack is gone and his hands are slightly sticky from tape residue. He stands on the sidewalk, truck parked at the curb, and looks around. That’s it. That’s his grand re-entry into civilian life.
A handful of flyers that say “Not a serial killer.”
He huffs a quiet, humorless laugh and climbs into his truck.
Three days pass.
Nothing.
His phone remains silent except for spam calls and a pharmacy reminder. He tells himself that’s expected. That people use apps now, platforms and ratings with verified accounts. Not hand-scrawled paper tabs.
On the fourth day, he walks past the lamppost outside his building. The flyer is still there completely untouched. No numbers torn off. Rain has wrinkled the edges slightly, but the ink hasn’t bled. He stares at it longer than necessary thinking maybe he should take them down.
Before someone reports him.
Before someone thinks it’s suspicious. Before he has to admit that even offering help isn’t enough to make someone need him.
He leaves it up.
A few blocks away, you’re struggling with a box labeled “KITCHEN???” in thick black marker.
The label is inaccurate. It contains exactly one mug, three mismatched plates, and an alarming number of tangled charging cables. You’re sweating. You’re slightly overwhelmed yet feeling the most giddy you had in years.
You’re trying to balance the box against your hip while fishing your keys out of your bag with the other hand. That’s when you see it.
The flyer, taped slightly crooked to the lamppost.
NEED HELP? Rides. Heavy lifting. Fixing stuff. Not a serial killer. – Bucky 718-325-7038
You blink.
Then you laugh. Out loud and it echoes a little on the sidewalk, surprising even you.
“Not a serial killer,” you repeat under your breath. “Well. That’s reassuring.”
You shift the box to your other hip and step closer.
The paper is slightly damp at the edges. The handwriting is bold, deliberate. Careful in a way that suggests the person writing it wasn’t joking, exactly. Just… blunt. There are little handmade tear-off tabs at the bottom with a phone number.
None of them have been taken.
You glance up and down the street. It’s early afternoon. People moving, cars passing, no one paying attention. You tug one of the tabs free. The paper rips with a soft, decisive sound. You fold it once and tuck it into your back pocket.
“Just in case,” you murmur to yourself, like that makes it reasonable.
You don’t actually intend to call. But something about it, about the absurd honesty that makes this new neighborhood feel slightly less intimidating. Like there are real people here.
Like maybe you didn’t just move into a city of strangers.
You juggle your box again and finally get the building door open. Inside, the hallway smells like old wood and someone’s incense. You don’t know a single soul here.
Not one.
After six hours in Brooklyn you have a new apartment, new job starting Monday, no furniture besides a mattress you haven’t unwrapped yet. You drop the box inside your door and lean back against it, exhaling.
You did it. You moved. This means you’re brave now. It also means you’re also starving, sweaty and slightly terrified. You pull the little tab out of your pocket and look at it again.
Bucky. Not a serial killer.
You snort softly, slipping it into your purse that sat in the kitchen, if you can call it that, next to an array of takeout menus left littered on the counter by the previous tenant. Just in case. You sit back on your heels, breathing slightly heavier than necessary, and let your gaze drift to the small strip of paper sitting on the counter.
It looks small there. Almost insignificant.
Like it couldn’t possibly matter.
You push yourself up with a quiet exhale, brushing dust from your palms as you take in the apartment again—really take it in this time. The stacks of boxes are a little less intimidating than they were this morning. You’ve made progress. There’s a mug in the sink now, your mug. A hoodie draped over the back of the door. Your shoes kicked off by the wall like you plan on staying.
It doesn’t feel like a stranger’s place anymore.
Not entirely.
You move slowly through the space, opening a box here, shifting something there. You line your toiletries along the bathroom sink, straighten the sheets on the mattress you finally unwrapped, plug in a lamp so the corners don’t feel quite so shadowed. Each small action presses you further into the room, like you’re anchoring yourself piece by piece.
Like you’re proving to yourself that you’re really here.
Brooklyn.
You pause in the middle of the living room, hands settling on your hips as the quiet settles around you again. It’s different now. Not as sharp. Still unfamiliar, but… softer at the edges. Outside, the city hums. Car horns, voices drifting up from the street, music faint and distant like it’s being carried on the air just for you.
You step closer to the window, the one you’ll later learn sticks, and peer out at the street below. People move like they know exactly where they’re going. Like they belong to the rhythm of it.
You want that.
Not just the city. Not just the apartment.
The feeling.
You glance back at the room. At the half-unpacked boxes, the bare walls, the life that hasn’t quite settled into place yet. You could stay in tonight. Finish unpacking. Eat something out of a container balanced on your knee and fall asleep early.
That would be the easier choice, the safer one. Your fingers tap lightly against your thigh as you consider it. Then you shake your head.
“No,” you murmur to yourself, quieter but firmer. “That’s not why you came here.”
You didn’t drive hours and sign a lease you can barely afford just to sit in silence and wait for your life to start. You didn’t leave everything familiar behind just to recreate it in a smaller space.
You came here to live.
Even if it’s messy, even if it’s uncomfortable, even if you don’t know what you’re doing yet. Especially then. Your gaze drifts back to your purse for a second, to the place where you tucked the little tab away. Something about it lingers in your mind, faint but present. Not a plan. Not even a real option.
Just… a possibility.
You grab a different jacket from one of the boxes, tug it on over your clothes, and glance at yourself in the reflection of the darkened window. You look a little tired. A little overwhelmed.
But there’s something else there too.
Something brighter.
“Okay,” you say softly, like you’re making a deal with yourself. “One drink.”
You grab your keys, hesitate only a second, then head for the door. The lock clicks behind you with a soft, final sound.
Hours later, the city feels very different.
Louder, warmer, brighter.
You hadn’t meant to drink that much. It just sort of… happened. One conversation slid into another. Someone bought you a round because you mentioned you’d just moved. You laughed more than you expected to. The music felt good in your chest.
You wanted to feel like you belonged.
Now you’re standing on a sidewalk that looks vaguely familiar but not enough, the neon sign behind you flickering slightly, the night air cooler against your flushed skin.
Your phone battery blinks 4%.
You squint down the street.
How do people get taxis here? Do they just… appear? You raise your arm experimentally. Nothing happens. A group brushes past you, laughing. You step aside too quickly and nearly trip off the curb.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay.”
You could Uber.
You open the app only to find surge pricing.
Of course.
You check your wallet. Not nearly enough cash after buying that last round and leaving a surmisable tip for the bartender, who was kind enough to let you know that you had put your jacket on inside out after your third drink.
You glance around again, the city suddenly less charming and more overwhelming. Your stomach dips and fear spreads low and cold. You don’t know where the nearest bus stop is, or which line to take, you don’t actually know which direction your apartment is from here.
The alcohol in your system stops feeling warm and starts feeling inconvenient. You dig through your purse, fingers fumbling past lip gloss, receipts, keys.
Your hand closes around paper. You pull it out.
Slightly crumpled.
NEED HELP?
You stare at it.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing, half mortified.
This is insane. You shouldn’t.
You absolutely should not text a stranger who specified he isn’t a serial killer. Your battery drops to 3%. You hesitate for three long seconds.
Then you type.
Hi. Are you real?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
Bucky’s phone vibrates against the table. The sound cuts through the apartment like a gunshot.
He freezes and for half a second, his brain does something old and dangerous—threat assessment, immediate spike of adrenaline, body already half-rising.
He grabs the phone to see an unknown number.
A text.
He stares at it. His pulse does not settle. Are you real? That could mean anything. That could mean someone found him, that could mean trouble.
Or—
Another text comes in.
I think I need help.
His jaw tightens.
He’s already standing. He doesn’t deliberate, doesn’t ask for clarification, just grabs his keys off the counter, shoves his feet back into his boots without tying them properly, and is out the door in under thirty seconds.
The truck engine roars to life beneath him, familiar vibration steadying something inside his chest.
He types one-handed at a red light.
Location?
Three dots appear. Disappear.
Then:
Outside Harper’s. On 5th I think. By the hot dog guy??
He knows exactly where that is. He’s there in four minutes.
He spots you before you spot him.
You’re sitting on the curb now, elbows propped on your knees, arguing mildly with a man behind a food cart about whether mustard counts as a vegetable.
You look… small.
Not in stature. Just in the way someone looks when they’re trying very hard to seem fine.
Bucky parks sharply at the curb and steps out. The night air hits him cool and sharp. The city noise presses in — laughter spilling from bar doors, the hiss of the food cart grill, bass thudding faintly through brick walls.
He scans automatically. No visible threat, no one crowding you. Just you. He approaches slower.
“You texted me?” he asks.
You look up and squint as if were the middle of the day and not half past one in the morning. Your eyes travel from his boots to his shoulders to his face.
“You’re not a serial killer, right?” you ask, entirely serious.
He blinks. “No.”
You consider him for another beat.
“Okay, good.” You try to stand. It does not go smoothly. Your foot catches the edge of the curb and you pitch forward slightly.
His hands are on your arms before you hit the ground. Gloved yet warm. Steady and solid.
You freeze for a second, looking up at him from far too close. He smells like clean soap and something faintly metallic. His grip is firm but not bruising.
“You needed help because you’re drunk?” he asks, voice flat but not unkind.
“I needed help,” you correct, wobbling slightly. “Because I don't know how New York works. And I also may be a little drunk.”
He exhales slowly.
“Why didn’t you take the subway?”
You blink at him. “…There’s a subway here?”
He just stares at you, something in his expression shifts and his irritation drains. Not completely but enough for a soft breath to leave his lips as he stands back to look at you.
“How long you been here?” he asks.
"What time is it?"
He glances at his watch. "Quarter 'til two."
“Like twenty hours,” you reply honestly.
That adds up, he thinks to himself and nods once.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “C’mon.”
He keeps one hand lightly at your elbow as he guides you toward the truck. You talk the whole way over-explaining where you live.
“Okay so it’s near a brick building over by a big brown bridge—which I know doesn’t help because they’re all brick—but there’s like… a plant in the window? I think? And the stairs creak.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
He already knows the building, he’s driven past it a hundred times just like he has every building in Brooklyn. He opens the passenger door for you and waits until you’re seated and steady before closing it gently. Inside the truck, the world feels smaller, quieter. You lean your head back against the seat with a relieved sigh.
“Thank you for being real,” you mumble.
He starts the engine. “You text random numbers often?”
“Only the ones that clarify they aren’t serial killers.”
A pause. Then, unexpectedly, he huffs a quiet laugh.
It’s brief. Quiet and low, but real. And you smile at the sound without realizing it. As the truck pulls away from the curb, Bucky glances at you from the corner of his eye to see you’re watching the city pass by, like it’s something you’re still deciding whether to trust.
He understands that feeling more than he’d like to. And for the first time in days, the empty space in his chest feels… lightly occupied.
He parks in front of your building with the kind of precision that suggests he’s memorized the street long before tonight. The engine rumbles low beneath you for a moment before he turns the key and everything settles into quiet. The sudden absence of vibration makes the world feel oddly still, like stepping off a moving walkway and having to find your balance again.
You peer out the window.
“Oh,” you breathe, surprised. “This is it.”
“I know,” he replies simply.
Of course he does.
He’s already out of the truck before you’ve fully processed that, boots hitting pavement with a solid thud. When he opens your door, the night air curls cool around your flushed skin, carrying the faint scent of rain drying on concrete.
You slide down from the seat carefully this time. He keeps a hand hovering at your elbow—not gripping, just there. Just in case.
The building looms a little taller than it had earlier in the day. Dark windows. Narrow staircase just inside the glass door. The porch light flickers faintly like it’s unsure of its commitment to illumination. You hesitate on the sidewalk. It’s not the alcohol now. It’s the strange awareness that this is the end of something. A brief pocket of safety in a night that could have gone differently.
He notices.
He always notices.
“Up you go,” he says quietly, nodding toward the door.
You move together toward it, footsteps uneven on your part, measured on his. The city continues behind you—cars passing, someone shouting down the block, a siren wailing faint and far—but here on the stoop it feels contained. Close.
You fumble slightly with your keys as your fingers don’t want to cooperate.
He waits.
Doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t rush you. Just stands behind and to the side, broad shoulders blocking some of the street’s draft, presence steady and grounded like a wall you can lean against if you needed to.
The key finally slides into the lock.
You pause before turning it.
He’s close enough now that you can feel the residual warmth coming off him, the faint scent of clean cotton and motor oil and night air. You glance over your shoulder. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s something softer at the edges. The crease between his brows less pronounced than earlier, the sharp lines of his jaw less guarded.
“You can call again,” he says, stiff but sincere. “If you need something real.”
Not judgmental. Not mocking.
Just… open.
And you smile. Not the bright, tipsy grin from earlier. Not the exaggerated one you’d been wearing in the bar to prove you were fine. This one is quieter and softer. It reaches your eyes.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
His name leaves your mouth gently, like it belongs there.
Something in his chest shifts. He hasn’t heard it like that in a long time. Not as an order. Not barked across a battlefield. Not attached to expectation or obligation.
Just his name. Warm. Human.
He clears his throat lightly.
“Welcome to Brooklyn,” he adds, almost gruff again as if to steady himself. “It’s loud. And it smells weird in the summer. But it’s… alright.”
You laugh softly.
“I’ll brace myself.”
He nods once, gaze drifting up to the building behind you.
“Hope the city treats you well.”
There’s more under that than the words carry. A quiet wish. A hope that it doesn’t chew you up the way it can. That it gives you something instead of taking.
You hold his gaze a second longer than necessary.
“Maybe it already has,” you say before you can overthink it.
His mouth opens slightly, like he might respond to that. Instead, you turn the key. The lock clicks open and you push the door inward and step across the threshold, turning back just before it closes fully.
He’s still there. Hands in his jacket pockets now. Shoulders squared against the night air. Watching to make sure you’re inside. Safe.
You lift your hand in a small wave. “Goodnight, not-a-serial-killer.”
A faint huff of breath escapes him, almost a laugh.
“Goodnight,” he replies.
The door shuts.
The sound of the lock sliding into place echoes softly through the stairwell. He waits, hums while he counts to five.
Listens for movement inside—footsteps climbing stairs, a door opening above. When he hears the faint creak of wood and the muffled thud of something being set down, only then does he step back.
Only then does he turn toward his truck.
The city hasn’t changed in the last five minutes. Still buzzing. Still alive. But something in him feels… different. Lighter, maybe.
Or at least less empty.
He slides into the driver’s seat and rests his hands on the steering wheel without starting the engine yet. You called, out of all the numbers in the world, you called him. Not because he was assigned, not because he was ordered, but because you needed help. And he showed up. The thought settles deep, warm and unfamiliar.
Upstairs, you lean back against your closed apartment door and exhale slowly. Your heart isn’t racing anymore. Your head still spins faintly, but beneath that is something steadier.
Safer.
You push off the door and wander toward your mattress, kicking off your shoes halfway there. The apartment doesn’t feel quite as cavernous now, the corners less shadowed, the silence less sharp.
You fish your phone out of your purse and glance at it.
2% battery.
You type quickly before it dies.
Made it upstairs. Thanks again.
You hit send.
Across the street, Bucky’s phone buzzes just as he turns the key in the ignition.
He looks at the screen, the corners of his mouth just barely ticking upwards, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a long moment.
Then he types back.
Good. Get some sleep.
He hesitates before typing out another message.
City’s easier in the morning.
He sends it before he can reconsider. Upstairs, your phone dies before you see it.
But somehow, curled up on your mattress with the window cracked just enough to let Brooklyn’s nighttime hum drift in, you sleep a little easier anyway. And downstairs, parked at the curb a moment longer than necessary, Bucky sits in the quiet of his truck and realizes that for the first time since he put those flyers up with his number—
He hopes it rings again.
The buzz of his phone comes just as Bucky’s settling into the quiet.
He’s halfway through reassembling the carburetor of a bike he doesn’t even own, just something he found on the curb and decided to fix because his hands need purpose the way lungs need air, when the vibration skitters across his kitchen counter.
He stares at it. Unknown number, again.
His jaw tightens automatically. Old habits.
It buzzes again. He wipes his hands on a rag before picking it up, thumb hovering like he’s about to disarm something instead of open a message.
Hi. It's me again. But it’s not a drunk emergency. I can’t open my window and I think I’m suffocating.
He blinks.
Then another message.
I’m not actually suffocating. Probably. But it’s very dramatic in here.
He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not.
He types back with one thumb.
Be there in five.
A heart appears immediately.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The building looks different in daylight. Less romantic, with more peeling paint and crooked mailboxes.
He takes the stairs two at a time anyway. You door is already open when he reaches the third floor.
You're standing there like you've been pacing, hair pulled into a messy twist that’s given up in several places, socks on, oversized sweatshirt swallowing your frame. No makeup this time, no glittering party lights reflected in your eyes.
Just… you.
Sober. And clearly mortified.
“Oh my god, hi,” you blurt, words tripping over each other as soon as you see him. “I promise I’m not dying. I just—okay so I tried to open the window and it wouldn’t budge and then I panicked and convinced myself the oxygen was running out and—”
“You know that’s not how air works, right?” he says flatly.
Your mouth snaps shut. “…I did. In theory.”
He steps inside without another word, brushing past your shoulder. You smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy. The apartment is small and bare, boxes still stacked like uneven towers along the walls.
The window in question is in the living room. Old frame. Painted shut.
He walks over, studies it for three seconds.
“You tried pulling?”
“Yes.”
“Pushing?”
“Yes.”
He grips the bottom sash, metal fingers bracing, flesh hand curling over the wood. A small twist of pressure. A sharp upward shove.
The paint seal cracks with a soft pop and the window slides up. Cool Brooklyn air spills in within thirty seconds. He steps back.
You just stare at it, then at him. “…I hate you a little.”
“Join the club.”
You press a hand over your face, laughing despite yourself. “I swear I’m not helpless.”
“Never said you were.”
“You definitely implied it.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I implied you’ve never met a window before.”
Your eyes narrow, but there’s laughter dancing behind them. “You’re so mean.”
“I’m efficient.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Sometimes it is.”
You huff, crossing your arms—but you're smiling. Bright and unfiltered, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight hitting bare skin.
It’s… a lot. He’s not used to a lot.
He clears his throat. “You’re not suffocating.”
“Thank you, Doctor Barnes.”
“Don’t call me that.”
You grin. “Mechanic Barnes?”
“No.”
“Freedom Flyer Guy?”
He gives you a look and you laughs again, softer this time. “Sorry.”
A pause settles between you. Not heavy. Just… there.
You shift your weight. “So. I owe you.”
“You don’t.”
“I absolutely do. You just saved my life.”
“You were never in danger.”
“You don’t know that. What if I had spiraled? What if I started hyperventilating? What if I fainted and hit my head and then actually suffocated because the window was closed?”
He just stares at you. “…That’s not how any of that works.”
You point at him triumphantly. “See? You care.”
“I care about physics.”
You beam like he just confessed undying devotion, your eyes twinkling as they bore into his. He looks away first.
“I’m not charging you,” he says.
“I’m not letting you leave without compensation.”
His brows draw together. “Compensation.”
“Yes.”
“I fixed a stuck window.”
“You provided emergency ventilation services.”
“You’re impossible.”
You step closer, hands on hips now, chin tipped up in stubborn determination. “I’m ordering takeout.”
“That’s not payment.”
“It is if you stay and eat it.”
His instinct is to refuse.
He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t sit.
He doesn’t… stay.
But the apartment is quiet except for you and the faint rush of air through the open window. The city noise floats in—distant traffic, someone laughing on the sidewalk, a dog barking.
You look at him like you expect him to bolt. Like you're used to people bolting.
He exhales slowly.
“Fine,” he says. “But nothing fancy.”
Your face lights up like he just handed you the moon. “Yes!”
He winces slightly at the volume.
“Sorry!” you whisper immediately, clapping a hand over your mouth. “I get excited.”
“I can tell.”
You grabs your phone, already scrolling. “Okay, what do you like?”
“Food.”
You snort. “Wow. Insightful.”
“Anything.”
“Any allergies?”
“No.”
“Any strong opinions about noodles?”
He blinks at you.
You gasp, soft yet dramtic. “You don’t have strong noodle opinions?”
“I was alive before noodles were complicated.”
“I don't know if that's a joke or not but that’s deeply concerning.”
He almost smiles. Almost.
You settle on something Thai. Spicy. “It’ll be here in thirty.”
He nods once.
Then you both look at the apartment. No couch yet, no chairs. Just boxes and hardwood floors.
You drop down cross-legged without hesitation. “Floor picnic?”
He hesitates a fraction of a second before lowering himself across from you, back resting against a stack of sealed boxes labeled BOOKS in loopy handwriting.
For a moment, you just sit there.
It’s quiet. Not the uncomfortable kind, just… new. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “So. You fix windows often?”
“Second one this week.” he deadpans.
“Wow. You’re basically a specialist.”
“I’ll update the flyer.”
Your laugh bursts out of you before she can stop it, bright and easy. “Please do. ‘Professional Window Hero.’”
“Hero’s a stretch.”
“You got here in, like, five minutes.”
“You were two blocks away.”
You blink, lips parting in light suprise. “You live that close?”
He nods and your smile softens. “That’s… nice.”
“Why.”
“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Feels less scary knowing someone I’ve technically met before is nearby.”
He shifts slightly. “You shouldn’t rely on strangers.”
You tilt your head. “Are we strangers?”
The question hangs there. He studies you face, watching the open curiosity, no edge, no ulterior motive.
“Mostly,” he answers.
You nod slowly, accepting it without flinching. “Okay. Mostly strangers who eat Thai food on the floor.”
“Accurate.”
You lean back on your palms, looking around the half-empty room. “I know it doesn’t look like much yet.”
“It’s fine.”
“I moved here four days ago and everything still feels… unreal.” Your voice softens at the edges. “Like I’m house-sitting someone else’s life.”
He doesn’t interrupt. You glance at him, gauging if he’s listening.
He is.
“I was just…so tired,” you say, quieter now. “Of dreaming about things that only existed when I was asleep.”
He frowns faintly. “Like what?”
“Everything.” You laugh, but it’s not as bright this time. “The job I wanted. The city I wanted. The version of me that wasn’t waiting around for something to happen.”
The breeze moves through the room again, stirring the edges of unpacked papers.
“So I stopped waiting,” you continue. “Packed up my car. Drove here. Signed a lease I could barely afford. Figured if I was going to be scared anyway, I might as well be scared somewhere interesting.”
He studies you gently.
“You moved without knowing anyone.”
“Yep.”
“That’s reckless.”
You grin. “You know some people would call that brave.”
“Debatable.”
“See?” you say, pointing at him. “This is what I mean. You see the worst-case scenario. I see the possibility.”
“I see reality.”
“I see potential.”
“You see suffocating from a closed window.”
You laugh again, bright again and unashamed. “Okay, that one was dramatic.”
“A little.”
“But you still came.”
He looks down at his hands, the metal rubs againt the glove as the leather glints under the overhead light.
“You asked me too,” he says simply.
You watch him for a second too long, stirring something warm and heavy that starts to press at his ribs when the knock at the door saves him.
You scramble up, nearly tripping over a box in your haste. “Food!”
He hears your cheerful thank you through the doorway, the rustle of paper bags, and the quick shuffle back. You set everything between you two like it’s treasure and the smell fills the apartment. You eat straight from the containers, knees occasionally bumping.
It shouldn’t feel like this.
Easy.
But it does.
Bucky watches you, the way that you talkswith your hands, animated, telling him about the tiny coffee shop you found that morning. About the subway map that “looks like abstract art.” About how you got lost for forty minutes and ended up discovering a park you now claims as yours.
“You got lost on purpose,” he says.
“I absolutely did not.”
“You just said you walked in circles.”
“That’s exploring.”
“That’s inefficient.” he grumbles.
You grin around a bite of noodles. “I bet you would’ve hated it.”
“I would’ve brought a map.”
“I had one!”
His face falls. “And you still got lost.”
You points at him with your sauce stained chopsticks. “You’re missing the point.”
“Enlighten me.”
“The point is I was somewhere new. Alone. And it didn’t feel lonely.”
He pauses mid-bite. You don’t seem to realize what you've said until a second later. Your eyes flick to him, softer now.
“Not entirely,” you amend gently.
The air shifts and he swallows the rest of his bite.
“You won’t always feel new here,” he says.
“I know.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I hope not completely.” You smile faintly. “I don’t want it to stop feeling like possibility.”
He doesn’t have an answer for that, he’s still figuring out what possibility even looks like. You finish eating slower than necessary, even when you're done neither of you rush to stand.
Eventually, you gather the empty containers, stacking them neatly.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“For what?”
“For showing up. Even when it’s just… windows.”
He nods once. “You can call again.”
The words come out stiffer than he means them to.
“If you… still need something real,” he adds.
Your smile this time is different. Softer, bright but less blinding, more intentional.
“Okay,” you say. “I will.”
He stands, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans and you walk him to the door. The hallway light flickers overhead as you unlock it fully, stepping into the frame like you're guarding it.
He lingers on the threshold.
“I think you'll fit in just fine here,” he says, the words awkward but sincere. “It’s loud. And expensive.”
You laugh softly.
“And,” he adds, after a beat, “it’s not the worst place to start over.”
Something in your expression shifts.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
It lands somewhere deep in his chest just as last time. Warmer than he expects. He nods once, because he doesn’t trust his voice.
“Goodnight,” you say.
“Lock the door,” he replies automatically.
You roll your eyes but smile. “Yes, sir.”
He turns and heads down the stairs. Halfway to the landing, he hears the soft click of your lock sliding into place, and the ghost of a smile curves across his lips.
Only then does he keep walking.
The third time you text him, you stare at the screen for a full minute before hitting send.
Hi. Hypothetically— If someone bought shelves and then realized drywall is apparently not just… wall… what would that someone do?
Three dots appear almost immediately.
That someone would wait.
You grin.
For?
Me.
He shows up with a drill slung over his shoulder like it belongs there.
You open the door before he knocks this time, already smiling. “Hi.”
He pauses just slightly at the sight of you barefoot in paint-splattered shorts and one of those oversized band tees you sleep in. Your hair’s half-clipped up, pencil tucked behind your ear like you’ve been architecting something serious instead of arguing with brackets.
“You didn’t start without me,” he says.
“I considered it.”
“It's good you didn't. You would’ve hit a pipe.”
“I resent that.”
“You should.”
You step aside to let him in, eucalyptus and mint no longer the dominant scent of your place—now it smells like sawdust and fresh coffee and something citrusy you insist on spraying in the mornings because it “feels productive.”
He surveys the wall you’ve chosen. “What’re these for?”
“Plants, books, maybe a tiny ceramic frog. I don’t know yet. It’s about potential.”
He huffs. “Everything’s about potential with you.”
“And everything’s about worst-case scenarios with you.”
“It keeps you from flooding your apartment.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
He levels you with a look.
You grin.
He gets to work, movements efficient, measured. Flesh fingers steady, metal ones precise throught the stretch of their leather glove. The hum of the drill fills the apartment, and you sit cross-legged on the floor watching like it’s a live performance.
“You know,” you say over the noise, “most people would charge for this.”
“I’m aware.”
“You don’t?” You ask curiously.
“You fed me.”
“That was one time.”
He glances at you. “You planning to stop?”
You blink. “…No.”
“Then we’re square.”
The shelves are up in under twenty minutes. You clap softly when he finishes, which earns you a flat look from Bucky.
“What?” You mutter.
“It’s a shelf.”
“It’s a level shelf!”
He exhales through his nose, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You don’t mention it. You just notice.
The dresser comes next.
You absolutely could’ve waited for building management to help. Or ordered professional movers.
But instead:
I have made a mistake. The dresser is winning.
He’s there in seven minutes. You open the door breathless, like you’ve been wrestling furniture for sport. “It’s heavier than it looked online.”
“They always are.”
He takes one look at the narrow hallway, the impossible angle to your bedroom door, and just nods once.
“Lift when I say,” he tells you.
“Yes, sir,” you reply brightly.
His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
You bite back a smile.
The two of you maneuver the dresser inch by inch. Your hands slip once and he steadies it without thinking, metal arm braced, body angled to shield yours from the corner.
“Careful,” he mutters.
“You’re the one who said lift.”
“You’re the one who didn’t bend your knees.”
“You sound like a gym teacher.”
“You’d have hated school with me.”
You laugh, breathless, as the dresser finally slides into place against your bedroom wall before you collapse onto the floor dramatically.
“We did it,” you declare.
“I did it.”
“You emotionally supported.”
“I told you what to do.”
“Exactly.”
He shakes his head, but he doesn’t leave. Not right away.
“Okay,” you say one afternoon, holding up the subway map like it’s an ancient scroll. “Explain this.”
He stares at it. Then at you. “It’s color-coded.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It literally does.”
You’re standing at the entrance of the station, the late afternoon rush building around you. The air smells like hot concrete and something metallic.
“I get on the blue one,” you say slowly, “unless it’s express? Or local? And then it skips my stop? Why does it skip my stop.”
“Because it’s express.”
“Why would I want that?” You ask.
“So you get somewhere faster.”
“But not where I need to go.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose.
You beam at him behind the map. He steps closer, crowd pressing in around you. His shoulder leans into yours as he points at the map. “You take the local during rush hour if you’re only going a few stops. Express if you’re crossing boroughs.”
You squint. “And how do I know which is which?”
He gestures to the small black circles versus the white ones.
Your head tilts. “Oh.”
“You didn’t see that.”
“No.”
He sighs, but it’s softer than it used to be. “Stay to the right on the stairs. Don’t stand in the doorway, and if the train’s packed, wait for the next one.”
“I don’t mind packed.”
“You will.”
You grin up at him. “You’re very protective over public transit etiquette.”
“I’m protective over not getting shoved.”
The train roars into the station. You hesitate for half a second before stepping forward, his hand finds your elbow without thinking, guiding.
“Move with the crowd,” he says quietly near your ear. “Don’t fight it.”
You nod. Inside, it’s warm and loud and close.
You look up at him, eyes bright. “This is kind of fun.”
“It’s not.”
“It is if you decide it is.”
He shakes his head, but he doesn’t let go of your elbow until your stop arrives. After that, he walks you through shortcuts like he’s revealing state secrets.
“Cut through here if it’s raining.”
“Take the side exit after ten p.m.”
“Don’t get on the empty car.”
“Why?” You ask.
“Just don’t.”
You salute dramatically. “Yes, subway sargeant.”
“Don't call me that.”
You grin. You don’t stop.
You teach him photography in payment.
“Okay, your turn,” you tell him one evening, camera strap looped around your wrist.
He eyes it suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“My livelihood.”
“It looks old.”
“It’s film.”
He pauses. “They still make that?”
You gasp. “You wound me.”
You press the camera into his hands, guiding his fingers over the body. “Manual focus. No screen. You have to feel it.”
He studies it carefully, brow furrowed in concentration the way it does when he’s fixing something delicate.
“You adjust the aperture here,” you say, stepping closer. “Shutter speed there. It’s slower. Intentional.”
He glances at you. “Like you.”
You blink and find his eyes, his gaze like a soft sky blue with a dark edge that held the color in, looking at you like you were the eye of the storm. You look back. He looks away first.
You swallow your smile. “Exactly like me.”
You teach him how to look for light instead of just objects. How shadows tell stories. How grain makes things honest. He listens, really listens, so you start bringing the camera everywhere. To the bodega. To the park. To the subway platform at golden hour.
And somehow—he’s in half the frames. Leaning against brick walls. Looking out over the water. Brow creased at something you said.
He notices eventually.
“You take a lot of pictures,” he says one afternoon when you snap another shot of him sitting on the stoop outside your building.
“I’m a photographer.”
“Of me.”
You lower the camera slowly. “You’re in good light.”
He scoffs, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.
You don’t tell him that you’ve started a folder at work labeled The Brooklyn Study. That half of it is just him, that your boss called the shots “intimate” or that you flushed all the way to your ears and clutched the folder to your chest.
You keep that part to yourself. For now.
Over the next few weeks, the calls keep coming.
Is this radiator supposed to sound like it’s screaming?
He arrives to find you crouched in front of it like it’s a wild animal.
“It’s air in the pipes,” he says.
“It sounds haunted.”
“It’s not.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
You watch him bleed it carefully, steam hissing softly.
“You’re very calm around loud, angry noises,” you observe.
He doesn’t answer that.
Sometimes you call and you don’t actually need help.
I think the shelf is… slightly crooked.
It isn’t. He adjusts it anyway.
The hallway light flickers weird.
He tightens the bulb.
Sometimes you just say:
Are you busy?
And when he answers no, you say:
Good.
You sit on the floor again. Or on your fire escape. Or at the small kitchen table you finally bought.
You talk. About work. About how strange it is building a life from scratch. About how sometimes the quiet feels too loud. He pretends he doesn’t notice that those are the nights you text the latest. He pretends he doesn’t notice that you hover a second longer when he stands to leave.
He pretends a lot.
But he starts remembering. Your coffee order—oat milk, no sugar. The way you wrinkle your nose when something’s too spicy. The fact that you hum when you’re editing photos. He starts bringing tools without being asked. A level. Extra screws. A small toolkit he leaves under your sink “just in case.” He checks your building door after you close it.
Always.
You start saving him leftovers.
Tiny labeled containers in your fridge. For Window Hero. Emergency Noodles. Do Not Skip Dinner.
He pretends he doesn’t see the notes but he eats every single one.
One afternoon you hand him a stack of redesigned flyers. His brows lift.
“They were tragic,” you say unapologetically. “No tear-off tabs, no clear services listed and a terrible font choice.”
He flips one over. It’s cleaner and more organized. Still blunt, but somehow warmer.
FREEDOM HELP. Need something fixed, carried, explained? Text. I show up.
Your number added beneath his in smaller print: Subway translations available.
He looks at you slowly. “You added yourself.”
You nod. “I’m your marketing department.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
“You needed one.”
A beat.
“…They’re better,” he admits.
You beam like you just won an award.
You start calling him before small problems become big ones. He starts answering before the second ring and soon the loneliness shifts. It doesn’t disappear, not all in one big fell swoop. It settles between you instead of sitting on your shoulders, in shared silence instead of empty rooms. One evening you sit beside him on the stoop, camera resting in your lap.
“You know,” you say softly, “I thought moving here would fix everything.”
He stares out at the streetlights flickering on. “Did it?”
“No.” You smile faintly. “But it gave me something to build with.”
He nods once. You bump your shoulder against his.
“Thanks for showing up,” you add quietly. He doesn’t look at you, but his shoulder presses back.
“Thanks for calling,” he says.
It starts small. So small to the point you hadn't even realized anything, until you did and now it's all you can think about. A brush of his shoulder lingering a second too long. The way your apartment feels less like a temporary landing pad and more like a home when his boots are by the door. The way silence doesn’t scrape at you when he’s sitting in it too.
You try not to think too hard about it at first.
You tell yourself it makes sense. He’s the only person you really know here. Of course you call him. Of course you look for him in a crowd on the subway platform without meaning to. Of course your camera finds him before it finds anything else.
It’s proximity. Convenience, familiarity even.
It’s not—
It’s not the way your stomach flips when he says your name like it’s something fragile he doesn’t want to drop. It’s not the way you start cooking too much on purpose. It’s not the way you check your phone at night hoping for a text that never comes because he doesn’t text first.
You sit with that realization longer than you’d like.
Because if it’s not just circumstance…
Then it’s choice, and you know what choosing feels like now. It feels like packing your life into boxes and driving toward something uncertain, it feels like standing in a city that doesn’t know you exist and deciding you belong anyway.
It feels terrifying.
The night you call him, nothing is broken. There's no screaming radiator, no crooked shelf, no stuck window. You’re standing in your kitchen staring at two bowls with steam curling up and realizing you only need one, your thumb hovering over his name for a long moment.
Then you press it. He answers on the second ring.
“What broke this time?”
You huff a soft laugh despite yourself. “Hi to you too.”
A pause. “…Hi.”
You swallow. “I don’t need anything fixed.”
Silence stretches across the line. You can almost picture his face—brows drawn together, jaw tight, waiting for the catch.
“…Then why am I coming over?”
The words slip out before you can overthink them. “Because I don’t want to eat dinner alone.”
You don’t try to make it lighter, you don’t fill the quiet with a joke. You just let it sit there. On the other end, you hear him breathe in slow and measured. You almost backtrack, almost say never mind, it’s stupid, forget it.
But then:
“I’ll be there in ten.”
The line clicks dead and you stand in the middle of your kitchen for a long moment, heart beating louder than it should.
When he knocks, you’re suddenly aware of everything. The new couch you finally unpacked and assembled, the lamp casting soft amber light across the room, the way your hair looks, the way you look.
You open the door.
He’s in a dark Henley tonight, paired with his usual leather jacket, hair slightly wind-tousled from the walk. There’s a crease between his brows that smooths when he sees you standing there, not panicked. Not flustered.
Just… waiting.
“You’re not bleeding,” he observes.
“Disappointing, I know.”
He steps inside anyway. The apartment smells like garlic and sesame oil. Like home, almost.
“I made too much,” you say, gesturing to the dishes in the sink behind you like evidence. “Again.”
“You always do.”
“I don’t.” You pout.
“You do.”
You shut the door behind him, softer than usual.
“I have a couch now,” you announce, like it’s a milestone.
He looks at it. “You assembled it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“…Is it going to give out under me.”
You narrow your eyes. “Sit down and find out.”
He does, carefully, like he expects it to collapse out of spite.
It doesn’t. You sit beside him with a ghost of a smirk, knees brushing for a second before you both subtly adjust. The rest of dinner rests on the coffee table. The TV stays off as the city hum drifts in through the cracked window he fixed weeks ago.
For a while, you just eat. Not rushed, not quiet in a strained way, just something simple and easy.
You steal a glance at him when he’s not looking. The soft concentration when he untangles chopsticks, the way his shoulders don’t seem as tight here. You realize something slowly, like stepping into water and not noticing how deep you’ve gone until it reaches your ribs.
You don’t just call him because he’s helpful, you don’t just want him around because he’s familiar. You want him here.
Specifically. His dry comments, his steady presence, the way he fills space without overwhelming it. You want more than borrowed time and fixed shelves. The realization settles in your chest, warm and terrifying.
You clear your throat gently. “Can I ask you something?”
He glances over. “You usually do.”
“Why did you put up the flyers?”
His jaw shifts and you watch the way he looks down at his hands, at the faint scuffs on metal and skin.
“I didn’t know what to do with my time,” he says finally.
You wait but he doesn’t elaborate. “That’s it?” you ask softly.
His mouth tightens, like you’ve stepped near something he doesn’t show people.
“I spent a long time not choosing anything,” he says after a moment. His voice is quieter now. Less deadpan. “Where I went. What I did. Who I was.”
The words land heavy between you, thickening in the air, you don’t interrupt.
“I was… useful,” he continues. “Just not in a way that was mine.”
Your chest tightens.
“When that stopped,” he adds, “there was just time. And I didn’t know what to do with it.”
The room feels smaller, the air growing warmer.
“So you made yourself available,” you murmur.
He nods once. “That’s it.”
You study him carefully, the rigid line of his spine, the way he holds himself like he’s bracing for impact even now.
“You’re not bored,” you say gently as his eyes flick to yours.
“You’re just not used to choosing.”
The words hang there and something shifts in his expression. Something almost… soft. Not dramatic, not loud. But it hits, hard. You see it in the way his throat works when he swallows, in the way his gaze drops, then lifts again slower this time.
He looks… startled, like you handed him something he didn’t know he’d been missing.
“I didn’t want a job,” he says, almost to himself.
You stay very still.
“I wanted…” He exhales through his nose. “Purpose.”
The word settles between you like a fragile thing.
“You have that,” you say quietly.
He shakes his head faintly. “Fixing windows isn’t purpose.”
“No,” you agree softly. “But showing up is.”
His eyes meet yours again, steady and searching for something. You wonder if he sees it in you.
“You wanted someone to need you,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper.
The truth is there, plain and unadorned. He doesn’t deny it. And you realize something else at the same time, something that makes your pulse stumble.
You do need him. But not because you can’t lift a dresser, not because the subway map confuses you, not because you don’t know anyone else. You need him in the way you need someone to witness your life as it unfolds. To sit beside you while it’s messy and unfinished and becoming.
“Well I need you,” you add softly. "Not… just to fix a shelf or move a heavy dresser."
His shoulders loosen a fraction and you feel your heart let out a beat that you didn't know could make. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither of you. Maybe it’s just gravity curling around you both and pressing in on you, but when your knee presses fully against his this time, and neither of you pulls away.
The city hums outside, your couch holds steady beneath you. There's a beat that passes between you two, and when your eyes find his he looks at you like he’s seeing you differently now. Not as a problem to solve, not as a task to complete. But as a choice, and you realize, heart thudding slow and certain—
You want him to choose you, not because you’re the only person here, not because you called first. But because he wants to sit on this couch, eat these noodles, share this quiet.
And because he wants to do it wth you.
He exhales slowly.
“I don’t mind,” he says, voice rougher than usual, “not eating alone.”
Your chest warms. “Good,” you whisper.
The quiet after your words doesn’t feel fragile anymore.
It feels aware. He’s still looking at you differently—like the ground shifted half an inch and he’s recalibrating his balance. The takeout cartons sit forgotten on the coffee table, noodles going cold. Your gaze drifts, hesitant at first. To his hands. You’ve seen it, of course. Noticed it the first night he fixed your window. The glint of metal under warm apartment light when his jacket would slip past gloved wrist he seamless line where steel warms.
But you never asked. It felt like staring, like something earned, not taken.
You swallow softly. “Can I ask you something else?”
One brow lifts faintly. “You’re on a roll tonight.”
Your eyes flick down again, then back up to his face. “Your arm.”
He goes very still. You feel it instantly—that subtle tightening, the way his spine straightens like he’s bracing for something sharp.
“I’ve noticed it,” you add quickly, gentle. “Obviously. But I didn’t want to… I don’t know. Make it a thing.”
His jaw shifts once.
“It is a thing,” he says evenly.
“I know.” You tilt your head slightly. “But it’s yours.”
That makes something in his expression soften. Barely. You shift on the couch so you’re angled toward him more fully. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay.”
He studies your face carefully, like he’s searching for pity. You don’t give him any, just curiosity, quiet and steady. After a long moment, he flexes his metal fingers once. The faint whir of internal mechanics hums low in the room.
“Lost… the original,” he says, voice stripped down. No performance. No deflection. “A… long time ago.”
You nod once, not pressing.
“It was replaced,” he continues. “Not exactly by choice.”
There’s weight there. History and shadows you don’t ask him to drag into the light tonight, you don’t need details to understand it wasn’t simple.
“It works better than the first one,” he adds, almost wry. “Stronger.”
“I’ve noticed,” you murmur, thinking about the dresser. The effortless way he steadies things. The careful control he uses so he doesn’t break them.
He glances at you. “Doesn’t always feel like mine.”
The honesty in that lands softly against your ribs, you hesitate, then softly murmur. “Can I see it?”
The question hangs between you. He searches your face again, slower this time.
“Yeah,” he says finally.
He turns slightly on the couch, resting his forearm along his thigh. The metal catches the lamplight—dark grey and golden seams, subtle scratches from use. Not polished or pure ornamental but real. You lean closer without thinking, breath slowing. Up close, it’s intricate, not just plating but delicate etchings along the fingers, tiny grooves and segments that shift when he flexes.
“It’s…” You shake your head faintly, almost in awe. “It’s kind of beautiful.”
He huffs softly. “That’s a new one.”
“I mean it.”
You lift your hand slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. Your fingers hover for half a second before brushing lightly over the plating of his knuckles. Cool and solid, smooth in some places, faintly textured in others. You trace the seam where metal curves into the back of his hand, mesmerized by the craftsmanship of it, by the contrast of it against the warmth radiating from the rest of him.
He watches you instead of your hand. Your touch is careful, not clinical, just… curious.
“It doesn’t scare you?” he asks quietly.
You glance up, still brushing your fingertips lightly over the steel.
“No,” you say simply.
He studies you like he’s trying to understand how that’s possible.
“It’s part of you,” you add. “Why would that scare me?”
Something shifts in his breathing. Your thumb grazes the edge of his knuckles again, softer this time. Not examining, just feeling as he flexes his fingers once under your touch, almost experimentally.
You smile faintly. “Does… can you feel that?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Everything?”
“Mostly.”
You nod slowly, still tracing the lines like you’re memorizing them, you don’t flinch, you don’t hesitate. You just let your hand rest there a moment longer than necessary. When you finally look back up at him, you realize how close you’ve gotten.
Your knees are pressed fully against his now, your hand still resting over metal and seam and strength. There’s no fear in his eyes, just something open, something quietly undone.
“You don’t have to be useful all the time,” you murmur.
His throat moves when he swallows.
“I know,” he says.
But the way he says it sounds like he’s still learning how to believe it, your fingers slide gently from his knuckles to his wrist, resting there feeling the vibrational hum where a pulse used to sit.
The air between you feels warmer now, denser, like fog settling in over rolling hills. The radiator ticks softly in the corner, no longer screaming—just settling into itself. The lamp beside the couch casts everything in gold, softening edges that usually feel sharper in daylight.
You’re still sitting close. Close enough that the heat of him bleeds through denim and cotton, close enough that you can feel the faint shift of his breathing when you inhale.
“I like coming here,” he adds after a moment.
It sounds almost reluctant. Like admitting it costs him something, but he says it anyway. It makes a small smile pull at your mouth.
“I know that too.”
The words land gently between you, the kind of truth that doesn’t need to be dressed up. You shift on the couch, turning toward him fully now. Your knees slide against his thigh, your shoulder brushes his arm.
You shift closer without standing, without moving anywhere but forward.
“You’re the first person I called when I didn’t know what to do,” you say quietly.
You hadn’t meant to say that tonight, it just feels like the right place to put it. His jaw tightens, then loosens as he swallows.
“You’re the first person who’s called me because they just…” He exhales slowly, eyes flicking down to your mouth and back up again. “Wanted me there.”
The air shifts. Not into anything heavy or suffocating but charged, like the moment right before a thunder cloud in a summer storm breaks but, softer. You can hear your own heartbeat now. It doesn’t feel frantic, it feels certain.
He moves first. Slowly, so slowly you could stop him if you wanted to. His hand lifts, hovering near your waist. Not touching yet, just lingering there giving you time.
You don’t shift back, you don’t flinch. Instead, you lean the smallest fraction closer in silent permission. His fingers settle at your side, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your shirt, you can see the hesitant question in his eyes.
You answer it by closing the distance. The first brush of his mouth against yours is careful. Testing, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard, but you don’t. You tilt your head slightly, lips parting just enough to deepen it. It’s not dramatic, there are no fireworks, no sweeping orchestration.
Just warmth. His hand shifts at your waist, thumb pressing gently like he’s confirming you’re real. Your fingers slide up to his shoulder, curling into fabric. He kisses you like he’s learning something new, like he’s memorizing it. Soft, unhurried and a little uncertain but real, very real. You can feel the exhale he lets out against your mouth, the way tension leaves him in slow increments. When you pull back, it’s only an inch.
Foreheads nearly touching, his breath mingles with yours and it's like the seconds slowed around you, the whole world dipped into this sedated ease.
You’ve been kissed before. In doorways, in cars, in moments that burned bright and faded just as fast. This isn’t that. This feels like sitting on your couch with noodles growing cold, like subway maps and crooked shelves, like someone showing up every time you asked.
Like belonging. His thumb brushes lightly against your side again, almost absentminded.
“You sure?” he murmurs, searching your face one last time.
You smile, softer than usual.
“I didn’t call you because I was lonely,” you whisper.
His brows knit faintly.
“I called because I wanted you.”
Something in him settles at that, deep in his chest and curling through his ribs. He leans in again, and this time the kiss is less hesitant, still gentle but more sure. Fuller as you let out of a soft breath against him. Your hand slides up into his hair. His metal fingers flex slightly at your waist, cool through cotton but steady, controlled.
Then you feel it, something blooming behind your heart, not sparks or chaos. Just the steady warmth of something choosing you back. Outside, a car passes, someone laughs down the block. Inside, on your newly unpacked couch, with half-eaten takeout and lamplight glowing gold, you kiss him like this was always where you were headed.
