I always find it so funny when people bitch about ‘forced diversity’.
because, like, once you work retail you start to see just how different everybody is.
for example, the other day I greeted a woman I was ringing up and started asking her the usual questions we’re supposed to ask (if they have a rewards card, etc) and she made a gesture pointing to her ear and mouthed ‘I’m deaf’.
and I was just like ‘Oh’, and so I skipped over the questions and just gave her a nice smile instead of the usual schpiel we’re supposed to give. she thanked me in sign language and smiled back before walking away.
and that’s just one tiny example. she was just one customer of hundreds that shift. that’s not even mentioning all the other types of people I ring in a day, of all ages, body sizes, races/skin colors, and gender expression.
it’s like…that’s how the world is.
when people say having diversity in a fictional universe seems ‘false’ or ‘forced’, that says to me that they must exist in a very homogenous, sheltered environment. because even working for a company that has a rather disproportionately-high white middle-class customer demographic, I still see more diversity on any given day than I tend to ever see in books and movies and TV shows.
it’s just kind of laughable to me when people say a movie/book/franchise has “too much” diversity. because there’s no such thing.
When they say diversity is being ‘forced’ they are saying “It’s bad enough I have to tolerate your existence here in this world. I don’t want to have to ever think about you in a fictional one.”
hello! Idk if you're taking requests at the moment so i'm just gonna try it 🫡 love your writing style btw! Thought i already followed you but i didn't. What a SHAME!
so my idea is: grumpy x grumpy where bucky and reader are grumpy to the others but soft around each other. When they are on their own, they talk less but still participate. But once they are around each other, they are soft and cuddly and stuff. Do what you wanna do with that idea! And if you don't wanna work on this, that's totally fine too!💜
Everyone in the compound agrees on one thing: you’re difficult.
You don’t smile much. You don’t linger in common areas. You don’t indulge Sam’s jokes or Clint’s constant need to fill silence with noise. You do your missions, file your reports, and retreat to your room like the world is an obligation you’re fulfilling out of sheer stubbornness.
Bucky Barnes is exactly the same.
He broods in corners, metal fingers tapping impatient rhythms against tabletops. He answers questions in clipped sentences. He glares when someone touches his arm without warning. He has perfected the art of looking so deeply unimpressed that people second-guess themselves mid-sentence.
Together, you’re a nightmare for team morale.
Separate? You’re quiet but tolerable. When you’re not around him, you’ll occasionally respond to Nat’s dry humor with a faint huff that might pass for amusement. You’ll sit in the same room as Wanda and read, offering the occasional low comment. You’re not warm—but you’re present.
Bucky, when you’re not there, is the same. He’ll train longer than necessary, grunt through conversations, but he doesn’t leave the room. He exists alongside the others like a wary cat that hasn’t decided whether it likes the household yet.
But when you’re together?
God help anyone who witnesses it.
It starts subtly.
A mission debrief. You’re standing across the room from each other, both leaning against opposite walls like you’d rather be anywhere else. Sam is talking—rambling, really—and you’re staring at the floor like it personally offended you.
Bucky glances up and sees you. His entire posture shifts. There is no grand smile or obvious change. Bucky Barnes simply looks softer.
His shoulders lower a fraction. The tension around his mouth eases. He pushes off the wall and crosses the room without announcing it, stopping just close enough that your arms brush.
You don’t look at him immediately. You just lean—barely—into his side.
That’s it.
That’s all it takes.
Sam trails off mid-sentence.
“Are you two… okay?” he asks slowly.
You lift your head just enough to glare at him.
“We were fine before you started talking.”
Bucky hums in agreement, metal hand sliding casually around your wrist. His thumb rubs slow circles over your pulse point, hidden by the angle of your bodies.
Sam throws his hands up. “Unbelievable.”
The others have stopped questioning it.
They’ve learned that your softness is reserved. Exclusive.
On the rare nights everyone gathers in the common room for a movie, you and Bucky take up the far corner of the couch. Not the middle. Not where people can lean on you.
The corner.
Bucky sits first, sprawling in a way that makes it clear no one else is fitting there. You arrive a moment later without a word and slide directly into his space.
No hesitation.
You settle against his chest, legs thrown over his lap. One hand wraps around you waist automatically while they other tucks under your thigh, anchoring you there like he’s afraid someone might try to steal you.
You don’t speak much.
You don’t need to.
He presses his nose into your hair and breathes you in like oxygen. You tilt your head back just enough for him to press a kiss to your temple.
Nat, sitting across from you, watches the exchange with a knowing smirk.
“You’re disgusting,” she says flatly.
You don’t even open your eyes. “Mind your business.”
Bucky tightens his hold, resting his chin on top of your head.
Anyone else trying to drape themselves over him like that would get a warning growl. A tense shrug. A muttered “don’t.”
With you, he melts.
The grumpiness doesn’t disappear entirely. It just redirects.
Someone makes a loud joke? You both glare in perfect sync.
Someone interrupts your quiet moment? Bucky’s metal fingers flex in irritation while your nails dig lightly into his thigh in silent agreement.
But when it’s just the two of you—when the door is closed and the world is quiet—it’s different.
There’s less biting commentary. Less defensive sarcasm.
More… warmth.
You don’t fill the silence with chatter. You sit together on his bed, backs against the headboard, your feet tucked beneath his thigh. He traces idle patterns over your shoulder while you scroll aimlessly through your phone.
“Hungry?” he murmurs eventually.
“Not yet.”
He hums. Adjusts the blanket higher around your shoulders.
Sometimes you talk about nothing. A comment about training. A complaint about Sam leaving dishes in the sink. A brief, dry observation about the latest mission.
But mostly, you exist.
You rest your head against his chest and listen to the steady thump of his heart. He rubs slow circles into your back, grounding and familiar.
He’s gentler with you than anyone realizes.
If you wake from a nightmare, you don’t thrash. You just go still—rigid and quiet. He feels it instantly. His arm tightens. His lips brush your ear.
“I’m here,” he whispers, voice rough with sleep. “You’re okay.”
You nod once against his chest. He presses a kiss into your hairline and doesn’t let go until your breathing evens out again.
During the day, if someone criticizes you—even mildly—Bucky’s head snaps up like a guard dog scenting danger.
“She handled it,” he says, voice low and final.
You roll your eyes. “I can defend myself.”
“I know.” His gaze flicks to you, softer than anyone else would ever see. “Doesn’t mean I won’t.”
It works both ways.
When Bucky withdraws too far—when the ghosts creep in and his silence turns heavy—you’re the only one who can reach him without pushing.
You don’t force conversation. You just sit beside him, shoulder pressed to shoulder.
“Stay,” you’ll say simply.
And he does.
It confuses people.
How two of the most irritable, closed-off members of the team can turn into something so undeniably tender the moment you’re within arm’s reach of each other.
But the truth is simple.
You don’t need sunshine personalities. You don’t need constant chatter or exaggerated affection.
You need quiet understanding.
You need someone who doesn’t demand smiles or explanations.
You need someone who knows that your silence isn’t emptiness—it’s comfort.
One afternoon, Sam finally asks the question everyone’s been thinking.
“How are you two so grumpy and so… disgustingly cute at the same time?”
You and Bucky exchange a look.
A small, private one.
You shrug. “We don’t like people.”
Bucky nods. “Just her.”
You roll your eyes but your hand slides into his automatically.
Could you imagine bucky with his staring problem just staring at you and you respond with slow blinking at him like people do with cats to gain their trust... imagine it actually works and he slow starts to trust you... basically imagine treating bucky like an aggressive stray cat bringing him little pastries and snacks you bake and leaving them just out of arms reach for him to get when hes ready which eventually leads to bucky coming back from a hard day where he finds himself dropping to the floor in front of the couch you're sitting on because hes still uncomfortable with soft surfaces, his back resting next to your legs trying not to melt as your hand reaches to scratch gently at his scalp
Summary : After dating for six months, Bucky is now your emergency contact. Yelena, your best friend, finds out the hard way.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x New Avengers!reader (she/her) | Best friend! Yelena
Warnings/tags : Kinda Tower fic!!! Fluff with angst if you squint. Protective!Bucky x chaotic!reader, Reader is ex-red room and thinks of Yelena as a sister, established relationship, mild injury, mild concussion, alcohol concussion, tipsy reader, mentioned bar fight, reader beats up harassers, Bucky being down bad. Set after Thunderbolts (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 8.2k
Note : I love a platonic buddy cop Bucky and Yelena dynamic. Enjoy!
Yelena had been your emergency contact for as long as you had a life outside the Red Room.
It just made sense. Back when you just had started to be free, neither of you had exactly known how to be people in the ordinary way everyone else seemed to manage. You knew how to run on little sleep, how to disappear into crowds, how to take apart a weapon by touch alone. You knew how to lie without blinking, how to hide injuries beneath sleeves, how to make one fake passport stretch across three countries and four very bad decisions. You did not know how to list a dentist, or pick a primary care doctor, or fill out forms that asked for a “next of kin” as if your family was simple enough to write on a dotted line.
So you wrote Yelena.
You wrote her number.
You wrote her most recent address
Again and again and again, on medical forms, on paperwork, on apartment leases, on job applicants and anything that asked who should be contacted if something happened to you.
It had always been Yelena.
Once, a hospital called her at two in the morning after you dislocated a shoulder in a rooftop in Queens, and she had arrived in the ER in pajama pants, combat boots, and a face so flat with irritation it was almost comforting.
“You are lucky I love you, sestryonka,” she had said, watching a nurse snap your arm back into place.
“You are not much older than me,” you murmured under your breath, not even flinching.
Another time, when you had been grazed by a bullet and insisted it was “basically nothing,” she had threatened to staple your mouth while a doctor stitched you up because, apparently, your pain scale was “made by idiots, for idiots.”
That was Yelena. She was not gentle, not exactly. But she was there for you. Every time a hospital called, she came.
She was your best friend and your sister in every way that mattered. You had not shared parents or a childhood in the traditional sense, not even in the sense that Natasha had been to her. Still, you had shared training rooms, handlers, bruises, and survival. You had shared the particular feeling of being made into weapons by the same machine and then escaping with pieces missing, only to decide, stubbornly and badly, that you were going to be normal people anyway.
Yelena had been your emergency contact because she was the person you trusted to be there.
She was also the person who understood, better than anyone, that your definition of an emergency was not normal.
“You do not have to stab every man who deserves it,” she had told you once, bailing you out of jail in the early hours of Saturday morning. The cops had let you off on self-defense later, which was true but Yelena found it pleasantly shocking, especially considering how bad the wound you left was. She had her suspicions: mostly that you must’ve tampered with the documents, but who was she to judge?
“I don’t stab every man who deserves it.”
“No,” she said, dry as dust, “only because there are not enough hours in the day.”
Which was probably why, for years, she had answered the emergency calls with the patience of a saint who had accepted her role in your life as sister, accomplice, and getaway driver.
Then Bucky Barnes happened.
—
You and Bucky lived next to each other in the Tower because Valentina had decided the New Avengers needed a base, a schedule, and probably several court-mandated group therapy sessions.
Not just you two, really. All the new avengers, after the Void incident, got crammed into one still-in progress building with too much fragile glass, too many cameras, and far too many sharp objects for people who pretended they were “doing better.”
You noticed Bucky because it was impossible not to.
He was quiet, but not empty. He was always careful, and you always saw him against a wall. He was always watching doors, windows, reflections, and hands. He moved through life like a man who had learned the world could turn on him without warning.
You understood that.
Maybe he noticed you for the same reason.
You both had old ghosts in different rooms. You might have had different handlers, but they did the kind of damage.
The first kiss happened after a mission.
You had made it home. You had showered. You had told Yelena you were fine, which made her stare at you like you had insulted her intelligence. Then you went to the training room because your body was still buzzing with murderous adrenaline and there was nowhere else to put it.
You hit the bag until your knuckles ached.
That was when Bucky said your name.
You stopped and turned. He stood by the door in a black Henley and sinful grey sweats, hair loose, brows furrowed as if he understood.
“I’m fine,” you said, pretending your knuckles weren’t bleeding through the wraps.
His mouth curved up, but he was not really amused. “Yeah. I know that one.”
You looked away.
He came closer, giving you every chance to tell him to leave.
You didn’t.
You just stood there, breathing hard, throat tight.
Bucky stopped in front of you. Suddenly, the room felt smaller.
You told yourself it was because he was being a good leader. That was all.
He was checking on his team. Emulating Steve, maybe, in that painfully earnest way he did when he thought no one noticed. He was just making sure everyone made it back from the mission in one piece.
That was what leaders did, right? They noticed when a member went too quiet. They followed them to the training room. They stood too close with that gentle, worried crease between their brows and made it almost impossible to breathe normally.
It was definitely not because he was getting closer to you.
Definitely not because, over the last few months, he had started caring about you in ways that felt too intense to be casual. He had stitched you up when Yelena hadn’t been around, sitting close enough that his knee touched yours while his fingers worked carefully over your skin. He had found you in the common room after a nightmare once, shaking in the dark with your knees tucked to your chest, and instead of asking too many questions, he had disappeared for two minutes and come back with one of his too-big hoodies. He had handed it to you without a word, then sat beside you until the sunrise turned the windows gold.
It was definitely not because you had almost kissed him three times in the past two weeks.
Not in the kitchen at two in the morning, when you had both reached for the same mug and ended up standing too close, his eyes dropping to your mouth before he looked away.
Not in the elevator after the Berlin mission, when the power had flickered and his metal hand had caught your waist on instinct, steadying you even though you didn’t need steadying at all.
Not in the hallway outside the med bay, when he had brushed blood from your cheek with his human thumb and froze afterward, like he had only just realized he was touching you.
No. This was not that, right?
Bucky Barnes was merely being responsible.
He was your teammate. Your leader, technically. He cared because he cared about everyone. That was all.
Except he was looking at you like you were not everyone.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said.
That almost broke you. So, naturally, you tried to get mean about it. “I’m not pretending.”
Bucky’s eyes did not change. “Okay.”
You hated that. You hated his stupid patience, his awful gentleness, the way he didn’t push and somehow made you feel more transparent because of it.
Anyone else would have argued. John or Ava would have told you to sit down. Alexei would have made some loud, affectionate declaration about strength and soup. Bob would’ve given you a self-help book and hoped it fixed you. Yelena would have stared at you until you confessed out of irritation alone.
But Bucky just stood there.
“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, turning away from him. “You can go back to bed.”
“I could.”
“Great.”
“I’m not going to,” he tilted his head.
You let out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Of course you’re not.”
His brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The good man thing.” You gestured vaguely at him, at his stupid stance, the stupid caring voice, the stupid beautiful blue eyes that kept finding every crack in you no matter how hard you tried to cover them up with plaster and concrete. “The checking-on-the-team thing. You’ve done it. Congratulations. I’m checked on.”
Bucky’s teeth tightened, just barely. “I’m not here because of that, and you know.”
That made your throat close, looking away too fast.
“Don’t,” you said.
His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to give me hope.”
The words left you before you could stop them.
Bucky could only stare at you, and for one terrifying second, you thought he would step back. You almost wanted him to; it would have been easier if he did. It would’ve been easier if he proved you right, if he retreated into duty and all the safe, noble reasons a man like him would follow a woman like you into a dark room after a bad mission.
But he didn’t move. He only said your name, not like scolding you. Instead, it sounded like he was trying to give you a rope, a lifeline, something to reach out to so you could get yourself out of the well you had willingly jumped in yourself.
Your eyes burned, and you hated him a little for it.
Not really, but almost.
Because Bucky had always gotten to you in ways no one else had, not even Yelena. Yelena knew your damage because hers had grown beside it, root tangled with hurt twin root, rotten as a result of the same poison in the same soil. She understood you like a blade understood a knife made in the same forge.
Bucky was different.
Bucky looked at you like he knew what it was to be made into a weapon and still wanted to touch whatever soul was still left underneath. He looked at you like he was not afraid of your pain, because he had spent a lifetime bleeding on his own. He didn't meet your defenses with force. He just stood there, ruinously patient, until your walls began to feel dumb for being up at all.
You shook your head and stepped back.
“I don’t need this.”
“I know you don’t,” he said. “That’s not why I’m here.”
Your mouth parted, but nothing came out. Bucky took one careful step closer.
“You can push me away,” he said. “You can tell me to leave. If you really mean it, I’ll go.”
Your chest ached.
“But don’t lie to me because you think it’s easier.”
You swallowed hard.
His eyes dropped briefly to your wrapped hands, to the tremor you had not been able to hide, then came back to your face.
“I know easier,” he said quietly. “Easier doesn't mean it helps.”
And that was it.
That was the stupid, gentle thing that finally cracked you open.
Your shoulders lowered by half an inch. Your breath went thin. You looked down at your hands, at the loose wraps, and suddenly the whole room felt too bright, too much like the place you had been trying to run from inside your own head.
“I hate when it comes back,” you whispered. “I hate that they still get to have me like that.”
His face changed, not out of pity. Instead, it was recognition.
His hand lifted carefully, like touching you was sacred and dangerous all at once. When you didn’t move away, his fingers settled against your cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye.
Bucky didn’t look shocked by the confession. He looked like he had been waiting for you to stop holding it alone.
“Look around,” he said, voice almost rough.
You swallowed. “Buck—”
“No,” he insisted. “Just look.”
So you did.
Past him, past the punching bag still swaying faintly from where you had been hitting it, past the mirrored walls and polished floor and bright lights. Beyond the training room doors was the rest of the tower. You could see the hall that led to the common room where Yelena kept pretending she didn’t leave snacks out for you when she knew you hadn’t eaten. The kitchen where Alexei made too much food and called it portion control. The hallway Ava drifted through like a ghost when she was tired. The pool table where John had taught Bob how to play when he was close to relapsing, just so he could take his mind out of the drugs he was craving.
You were here, in the strange, broken, impossible home all of you had built because none of you knew what normal looked like.
“You’re safe,” Bucky reassured. “You’re in the tower. You’re surrounded by the only people in the world who could maybe come close to understanding you.”
Your throat tightened when he stepped a little closer, his hand still on your face.
“We protect each other,” he said. “We look out for each other. Because we’ve established, pretty clearly, that none of us can be left alone without causing some kind of international incident, right?”
A broken laugh slipped out of you despite trying to hold it back.
Bucky’s mouth gentled, but his eyes stayed serious.
“They don’t have you,” he said. “Not anymore.”
Your breath shuddered as his thumb moved once over your cheek.
“We have you,” he said, smaller now. “Yelena has you. The team has you.”
He hesitated, as if the last part would cost him something. As if saying it out loud was more dangerous than any mission he had ever walked into. But because it was you, he said it anyway.
“I have you.”
Oh.
Bucky looked at you like he meant every word.
It was not duty, not leadership, not the good man thing you had accused him of earlier. He was simply standing there in front of you, asking for nothing, offering everything, and trying very hard not to look terrified by how much he wanted you to believe him.
You stared at him.
His hand was still warm against your face. His body was close enough now that you could feel the heat, close enough that you could see the rapidly healing little cut on his forehead from the mission, the bruise blooming near his neck, the way his eyes dropped to your mouth and then dragged themselves back up like he was trying to be good.
He was trying so hard.
That was what undid you: the way Bucky Barnes, who could have taken apart the whole room without breaking a sweat, held you like you were sacred and waited for you to choose.
So you did.
“Buck,” you whispered.
His breath caught. “Yeah?”
You rose onto your toes and kissed him first.
Just like that.
You were aware of how warm, aching, and sudden it was. Your hands held the front of his shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric. For half a second, Bucky went completely still, like his body had forgotten what to do with being wanted.
Then he made a small sound against your mouth, not quite a groan as much as a sigh of relief. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, while his metal hand settled at your waist like he needed to anchor you without trapping you. He kissed you back like he had finally snapped, but softly. He had been holding himself back for weeks, maybe months, and now that you had crossed the distance first, he still refused to rush you.
You pulled him closer, and he came willingly.
The kiss deepened, enough to make your heartbeat trip, enough for his breath to turn uneven against your lips. Your hands moved up his chest, and Bucky’s fingers flexed at your waist before he forced them to be gentle again.
You felt that too.
When you finally pulled back, barely, his forehead rested against yours.
Neither of you spoke for a moment. The punching bag had stopped swinging. Your hands had stopped shaking.
Bucky’s eyes stayed closed, his breath warm against your mouth.
“I have you,” he whispered again, like a promise.
“I know,” you whispered back. “I know.”
You kissed him once more, smaller this time.
When you finally pulled away, Bucky looked wrecked.
Yours, though neither of you had said it yet.
You touched his stubble with your thumb.
“We don’t have to talk about it tonight,” you said.
His eyes closed for half a second.
“Mmm,” he hummed, then he kissed your forehead, right between your brows.
And when he took your hand and led you out of the training room, neither of you let go.
—
It took a week for anyone to mention it.
A full week.
Which, considering you all lived on the same floor and had the collective subtlety of a grenade launcher, was honestly impressive.
You and Bucky had not exactly been hiding it well, anyway. He stood closer now. His hand found your lower back when he passed behind you in the kitchen. You wore his shirts more often than your own clothes. He had started looking at you across rooms with this horribly longing expression that made you want to throw a magazine at him and kiss him stupid in equal measure.
The whole thing came apart in the common room on a Thursday evening, because John Walker had the social grace of a brick through a window.
You were reaching over the counter for the ketchup when John looked up from his steak, frowned slightly, and said, “You smell different.”
Every single person at the table froze.
You turned your head. “Excuse me?”
John, apparently realizing too late that this was a weird thing to say out loud, gestured vaguely with his fork. “Not bad. You just smell like Barnes.”
Bucky stopped chewing.
Yelena’s eyebrows shot up.
Ava looked down into her mug like she could already see where this was going and wanted no part in preventing it.
Alexei leaned forward with immediate interest. “Like Barnes how?”
John shrugged. “I don’t know. His soap? Cologne? Whatever old men use.”
Bucky looked offended. “Old men?”
Before you could save the conversation, Bob, who had been peacefully munching on his fries at the end of the table, said, “Oh. It might be because they were making out in the sauna earlier.”
What followed was utter catastrophic silence.
Your hand tightened around your mug.
Bucky stared at Bob like he had just launched a missile.
“You saw us?” you hissed.
Bob looked up, mildly confused by everyone’s reaction. “Yeah.”
Bucky’s voice went very careful. “And you didn’t say anything?”
Bob thought about it. “You both looked busy.”
John dropped his fork with a clatter. “I’m sorry, what?”
Alexei slapped both hands onto the table. “In the sauna?”
“It wasn’t—” you started.
Bucky said at the exact same time, “We were not—”
Yelena pointed at both of you. “Oh my god.”
You looked at her, bracing yourself for the protective sister routine. Maybe an interrogation, or a threat. Instead, Yelena broke into the most smug, delighted grin you had ever seen.
“I knew it.”
Bucky’s head turned toward her. “You knew?”
“Obviously.” She leaned back in her chair, looking disgustingly pleased with herself. “You two have been making eyes at each other for months. It was pathetic.”
“It’s really not,” you said.
Ava hummed, because apparently this was a good time to speak up. “It was a little.”
You felt betrayed. “Ava.”
Alexei looked between you and Bucky with shining eyes. “This is beautiful. Two damaged assassins finding love in luxury wellness room.”
Yelena waved a hand. “Whatever. You two are perfect for each other.”
That, weirdly, was what shut you up.
Bucky froze beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. You could feel him looking at you, you could feel that private warmth that had started between you in the training room and somehow survived a week.
“You think?” you asked, more vulnerable than you meant to.
Yelena’s eyes softened just slightly. Then, because she was Yelena, she ruined it immediately. “Yes. You are both dramatic, emotionally constipated, and terrible at pretending you are not in love.”
Alexei looked near tears. “I support this union.”
“There is no union,” Bucky said, ears pink.
You glanced at him, half joking. “No?”
His mouth opened, but closed almost immediately.
“Yet,” Bob said under his breath.
Yelena made a triumphant noise. “Ha!”
Bucky rubbed a hand over his face while the entire table erupted, everyone talking over each other at once. John was asking when it started. Alexei was demanding to know who kissed who first. Ava calmly said she had assumed it happened months ago because Bucky had stopped looking like a kicked dog whenever you walked into a room. Bob asked if the sauna was now off-limits for everyone else.
And through all of it, Bucky’s hand found yours under the table.
You looked at him.
He looked mortified. Happy, though.
So happy it made your chest hurt.
You squeezed his hand back and smiled into your drink while Yelena loudly declared, “Finally. Maybe now the sexual tension in this Tower will stop clogging the ventilation.”
—
For six months, Yelena thought the whole thing was very funny.
At first, anyway.
It was funny when Bucky started leaving his jackets in places you could “accidentally” find them, as if anyone in the tower believed you just happened to keep ending up swallowed in navy cotton that smelled like him. It was funny when you and Bucky tried to sit normally on the couch and still ended up pressed shoulder to shoulder, your knee hooked over his, his hand resting on your thigh like he had forgotten other people had eyes. It was especially funny when Alexei called him your American house cat and Bucky looked personally wounded while you gave him doe eyes, trying to convince him that you both should adopt an actual house cat.
Yelena teased him mercilessly. She teased you worse.
But mostly, she liked it.
Because in the end, Bucky was good for you. He understood the coldness you wrapped yourself in after bad missions. He didn't flinch when you woke up violently from nightmares. He never asked you to be smaller than you were.
And, irritatingly, you were good for him too.
You made him laugh more. Not loudly, not often, but enough that Yelena noticed. You made him less haunted in the mornings. You made him complain about normal things, like burnt toast and John stealing his protein powder and Alexei singing in the shower. You made him human in little ways he had forgotten he was allowed to be.
So, yes, for six months, Yelena thought it was cute.
Until one night, when she decided it wasn’t.
It was one of your nights.
You had it once a month or so. You called it “me time.”
Everyone else called it, “the night you went out alone to random bars, played darts against biker gangs, wagered full-grown men out of their cash, and came home at two in the morning smelling like beer and smuggled cigars.”
Bucky hated those nights, and not because he wanted to stop you. He knew better than to try. You were not a houseplant. You were not fragile. You were a former Red Room operative with excellent aim and a deeply concerning fondness for humiliating men named things like Tank and Moose at bar games.
Still, the second you left, Bucky became useless. He checked his phone. He checked the windows. He made coffee and forgot to drink it. He stood in the kitchen like a widower in a war film, staring at nothing until Yelena threw a peanut at his head and told him to sit down before she sedated him.
Yelena didn’t worry. At least, not openly. She knew you. She knew you liked the adrenaline, the anonymity, the very specific joy of walking into a place where everyone underestimated you and leaving with an ego boost and cash in your pocket. It was stupid, yes, but not unusually stupid for you.
Besides, you always came back.
So once a month, everytime you went out for your “me time,” Bucky and Yelena would hang out together and pretend they were not both slightly empty without you.
They played cards. Sometimes they watched terrible action movies just to complain about the fight choreography. Sometimes they made food neither of them admitted you usually supervised. They never called it waiting up. But they were definitely waiting up.
The two of them were embarrassing without you. Truly embarrassing.
That was how they had ended up at the kitchen island playing heads-up poker with ammunition.
Yelena had dumped a box of bullets onto the counter and divided them into two little piles like poker chips.
“This is bad gun safety,” Bucky scolded.
“These are not in gun,” Yelena said, dealing the cards. “So it is fine.”
“That is not how it works,” Bucky complained, but took the cards anyway.
“You are losing,” Yelena insisted. “Stop distracting.”
“I’m not.”
“You have three bullets left,” she pointed out.
Bucky looked down at his sad little pile, and Yelena smirked. “Very tragic.”
“I’m distracted.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Because your girlfriend is not here and you are useless without her.”
He gave her a look over his cards. If this was how she was going to act, then two can play at that game. “You’ve checked your phone six times.”
“I am monitoring,” She sneered.
“You’re useless too.”
She kicked him under the counter, and he just glared at her.
This, somehow, was what they had become.
Two people with probably the highest body count in the tower, sitting in the kitchen past midnight, playing poker with loose ammunition because neither of them knew what to do with themselves when you weren’t there.
Yelena tossed a card down. “Raise.”
“With what?” Bucky sighed. “You have all the bullets.”
She slid one bullet forward. “I am generous.”
Bucky opened his mouth, but his phone rang before he could answer. He looked at the screen to see: Unknown number.
He furrowed his brows before he picked it up.
Yelena saw it and sat straighter, all the teasing draining out of her face.
“Barnes,” he answered.
What followed was a couple of seconds of terrible silence as he listened to the voice on the other side.
Then his eyes flicked to hers. Yelena was already standing.
“What happened?” he asked, her voice low.
Her chair scraped back. “What is it?”
Bucky lifted one hand slightly, as if to say wait. His fist clenched slightly. “Is she conscious?”
Yelena’s stomach dropped. She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and threw Bucky’s at him before he had even ended the call.
“Metro General,” Bucky said into the phone. “I’m on my way.”
He hung up. “It’s her,” he said.
“I figured that out, genius.” Yelena shoved her arms into her jacket. “How bad?”
“Forehead cut and a possible concussion,” he repeated back the information. “Awake, but mostly being difficult, apparently.”
Yelena exhaled through her nose. “So alive.”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” she said, “I can kill her myself.”
They moved fast. Bucky barely remembered to grab his keys. Yelena scooped the ammunition back into the box with one sweep of her hand, because even in crisis she was not leaving loose bullets on the kitchen counter for her papa to find and turn into a story.
They hit the elevator together and the doors slid shut.
For two floors, neither of them spoke.
Then Yelena frowned. “Wait.”
Bucky looked at her, tilting his head.
“Why did they call you?” She narrowed her eyes. “I am her emergency contact.”
For a second all Bucky could think was why does that matter so much— oh.
You had changed it.
To him.
Bucky looked down at his phone.
He tried very hard not to react. He really did. His face went blank in that deeply annoying winter soldier way, but Yelena had known him too long now. She saw the tiny shift, the warmth growing under the panic. She saw the stunned realisation in his eyes.
The pleased, fuzzy glow.
He was worried, obviously. But underneath it, was this absurd, boyish pride.
You had chosen him over her for emergencies. For hospital calls. For the ugly, inconvenient, blood-on-your-shirt parts of being loved.
Bucky looked like you had just handed him the moon and told him he was allowed to keep it.
Yelena stared at him. “Do not,” she said.
His head snapped up. “What?”
“Do not look all pleased.”
“I’m not pleased.”
“You are very pleased.”
“She’s in the hospital,” he insisted. “I’m worried.”
“And yet your face is saying, oh, I am her emergency contact now, this is very special for me.”
His ears went pink.
“You are pleased!” Yelena gasped. “This is disgusting. She has head wound and you are having moment.”
Bucky dragged a hand over his face. “I’m worried.”
“Yes, and pleased,” she crossed her hands over her chest.
“I didn't even know she changed it,” Bucky said, exasperated now.
“I know.” Yelena sighed.
“I didn’t ask her to.”
“I know, Barnes.”
His voice lowered after a moment of silence, feeling a little guilty now. “She didn’t tell you either?”
Yelena looked away.
There it was: The small hurt she had been trying not to feel.
For years, it had been her number. Her phone ringing at two in the morning. Her job to show up with a jacket and a lecture. Her name on your forms because she had been your person before either of you had learned how to have people properly.
Now it was his.
Which was fine. Obviously.
Normal.
Healthy.
Terrible.
“I am fine,” Yelena forced out, knowing it wasn’t the answer to his question
He did not say anything, but she could tell he didn’t buy it.
She hated him a little for that too. For not believing her. For knowing what fine meant in their shared vocabulary. Her reflection looked back at her in the elevator doors, blonde hair loose around her face, teeth clenched enough to ache.
“I mean, it is practical,” she said, forcing a shrug. “You are her boyfriend. You are tall. You can carry things.”
The elevator kept descending.
His mouth twitched, barely. Apparently, he thought this was a good time to be the leader he always was during difficult moments. “She still loves you,” he said.
Yelena scoffed. “Obviously. Everyone loves me.”
Then the elevator dinged.
Saved by the doors.
She stepped out first. “Come on, emergency contact. Your girlfriend has probably insulted three hospital staff by now.”
—
Metro General smelled like antiseptic, cheap coffee, and fluorescent lighting that made everyone look like they were either guilty or about to confess to a hidden treasure on a death bed.
By the time Bucky and Yelena found you, you were sitting on an exam bed in a curtained-off bay with your boots dangling above the floor, one knee bouncing restlessly, a wad of gauze pressed near your eyebrow, and the loose, bright-eyed expression of someone who had definitely been drinking before getting into a fight she absolutely considered justified.
A doctor stood in front of you with gloved hands, carefully stitching the cut along your forehead. He looked like he had already asked you to sit still several times and had not been listened to once.
“Okay,” he said, leaning closer with the needle. “I need you to stop moving your eyebrows.”
“I’m not moving them,” you said, “it’s just my face.” You frowned then, which made him pause immediately.
“See?” he said.
You tried not to laugh. It came out anyway, both tipsy and unhelpful.
Yelena reached the edge of the curtain first, already halfway into her usual annoyed rescue mode, one where she would call you an idiot while checking the color of your lips and the steadiness of your pupils. But Bucky was beside her, stupid and all boyfriend-y. His eyes went to the gauze, then your hands, then the doctor, then back to your face, cataloguing every visible inch of you like he could put himself between you and the past hour if he tried hard enough.
Then you looked up.
The second you saw them, your whole face changed.
“Bucky!” It came out warm and embarrassingly kind. His name left your mouth like he was home, like even a little drunk and bleeding beneath hospital lights, some part of you knew exactly where safety was standing.
He moved before he could stop himself, stepping into the bay like the sound of his name in your mouth had pulled him by the ribs.
Yelena froze, just for half a second.
Of course. Bucky. Not her.
Her mouth curved up into a fake smile because that was easier than letting disappointment show.
“Right,” she said under her breath. “Him. Not me. I am just the sister, obviously. Not important.”
“Hey, trouble,” he said when he got to you.
You smiled up at the nickname, sweet and entirely too pleased with yourself. “You came.”
His frown was a little devastating then. It was as if the part of you that thought he would not come had hurt him. He looked like it made him want to gather you up and never let anything touch you again.
“Of course I came,” he said, holding his human hand out to yours.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Please don’t lean forward while I have a needle near your face.”
You blinked, realizing you had leaned toward Bucky without noticing. “Sorry.”
“You are not sorry,” Yelena said from behind him.
Your gaze drew past Bucky, and your expression brightened again. You had missed her entirely the first time, though you still sounded pleased. “Oh. Lena is here!”
Yelena’s smile went thin.
Lena is here.
As if she would not be. As if she had not once crossed three boroughs at three in the morning because you had texted only the word problem and a blurry picture of your own bleeding arm. As if she had not been showing up for you since before either of you knew what showing up was supposed to look like.
“Wow,” she said. “Lena is here. Incredible. Shocking. Who could have foreseen this plot twist?”
You squinted at her, trying to understand why she sounded like that through the warm blur of alcohol and adrenaline. “Are you mad?”
“No,” Yelena said immediately.
Bucky glanced back at her.
Yelena pointed at him. “Do not.”
He wisely turned back to you.
You reached for more of him without thinking, fingers curling around the hem of his jacket. Bucky noticed. He noticed everything about you, every wince you tried to bury, every joke you used as misdirection, every time your breathing went uneven. His hand covered yours, warm flesh over bruised knuckles, and you melted a little under the touch despite the doctor still working at your forehead.
You loved him so much it felt stupid sometimes.
It felt especially stupid now, with blood drying at your temple and your head pleasantly spinning, because all you could think was that he was so beautiful when he was worried, beautiful like a storm held back by sheer will.
Bucky’s thumb moved across your knuckles. “How much did you drink?”
You considered lying.
Yelena snorted before you could answer because she knew that look. “Do not.”
You knew exactly what she meant and scoffed. “I was not.”
“Tell him the truth.”
You looked back at Bucky. “A few drinks.”
“How many is a few?”
“Less than many.”
The doctor made a sound like he was trying not to laugh and it was taking everything for him to stay professional.
Bucky closed his eyes for one second. When he opened them again, they were still worried. He was not angry with you. You could handle anger, but Bucky looking at you like you were precious and reckless and his made you want to crawl directly into his arms in front of medical professionals, which was inconvenient.
“What happened?” he asked.
You sighed, because this part was obvious to you and apparently baffling to everyone else.
“I was playing darts with Moose and drinking,” you said. “Normally. Like a normal person.”
Yelena made a rude noise.
“I was,” you insisted, looking offended. “But then there were these guys.” You gestured vaguely, almost hitting the doctor’s wrist.
The doctor caught your hand midair and placed it firmly in your lap, resuming the stitch. “Hands down.”
“Sorry.”
“Thank you.”
You looked back at Bucky, lowering your voice like you were sharing state secrets. “They were being gross.”
Yelena tilted her head. “To you?”
You hesitated. “At first.”
Bucky’s jaw ticked, as if he was going to find these very same guys in here and was going to massively increase their hospital bills.
You waved a hand quickly, or tried to, before remembering the doctor had forbidden it. “I ignored it. Then I had to scare them away. It worked.”
“Mmhmm,” Yelena said.
“But then they started harassing the bartender while she was working,” you continued, ignoring her, “and these guys kept bothering her. Like, they asked for her number once, and she said no.”
Bucky nodded.
“But they didn’t stop,” you said, voice losing some of its tipsy brightness. “They kept leaning over the bar and calling her sweetheart and asking what time she got off. One of them said she was being stuck-up, and another one tried to grab her wrist when she turned away.”
The air in the little bay changed.
Bucky went quiet, and Yelena’s expression flattened. You shrugged, though your own fist tightened at the memory. “So I told them to leave her alone.”
The doctor tied off one stitch and moved to the next. “That’s not exactly how the police report phrased it.”
You frowned. “The police report lacks emotional context.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched up despite himself, as if thinking, that’s my girl.
Yelena crossed her arms. “And then?”
“And then one of them told me to mind my business.”
Bucky looked at you. You looked back at him.
“And I felt,” you said carefully, “that it had become my business.”
“Reasonable.” Yelena nodded once. “So you threw hands.”
You brightened again and confirmed. “I threw hands.”
A nurse, who had been mindlessly standing at your side, looked at your report and said, “this says you threw a barstool.”
“I used the environment,” you shrugged.
“And a pool cue,” she flipped a page.
“That was already in my hand.”
“Ummm,” the nurse started, reading more, “this said it wasn’t.”
Bucky looked down at your bruised knuckles, trying his hardest not to sound proud. “How many?”
You pursed your lips.
The nurse answered before you could. “Seven injured men were brought in separately. None critical.”
You looked offended. “Eight.”
The doctor blinked. “Eight?”
“One slipped on beer,” you nodded, “I feel like I contributed to that.”
Yelena let out a startled laugh before she could stop herself.
The nurse glanced up from your chart. “You did tell the paramedic, repeatedly, that he should see the other guys.”
You pointed at her. “Because he should.”
“You also asked if anyone had written down your dart score.”
“That was important,” you frowned. “I had a winning streak.”
“You might have a concussion,” the doctor corrected.
You sighed and looked at Bucky, as if he hadn't just heard it himself. “They’re saying concussion.”
Bucky’s thumb stroked the back of your hand again, and the motion pulled your attention back to him like gravity. He loved you so much. It was everywhere when you knew how to look. In his hand around yours. In the set of his shoulders. In the way he kept glancing at the doctor’s needle like he disliked it for hurting you, even though it was helping.
The doctor finished the last stitch and began cleaning around the wound.
“So,” he said, returning to a more professional tone, “the CT was clear, which is good. But given the head injury, the alcohol, and the history, we’re treating this as a mild concussion. She’ll need to be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. No alcohol. No strenuous activity. No driving. No sleeping without periodic checks. If there’s vomiting, worsening headache, confusion, vision changes, unusual behavior—”
You smiled sweetly, interrupting him. “They know concussion protocol.”
Bucky repeated, “We know concussion protocol.”
Yelena said, “Unfortunately.”
The doctor looked between them, then at you. “Right. Avengers.”
How fortunate.
—
Yelena drove because Bucky refused to be more than an inch away from you, and because you were still tipsy enough to keep trying to wave goodbye to the hospital security guard through the back window.
It was late enough that the city had gone a bit quieter for New York standards. Streetlights streaked gold across the glass and rainwater from earlier in the evening shone black on the road. The heater hummed, filling the car with warmth, while you sat in the back seat tucked so securely into Bucky’s side that you might as well have been part of him.
His human arm was wrapped around your shoulders. His vibranium hand rested carefully over your knee, tapping every so often when your head began to loll too comfortably against his chest.
“Stay awake, sweetheart,” he cooed.
“I am awake.”
“Mhmm.”
From the driver’s seat, Yelena snorted before she could stop herself.
She was still bitter. You could tell, even through the pleasant, cottony haze in your head. Yelena’s bitterness had a very specific texture: too sarcastic and too much focus on the road. She had her hands at ten and two like she was angry at the steering wheel. She had been making jokes since the hospital, which meant she was hurt enough to hide behind them.
Bucky noticed too.
His thumb moved gently over your knee. “You doing okay?”
“Mmm.” You tipped your face up toward him. “You’re very handsome when you’re worried.”
His ears went pink.
Yelena made a gagging sound from the front. “Please remember I am trapped in this vehicle.”
You smiled lazily. “But he is handsome, Lena! Don’t you think?”
“Gah,” she said, not even wanting to think of him that way.
Bucky’s mouth turned into a faint smile, but the amusement faded quickly. His eyes dropped to the bandage near your forehead, then to your bruised knuckles, then back to your face. He had been doing that all night, checking you in pieces like he could not trust the whole of you unless he inspected every injured part.
Finally, after a bout of silence, he asked, “Can I come out with you next time?”
Your eyes opened properly, widening in an instant.
In the rearview mirror, Yelena’s eyes flicked up. This was going to be fun.
Bucky looked almost embarrassed as soon as he said it, but he kept going anyway. “Not to stop you. I know you can handle yourself. I just…” He looked away a little. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”
Oh.
Your poor heart melted stupid inside your chest.
You reached up and patted his cheek with perhaps slightly too much affection and not enough coordination. “I love you,” you said, very seriously, “but don’t dote.”
He huffed despite himself. “Come on, sweets. Why not?”
“Because,” you almost scolded, “you’re no fun.”
Yelena laughed then. It was a small, surprised laugh that broke through her mood before she could lock it down again.
But Bucky frowned.
He wasn’t exactly heartbroken. It was just a little crease between his brows, his mouth settling into that wounded line he got when he was trying not to take something personally and failing because he loved you too much to be casual about anything you said.
Immediately, you gasped, hearing yourself.
“No. No, no, no.” You pushed yourself upright from his chest, and Bucky’s arm tightened at once like you had attempted to dive out of the moving car. “Baby.”
“It’s okay,” he said, which meant he absolutely was not.
“Baby,” you repeated, cupping his face with both hands. Your palms were warm against his stubbled skin, your thumb brushing clumsily near the corner of his mouth. “Baby, baby, I don’t mean it like that.”
His eyes searched yours. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You nodded, then winced because nodding was apparently not your friend. “Ow. Anyway. I mean… if you come with me, then no one underestimates me anymore.”
Bucky blinked blankly.
You pointed at him with one hand, nearly poking his cheek. “Because you’re all… this.”
“This?”
“Big,” you said. “Beautiful. Scary. Murder boyfriend.”
Yelena coughed so hard it was almost a laugh.
Bucky stared at you for a second.. “Murder boyfriend?”
“You know what I mean.”
He shook his head. “I really don’t know if I do.”
“You do. You walk in and suddenly no one thinks I’m harmless.” You sounded genuinely disappointed by the concept. “Then it’s not fun anymore.”
Bucky looked torn between fondness and despair. “I’m sorry my presence ruins your bar ecosystem.”
“It does.”
“I’ll work on that.”
“You can’t,” you sighed, hiccuping a little before continuing. “You’re too threatening.”
This time, Yelena did laugh.
Then your whole face brightened, like a solution had dropped straight out of the sky and into your concussed little head. “Oh! I know.”
Yelena’s smile vanished with immediate suspicion, because that sounded like you just came up with a bad idea.
“Lena should come with me next time!” you exclaimed.
Oh.
What?
Yelena looked at you in the rearview mirror. “Huh?”
You smiled at her, tipsy and so painfully sincere that Bucky looked like he was actually considering it. “You should come with me. It’ll be fun.”
Yelena didn’t know what to make of it
You leaned forward, eager now, and Bucky immediately caught the back of your jacket to stop you from lunging yourself forward over the center console.
“Careful,” he warned.
You ignored him completely, eyes still on Yelena in the mirror. “We barely go out together anymore.”
Her hands tightened on the wheel.
The streetlights passed over her face in brief yellow flashes, there and gone, there and gone. Yelena was never gentle in the way people usually were, but her anger faltered, just enough for you to see the hurt underneath it.
“I miss going out with you.” Your voice went smaller. “I miss you.”
Yelena looked away from the mirror too fast.
Fuck.
You did?
All this time she thought she was replaceable, you missed her?
She blinked hard, and if her eyes watered a little, no one in the car was stupid enough to point it out.
“You are just concussed,” she said, trying not to sound too sentimental. “And drunk.”
“But I still mean it.”
Bucky’s hand slid over your arm, warm and steady. You settled back against him, still looking at Yelena, your smile hopeful now instead of bright.
That was the thing, wasn’t it? You loved Bucky. God, you loved him. You loved him with the dizzy certainty of a weapon who had found a place to lay down her weapons and still be known. You loved his worried eyes, the way he said sweetheart, the way he looked at you like he was lucky to hold you at all.
But Yelena was your sister. The one you knew as child soldiers in the battlefield. The one who yelled because she was scared. The one who had dragged you through survival and gave you a life.
You had always known that there was room enough in your heart for both of them.
Yelena just needed to hear it.
Bucky seemed to understand that, too, because he lifted to the rearview mirror, meeting Yelena’s eyes there, as if saying, see? She does care.
“She’d be safer with you,” he said.
Yelena swallowed.
The car hummed through another stretch of wet road before she nodded once, like she was accepting a mission.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take care of your girlfriend, Barnes.”
You sighed happily and melted back against Bucky’s chest. “See? Perfect.”
Bucky pressed his mouth lightly to your hair, careful of your injury. “Perfect,” he echoed.
“Now,” you added, holding up one finger with great importance, “you can be both our emergency contacts!”
Yelena rolled her eyes. “Now that is pushing it.”
Bucky laughed then, his chest shaking beneath your cheek. You giggled into his jacket as he pulled you closer.
Up front, Yelena pretended to be annoyed. She rolled her eyes, muttered something in Russian under her breath about how grossly in love you two were, and kept both hands firmly on the wheel.
But she ended up avoiding all the potholes she had planned to run over on the way home.
the fact that clint couldn't take nat's body with him. they buried an empty casket. her body is still on vormir and they probably cannot go back to get her because it's a different timeline.
i'm sorry but you have to suffer with me. maybe someone of you has a better explaination.
the worst part is steve rogers WOULDN’T. he wouldn’t leave sam with the responsibility of the shield without being there to support him. he wouldn’t go back to a woman who died of old age, had her own life and told him to move on. he wouldn’t have ever, not even once, considered leaving bucky — aka his entire world wrapped up in one person — alone, especially after just getting him back. and he wouldn’t have decided that he’d fought the good fight enough and retire in suburbia in the decade epitomes for traditional values aka an antitheses to everything he stood for. the real steve rogers would legitimately hate the man marvel put on the screen in endgame. and yet. and yet
Warnings/Tags: Modern/College AU, Best Friends To Lovers, Mutual Pining, Idiots In Love, Oral Sex, Unprotected Sex, Emotional Intimacy, Fluff And Angst, Protective Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Is Down Bad
Word count: 22k
Music:
Delicate - Taylor Swift
Stick Season - Noah Kahan
Guilty as Sin? - Taylor Swift
Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys
Ruin The Friendship - Taylor Swift
I Put A Spell On You - Annie Lennox
Notes: hi hello!! When I tell you I have been working on this fic since the beginning of the year, I’m not kidding. I made this post January 2nd and it’s been sitting in draft hell while I write, and re-write, then edit, then re-write again. But here it is!! I hope you all enjoy this one! <3
Bucky’s apartment always felt like a second campus building you actually liked.
Not because it was clean, because it definitely wasn’t. There were always a couple of abandoned textbooks stacked on the coffee table like a small, depressing tower of responsibility. A stray hoodie draped over the arm of the couch. A lone sock that didn’t belong to anyone currently in the room (you refused to ask).
But it was his.
Warm light leaked out of mismatched lamps, one with a shade that was slightly crooked no matter how many times Bucky fixed it, another thrift-store find that cast everything in a soft amber glow. The couch had survived at least three different friend groups and probably a small war, it dipped in the middle like it recognized your body and welcomed you back.
The snack cabinet was perpetually half-empty in the way that proved Bucky tried to stock it and Sam took that as a personal challenge. And there was always some low-level hum of life: the radiator clanking, the faint buzz of street noise through the window, the occasional creak of the floorboards when someone shifted their weight.
The kind of easy, lived-in chaos that made your shoulders drop the second you stepped inside, like you could unclench without anyone noticing.
Tonight was no different.
Sam had claimed the “good” spot on the couch like he paid rent (he did not), sprawled out with his feet on the coffee table and a bag of chips balanced on his stomach like it was sacred. Steve was sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, posture stupidly perfect even while he ate pizza like an art form. There was an open notebook beside him that he’d pretended to take notes in for exactly five minutes before giving up and just existing pleasantly in the room.
And Bucky was in the kitchen. Well, not fully in the kitchen, more like hovering at the boundary between the living room and the counter, as if he couldn’t decide whether to participate or retreat. He’d made himself busy with something that didn’t require much effort: rinsing a glass that was already clean, rearranging the stack of paper plates, checking the oven even though nothing was in it.
The performance was obvious. So was the way he kept half an eye on you anyway.
You hovered near the counter too, picking at a bag of kettle chips like it was a delicate hobby. One chip at a time. Slow crunch. Salt on your fingers. A ridiculous amount of focus for someone who was absolutely not thinking about chips.
Bucky glanced over quickly, like a reflex, and his gaze landed on your hands, then your face. His expression didn’t change much… but it did soften at the edges, in that way it always did when you were around, like his body remembered you before his brain could get in the way.
You pretended not to notice. Because noticing made things feel… loaded.
“You know,” Sam said suddenly, craning his neck dramatically as if addressing an invisible audience, “I could do my homework tonight.”
You blinked, deadpan. “That’s a strange way to spell ‘ignore it until the deadline and panic-text me at 2 a.m.’”
Steve laughed into his soda, the sound bright and helpless. Sam pressed a hand to his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Et tu, Brute?”
“You say that like I haven’t watched you ‘suddenly remember’ an entire semester’s worth of work in one night,” you shot back.
Sam wagged a finger. “First of all, I prefer the term academically spontaneous.”
Steve snorted. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is a thing,” Sam insisted. “It’s just not a thing that gets you scholarships.”
From the kitchen, Bucky huffed, quiet and low, but there was a curve to it, something soft that always slipped into his reactions when you were there, like he couldn’t help it. “She’s not wrong.”
Sam whipped his head around. “Wow. Betrayal from within the house.”
Bucky didn’t look up from the cabinet he was pretending to organize. “Do your homework.”
“You’re all conspiring against me,” Sam said, pointing at each of you like you were a jury.
You smiled, reaching into the bag for another chip. “It’s not a conspiracy. It’s an intervention.”
Sam gasped. “I don’t need an intervention.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked to you again and this time it lingered a fraction longer, like he was tracking the way you smiled, the way you fit into this space like you belonged here. Like you always had.
Your eyes drifted to him without permission, pulled by something magnetic and irritating and familiar.
He was leaning against the counter with that permanently unimpressed expression he wore like armor, one hip hooked against the edge, arms loosely crossed. A dark henley stretched across his shoulders and chest like it had been designed solely to ruin your ability to think, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, skin warm-toned under the lamp light, and his hair was messier than usual in a way that looked accidental but… wasn’t helping.
His gaze met yours for half a second too long.
And the room didn’t go silent, Sam was still talking, Steve was still laughing… but your brain did. Just a brief blank, like your thoughts hit a wall.
You felt your heart stumble in your chest, just a little stutter. Like a skipped stair step. Like that moment right before you trip, when your body goes oh— and tries to correct itself.
It was stupid. It was so stupid how normal it all was, how easy it was to pretend this was just another night. Just another round of Sam being loud and Steve being kind and Bucky pretending he didn’t care while constantly making sure everyone had what they needed.
And still, your body acted surprised every time Bucky looked at you like that. Like you were something steady. Something safe. Something he didn’t have to brace himself around.
It made your throat tighten in a way you hated. So you did what you always did when emotions got too close: you shoved them back down, forced your attention onto Sam, and willed your face into neutrality before you did something embarrassing like smile too much, or soften too obviously, or let him see that his attention hit you like a touch.
Sam was mid-story, gesturing wildly with a chip like it was a microphone. “—and then the professor looked at me and said, ‘Mr. Wilson, what exactly are you contributing to this discussion?’”
Steve made a sympathetic noise. “What did you say?”
Sam spread his hands. “I said, ‘Vibes.’”
You snorted. “You did not.”
“I did,” Sam insisted. “And she said, ‘That is not a measurable academic contribution.’”
Steve laughed, shaking his head. “She’s not wrong.”
“Anyway,” Sam said, pointing at you like the moral of the story was your fault, “this is why I need you to bring the flashcards. Because if I’m left to my own devices, I will perish.”
“You brought the flashcards?” Steve asked hopefully, like there was a real chance you’d show up unprepared and the world would end.
You held up your tote bag with exaggerated dignity. “I’m not an animal.”
Bucky’s voice came from the kitchen without him even looking up. “Debatable.”
You turned slowly, deadpan, letting the pause stretch just long enough to make it a threat. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you said, calm as a scalpel, “I will personally label every cabinet in this apartment in Comic Sans.”
Sam made a choking sound that was half laughter, half horror. Steve gasped like you’d just threatened a war crime.
Bucky’s mouth twitched barely, like he was trying to smother it before it became a smile. He straightened a fraction against the counter, eyes narrowing like he was measuring you. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just… amused in that reluctant way he got when you cornered him.
“You wouldn’t,” he said, voice low, like he was calling your bluff.
You raised your brows. “Try me.”
His eyes stayed on yours, steady and challenging, but there was something warm underneath it now, something that made the air between you feel charged in a way it shouldn’t. “You’re evil,” he muttered, like it pained him to admit it.
You tipped your chin up. “You love it.” The words slipped out too easy, too familiar. Too true in a way that made your stomach do a slow, traitorous flip, like your body heard it and went Oh. That. That’s a thing.
For half a second, you regretted it. Not because it was wrong, but because it wasn’t. Because Bucky’s expression shifted in the smallest way, like he’d been caught off guard by how soft it sounded coming from you. Like he’d been prepared for sarcasm, for banter, for a fight.
Sam noticed immediately, because Sam noticed everything. He grinned like a shark. “Aww.”
You pointed at him with a chip. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it loud.”
You bit down on the chip and tried to ignore the way Bucky’s ears had gone a faint pink. Which was… ridiculous. Bucky Barnes did not blush. Bucky Barnes stared down frat guys at parties until they apologized for existing.
And yet… here he was, subtly flustered because you teased him the way you’d been teasing him since freshman year, back when you’d met him in Intro to Psych and he’d looked like someone had dragged him into the building against his will.
The lecture hall had been too warm, packed with bodies and backpack straps and the faint smell of overbrewed coffee. The professor had been cheerful in a way that felt illegal for an 8 a.m., clicking through a slide titled “Welcome to PSYCH 101!” like it was the most thrilling thing on earth.
And then there was Bucky. Three rows down, hunched in his seat like he wanted to shrink out of existence. Hoodie up. Jaw clenched. The kind of posture that screamed do not talk to me.
Which, obviously, had been a challenge.
You’d chosen the seat next to him like it was fate instead of impulse. Dropped your tote down. Pulled out a notebook. And when he’d flicked his eyes to you with that flat, unimpressed stare, you’d smiled like you were meeting a stray cat.
“Hi,” you’d said, bright and fearless, offering up your name. “You look like you hate it here.”
He’d blinked slowly, like he wasn’t used to someone pointing out the obvious. “I do,” he’d replied.
“That’s okay,” you’d said, utterly delighted. “I’m going to sit here anyway.”
He’d stared at you for a beat too long, like he couldn’t decide if you were annoying or dangerous. And then, begrudgingly: “Fine.”
That had been it. That had been the beginning. Not some grand meet-cute. Just you deciding, without consulting him, that you were going to be friends.
And somehow, impossibly, you’d gotten under his skin the way you always did. You’d teased him when he refused to participate in discussion. You’d slide your notes toward him when he’d missed a class. You’d offered him a piece of gum one day and watched him look at it like it was a trap.
He’d been prickly. Guarded. Uninterested in everyone. And still, somewhere along the way, he’d let you stay, let you become a constant.
Now, three years later, it was easy. So easy it should’ve been suspicious.
You could walk into his apartment without knocking. You could steal his hoodie off the back of his chair and he’d grumble but not stop you. You could talk over him, interrupt him, poke at his patience like it was a button you’d installed, and he would roll his eyes like he hated it while quietly making sure you had a plate, a drink, a place to sit.
It was easy. And the ease of it terrified you a little, because it felt like something you weren’t supposed to get for free.
The night kept rolling, a blur of half-studying and mostly roasting each other.
Sam was the loudest variable, as usual. He’d contributed absolutely nothing to the study effort but 80% of the noise, narrating the evening like it was a documentary no one asked for.
Steve had tried, earnestly, to implement structure—“Okay, twenty minutes of focus, five minutes break”—as if any of you were wired for that kind of discipline.
And Bucky continued to hover in the kitchen entrance, close enough to be part of the group but far enough to feel like he had an exit. He was present in that steady way that made the room feel anchored, even when Sam’s brain was ping-ponging around like a loose marble.
At some point the sky outside the windows shifted from dusky blue to full dark. You checked the time and groaned. “Okay,” you announced, cheerful but tired. “I should go. I have an eight a.m. lab and I’d like to arrive with my soul intact.”
Sam groaned, flopping back dramatically. “You’re leaving? But we were just getting to the part where we all admit we can’t read.”
“You’ve admitted that,” Steve said. “Like, ten times.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t processed it emotionally,” Sam argued.
Steve was already rubbing at his eyes, fatigue setting in like a slow tide. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice warm. “Get some sleep.”
You slung your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door, fingers curling around the strap like it anchored you. “Text me if you need anything.”
Sam lifted a hand immediately. “Need you to stay and explain what ‘citations’ means.” You flipped him off with love, a gesture so familiar it felt like home.
Then, because your body did it before your brain could stop it, you looked back at Bucky. He was still standing at the kitchen entrance like he’d been doing all night, pretending he wasn’t paying attention to you like you were the only thing in the room that made sense.
He took a step forward before he spoke, as if his body had decided for him. “I’ll walk you out,” he said, quick. Like the words had been waiting behind his teeth all night.
Your heart did that stupid thing again, thudding too hard, too fast, like it didn’t know how to be normal about him.“It’s…” you started, forcing a laugh that sounded steadier than you felt. “It’s ten steps to my car.”
Bucky’s eyes didn’t soften, not really. They stayed serious, grounded, like this was not a debate.
“Still,” he said. One word. No argument. Just Bucky being Bucky, like it was a rule carved into him: you don’t walk alone at night.
The door to Bucky’s apartment clicked closed behind you a few steps later and the warmth you’d been swimming in fell away as you stepped into cooler air that smelled faintly of old carpet and laundry detergent.
Bucky fell in beside you without making it a thing, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders broad enough to make the cramped corridor feel smaller, like he took up space even when he was trying not to.
He walked at your pace the way he always did, matching you without looking like he was doing it. Every few steps his gaze flicked forward, then to the side, checking corners out of habit, old instincts in a place that didn’t deserve them.
It should’ve felt ridiculous, letting him escort you ten steps to your car like you were made of glass. But it never did.
Because with Bucky, it didn’t feel like control. It felt like… care. Quiet and steady. Like a hand at the small of your back when you stepped off a curb or an umbrella offered without commentary.
Your fingers tightened around your bag strap as you walked, the fabric rough against your palm. “Thanks for tonight,” you said, because you always said it, even if the night had been chaotic and loud and half-useless academically.
Bucky gave a small nod like it was nothing. “Mm,” he murmured, noncommittal, like gratitude made him uncomfortable.
You tried not to smile too hard.
The front entrance came into view, glass doors, the small lobby beyond it lit by harsh overhead fluorescents. The building’s posted notices on the wall. A crooked bulletin board covered in flyers for lost cats and study groups and someone offering tarot readings for $10.
Your steps slowed without you meaning them to.
Bucky opened the lobby door and held it, letting you pass first. The air changed as you stepped into the brighter light: colder, cleaner, less forgiving.
He followed you through, the door easing shut behind him with a soft thump. His boots sounded heavier on the tile.
You stopped just before the final doors to outside.
Bucky stopped too, turning slightly, angling his body between you and the glass as if it mattered. As if it was his job.
It wasn’t. That was the problem.
“Drive safe,” he said, voice low.
“I always do,” you answered automatically.
He didn’t respond right away.
His gaze flicked down your face in a way that made your stomach tilt. Not scanning like he scanned the hallway. Not checking like he checked exits. This was different, slower, almost careful, like he was trying to place something he’d felt all night and didn’t have a name for.
Like he was memorizing you.
Your pulse stumbled.
Bucky’s jaw shifted like he was about to speak and decided against it. Like the words were right there behind his teeth and he didn’t trust them.
Your fingers tightened around your bag strap again “Bucky?” you heard yourself say.
His eyes lifted immediately. “Yeah?”
A single word and yet it felt like it meant too much.
You didn’t know what you were asking. Not really. Not unless you wanted to pull at the thread you’d been avoiding for months and watch everything unravel.
You didn’t know what you wanted from him… an answer, a confession, permission, denial. So you did what you always did when you got too close to the edge and grabbed humor like it was a life raft.
You smiled softly and said, “Tell Sam I’m not proofreading his essay if he keeps calling it ‘a vibe piece.’”
Bucky’s mouth curved, the tension easing with it. It wasn’t a big smile, Bucky didn’t do big smiles, but it was real and it warmed something in your chest you didn’t want to examine.
“I’ll tell him,” he said, voice rough with amusement.
“Good.” You shifted your weight toward the door, trying to behave somewhat normal. “Night.”
“Night, doll.”
The nickname slipped out like muscle memory. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… easy.
Your breath caught. Heat rushed up your neck and into your cheeks so fast you felt embarrassed by your own body. Because doll wasn’t new, he’d said it before, here and there, but tonight it landed different.
You forced a laugh that came out too thin. “Goodnight,” you repeated, like saying it twice could override the way your heart was sprinting.
Then you stepped backward toward the glass doors before you could do something stupid like stare. You lifted your hand in a small wave, because you were normal, and this was normal, and best friends said goodnight all the time.
Bucky lifted his hand back, just a fraction, like he didn’t want to let the moment go any more than you did.
You turned quickly before he could see how flustered you were. You hurried down the steps, boots tapping, the night air loud in your ears. You didn’t look back.
You told yourself you didn’t look back because you didn’t want to slip on the icy step, because you were focused, because you were responsible.
Not because if you looked back and saw him watching you, you might crumble.
You reached your car and fumbled your keys out, fingers clumsy from cold and nerves. You slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and sitting there for a beat with both hands on the steering wheel, breathing like you’d run a mile.
You started the car, heat blasting on weakly, the engine coughing awake. Only then did you glance up through the windshield… and see him. Bucky was still inside the lobby, standing just behind the glass doors.
Still, broad shoulders squared, hands in his pockets like he’d put them there to stop himself from doing something else. His face was turned toward your car, eyes fixed on you with that quiet, steady attention that always made you feel seen.
He didn’t wave this time, he just watched. As if you leaving was the part he hated most. As if he wasn’t satisfied until he knew you were gone, safe, out of sight, beyond the reach of whatever his brain insisted might happen.
You looked away quickly, because the moment felt too intimate through the glass. Because your cheeks were still hot. Because your heart was doing something stupid and hopeful and dangerous.
You backed out carefully, tires crunching over gravel, as you pulled out of your parking space and out onto the main street.
You didn’t see Bucky standing there, watching your taillights until they disappeared at the corner. You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched after you were gone.
Back upstairs, the apartment felt quieter without you, which was stupid because it was still three grown men and a TV that Sam refused to mute.
But your absence left a shape. Like the warmth you brought in with you didn’t fully disappear so much as drain out slowly, leaving everything a little flatter around the edges.
Bucky shut the door and leaned against it for half a second like he needed the wood to keep him upright.
Sam, half-sprawled on the couch, glanced up immediately because Sam had the survival instincts of someone who’d spent years learning how to read a room faster than it could read him. His grin came slow, sharp, delighted.
“Aww,” Sam crooned, all fake tenderness. “He walked her out.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He moved into the kitchen and grabbed a glass, filling it with water like hydration could fix… anything.
Steve was collecting empty cans and stacking them in a neat little row on the counter like he couldn’t help himself. His voice stayed casual, like he was narrating something harmless.
“She’s got lab early,” Steve said, as if that explained the tight line in Bucky’s jaw.
Bucky nodded once, short and clipped. Still not looking at them. He took a long drink of water that did absolutely nothing. Cold slid down his throat. His pulse stayed high anyway.
Steve didn’t push right away. That was Steve’s thing, he never yanked. He waited. He let people settle into their own truth.
Sam, on the other hand, lived to poke bruises and Bucky could feel Sam’s stare like heat.
Then Steve spoke again, tone light, like he was asking about the weather. “So…” He tipped his head toward the door. “You guys just friends?”
Bucky’s stomach did something unpleasant, like a drop on an elevator. He kept his eyes on the faucet even though it was off, like he was still busy. “Yeah.” But it came out too fast.
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. Steve’s expression didn’t change, but there was curiosity under it…real, quiet curiosity.
“Just friends,” Steve repeated, like he was testing the words.
Bucky’s grip tightened around the glass. “Yeah. We’ve been friends forever.”
Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Uh-huh. Bucky shot him a look that said don’t you dare. Sam held up both hands, delight practically vibrating off him. “I’m just… listening.”
Steve nodded slowly, like he’d reached a conclusion. “Okay.”
Bucky finally looked over, suspicious. “Okay?”
Steve shrugged. “Just checking.”
Bucky drank again because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. The water didn’t help. His chest still felt tight, like it remembered your smile too vividly.
Then Steve’s mouth tipped into something almost mischievous, so rare on him it should’ve been illegal “Cool,” he said, lightly. “So I can talk to her.”
The room went silent.
Not the normal “we ran out of things to say” silence, but the kind of silence that happens when something instinctive snaps into place.
Bucky’s entire body locked up like someone had flipped a switch in his spine. The glass in his hand stopped halfway to the counter.
Sam’s eyes widened, delighted. “Oh my God.”
Bucky’s voice came low. Flat. “What.”
Steve lifted his brows. “I said, if you’re just friends, then—”
Bucky set the glass down very carefully… then stepped closer. Not aggressive, at least not outwardly. But the air changed anyway, heavier, sharpened. Bucky Barnes did not have to raise his voice to make a room listen.
Steve’s smile faded into confusion. “Dude—”
“You’re not talking to her.” Bucky’s words were quiet, almost casual, which somehow made them worse.
Sam pressed a fist to his mouth to keep from laughing. It sounded like pain.
Steve stared. “Bucky. Why would I not talk to her? She’s cool. She’s smart. She’s funny—”
Bucky’s jaw flexed and Sam made a strangled noise like oh no he’s listing reasons. Steve, still oblivious in the way only Steve Rogers could be: “And she’s pretty, and—”
Bucky’s eyes went dangerous as he interrupted Steve, voice still calm but edged with something feral. “Stop.”
Bucky took another step, close enough now that Steve actually leaned back a fraction without realizing he was doing it.
“Listen,” Bucky said, each word measured. “You don’t get to—” He cut himself off, because saying you don’t get to look at her like that would’ve been admitting too much. But his stare did it for him anyway.
Steve’s eyes flicked across Bucky’s face like he was reading something he hadn’t noticed before, like puzzle pieces clicking together.
Realization dawned slowly. “Oh,” Steve said, very quietly. “Ohhhh.” Sam wheezed in the background.
Bucky’s cheeks went hot with irritation, at Steve, at Sam, at himself, at the fact that his body had reacted like a guard dog before his mouth could catch up.
Steve’s expression softened into something almost fond, which only made Bucky angrier. “You like her,” Steve said.
Bucky’s shoulders went rigid. “No.”
Sam barked a laugh. “That ‘no’ had a stutter in it, buddy.” Bucky looked like he wanted to throw the entire couch at Sam.
Steve held up both hands, backing off a little. “Okay. Okay. But you just told me you’re friends.”
“We are friends,” Bucky snapped.
Steve tilted his head. “But you want more.”
Bucky didn’t answer. Which was an answer.
Sam swung his legs off the couch, animated now. “Dude. You literally look like you’re about to challenge Steve to a duel for even imagining asking her out.”
Bucky’s gaze cut to Sam. “I’m not.”
Sam pointed. “You are.”
Bucky’s voice dropped again, stubborn. “I’m not.”
Steve’s smile came back, gentle this time, not teasing. “Bucky.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked away like the ceiling suddenly had something interesting going on.
Steve stepped closer, careful. “I wasn’t actually going to ask her out. I was messing with you.”
Bucky looked back at him, sharp. “Why.”
Steve shrugged, helpless honesty. “Because it’s been three years,” he said. “And you’ve been looking at her like she hung the moon.”
Bucky’s throat bobbed once. Steve kept going, because he wasn’t wrong and they all knew it.
“You keep calling her cute little nicknames like you don’t know what that does to you. You save her a seat without thinking. You go quiet when she’s tired like you’re trying to absorb the weight for her. And you get weird when anyone else gets her attention.”
Sam nodded violently. “So weird.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I don’t.”
“You do,” Steve said, gentle but firm. “And I’m not trying to steal your girl.” He paused, watching Bucky’s face. “I’m trying to get you to be honest… at least with yourself.”
That phrase, your girl, hit something deep and instinctive in Bucky’s chest, and the worst part was how right it sounded, like it had been written somewhere long before he’d even learned how to want things again.
Bucky exhaled, hard, like he was letting go of a fight he didn’t know he’d started.
Sam leaned forward, quieter now. “You gonna tell her?”
Bucky stared at the floor for a beat.
He could still see you at the door, turning with that small smile. He could still hear the soft “night.” He could still feel the way his chest had tightened when you stepped away, like his body didn’t know what to do when you weren’t within reach.
Then, barely, like the words cost him pride and oxygen, “She deserves better than me springing it on her,” he said.
Steve’s expression softened even more. “That’s not an answer.”
Bucky swallowed. “I’m not gonna—” He shook his head once, frustrated. “I don’t wanna mess up what we have.”
Sam’s voice went surprisingly gentle. “You mean the thing you’re already messing up by acting like a kicked puppy every time she smiles at someone else?”
Bucky shot him a look. Sam held it, unflinching.
Steve nodded, calm. “You don’t have to do anything tonight. But… maybe stop lying about what you feel.”
Bucky’s hands clenched at his sides. Then he muttered, like the words tasted like pride and fear at the same time, “I’m not lying.”
Sam lifted his brows. “Then what was that back there? ‘Yeah just friends’?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m just… defensive.”
Steve smiled, small. “You mean possessive.”
Bucky’s glare could’ve melted glass.
Sam slapped his thigh. “Oh, he’s down bad.”
Bucky’s voice came low, warning. “Sam.”
Sam held up his hands again, laughing. “Okay, okay. But for the record? If you don’t tell her soon, somebody else is gonna try. And you’re gonna have an aneurysm.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked to the door, like he could still see you, could still feel the warmth you left behind in the room. Then, reluctantly, like admitting it might break him, “…Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”
Steve’s smile went soft. “Good. That means you care.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve always cared.”
Sam grinned like Christmas came early. “Awww.”
Bucky turned, already moving toward his bedroom, because if he stayed in the living room any longer he was going to do something dramatic, like text you right now and say something catastrophically honest.
Sam called after him, bright and smug: “So we agree? She’s not just your friend.”
Bucky paused in the doorway, shoulders tense. Then, without looking back, he said, quiet and deadly: “Try and find out.” And shut the door.
Sam exploded into laughter. Steve just stood there, shaking his head, smiling like he’d finally solved a mystery.
And somewhere off in the distance, you were driving home with no idea that the line between “best friends” and “mine” had just been drawn hard inside Bucky’s chest.
You didn’t think about Bucky on the drive home. That was the lie you told yourself, anyway.
You told yourself you were thinking about your eight a.m. lab, about the way your TA looked like he’d been spawned by black coffee and bad sleep, about how you still needed to print your pre-lab worksheet, about whether you’d remembered to pack your goggles or if Future You was about to have to buy another pair from the bookstore for a price that felt criminal.
You told yourself you were thinking about the exam next week, the one that sat in the back of your head like a storm cloud you kept pretending wasn’t there. You told yourself you were thinking about literally anything else.
But your mind kept doing that annoying, traitorous thing where it rewound moments like a song you couldn’t stop replaying, even when you changed the station.
Bucky’s eyes on you in the kitchen. Not a glance. Not a check-in. A linger. Like he’d been looking at you and forgetting to look away.
The way his voice had dropped when he’d said “Night, doll”, soft and low, like it belonged in the quiet. And the pause after, that half second where everything in you had gone still because you could tell he’d realized he’d said it out loud.
You gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and forced your gaze onto the road, like you could steer yourself away from the thought if you held on hard enough.
It was nothing, you told yourself. It was a nickname. Bucky called people nicknames. Bucky was… Bucky. Quiet, protective, occasionally softer than he wanted anyone to notice. And you were his friend.
His best friend, technically, if you were counting hours spent in the same space, shared notes, shared snacks, shared silence. If you were counting the way he always saved you the seat that wasn’t too close to other people. The way he always angled his body between you and whatever made you tense. The way he somehow knew when your social battery was dying and would silently hand you your coat like here, I’m giving you an exit.
Friends did that. Friends walked you out. Friends texted you to make sure you got home.
You repeated it like an incantation as you drove, friends, friends, friends, like saying it enough times would make your stomach stop doing that weird, soft flip every time you pictured his face at the door.
You should not be noticing his shoulders. You should not be noticing the shape of his hands when he reached for a glass. You should not be noticing the way he looked at you like you were the only calm thing in a room.
You were not doing that. You were normal. This was normal.
Your brain, unfortunately, did not agree.
You swallowed hard at a red light and stared straight ahead, unblinking, like that could keep you from spiraling.
Because spiraling meant admitting something, and admitting something meant you’d have to do something about it… and you weren’t ready.
You weren’t ready to name the thing in your chest that kept swelling every time he said your name. You weren’t ready to admit that sometimes you caught yourself looking at his mouth. That sometimes, when he was laughing, rare and rough and real, you felt like your heart had been physically tugged in that direction.
You weren’t ready to ask yourself what it would mean if he didn’t just feel safe, but what it would mean if he felt like home.
So you did what you always did when feelings got too big: You shoved them into the “later” folder in your brain and hoped they would die of neglect.
By the time you pulled into your apartment complex and killed the engine, you’d decided it meant nothing. By the time you climbed the stairs and brushed your teeth and crawled into bed, you’d reinforced that decision so aggressively you almost believed it.
And by the time you fell asleep, you’d filed the whole night away under:
Bucky being Bucky. Me being dramatic. Nothing to see here.
When you woke up, your phone buzzed. You blinked at the screen through sleep-heavy eyes squinting at the brightness like it was personally offensive.
Bucky: You get home okay?
Your brain didn’t even have time to put up defenses before your body reacted, warmth blooming in your chest, soft and immediate. Like your insides had been waiting for it.
You stared at it for a full ten seconds until your thoughts caught up.
He texted to check in. That’s normal. People do that.
Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Don’t be weird, you told yourself as you typed back with a yawn and a smile you refused to examine.
You: Yeah. Fell asleep like a rock. You guys survive without me?
You hit send, then immediately rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling like it might tell you why your heart was suddenly beating like you’d just done cardio.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Bucky: Barely.
Bucky: Good luck in lab.
You blinked at the screen.
That second text, good luck in lab, was so stupidly sweet it made your chest do the thing again. That soft squeeze, right under your ribs, like your body recognized care before your brain could dismiss it.
He remembered your schedule. Of course he did. He remembered everything. He remembered your coffee order “by accident” and then never forgot it. He remembered the exact brand of granola bar you liked. He remembered the way you got quiet when you were anxious.
He wasn’t just being polite. He was being… Bucky. And you weren’t supposed to feel like this about Bucky.
Because feeling like this about Bucky meant risk. It meant the possibility of losing the easiest, safest relationship you’d ever had. It meant ruining the one thing in your life that didn’t feel complicated.
It meant taking something good and putting it in your shaky hands.
You typed a reply, erased it, typed again.
You: Thanks 😊
Too soft. Delete.
You: Appreciate it.
Too formal. Like he was your professor. Delete.
Your fingers hovered again and your brain scrambled for something safe and normal, something that didn’t scream I read your texts like they’re scripture.
So you sent the only armor you had: sarcasm.
You: Thanks, old man.
Three dots popped up immediately and you felt your mouth twitch, helpless, like you could already hear him.
Bucky: I’m 23.
You laughed before you could stop yourself, one of those soft, stupid laughs that made your whole face warm. You rolled onto your side and hugged your pillow tighter, smiling like an idiot.
Stop it, you told yourself. Stop smiling. Stop reading into it. Stop—stop—stop—
But your mind, traitorous as ever, offered up the image of him in his lobby again. The way he’d looked at you like he was holding something back. Like he’d wanted to say more and didn’t trust himself.
Your stomach dipped.
Because if you were being honest, if you peeled back all the sarcasm and denial and careful avoidance, there was a part of you that knew this wasn’t new. It had been building. In tiny, quiet ways. In ways you’d pretended were nothing because nothing was safer than something.
But last night… last night had felt like a line you’d both stepped too close to.
And now you were lying in bed with your phone in your hand, cheeks warm, heart stupid, and your lab looming, trying very hard not to think about how you wanted to text him something soft.
Something honest, something… terrifying.
Instead, you sat up fast, like movement could shake the thoughts loose, and threw the covers back.
“Nope,” you muttered to yourself, climbing out of bed. “We are not doing this today.”
You set your phone down like it had personally betrayed you, then immediately picked it back up and looked at the screen again.
Because you were weak. And because Bucky Barnes was your best friend. And because something in you was starting to realize that might not be the whole truth anymore.
Campus was already loud by the time you got there.
Winter air, backpacks, the smell of burnt espresso and wet concrete. You power-walked across the quad with your tote bag thumping against your hip and your hair still damp from the shower.
Halfway to the science building, you cut through the student union to grab coffee, because if you had to pipette anything before caffeine, you would simply pass away.
The line was long. Of course it was.
You shuffled forward, clutching your tote bag, scrolling your phone with the dead-eyed focus of someone trying not to think about how little you’d slept.
“Hey.”
You looked up and immediately softened at the sight of Steve, standing a few feet away with one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, the other lifting in a small wave like he’d been waiting to spot you.
He looked annoyingly put-together for eight in the morning in a hoodie, clean sneakers, his hair behaving. The human embodiment of “I definitely slept.”
“Steve,” you said, relief in your voice before you could help it. “Thank God. A friendly face.”
He smiled. “Is that what I am? Not ‘a walking lecture on responsibility’?”
“You contain multitudes,” you said gravely. “Mostly protein.”
Steve laughed, stepping up beside you so you were shoulder-to-shoulder in line like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which it was. You’d had enough shared group projects and late-night study sessions for it to be normal.
“Early lab?” he murmured, like he didn’t remember from the night before.
“Eight a.m. The crime of it all,” you sighed. “Why are you up? You don’t even have class until like… never.”
“Rude.” Steve took a sip of his coffee. “I have an eight-thirty. And Sam texted me at seven asking if ‘breakfast counts as a concept.’ So I’m on crisis duty.”
Your mouth twitched. “You’re enabling him.”
“I’m saving the GPA of the friend group.”
You bumped your shoulder lightly into his. “Hero complex.”
Steve’s grin widened. “Guilty.”
You both moved forward a couple steps. You felt your shoulders unclench, the simple ease of it. Steve was one of the few people who could talk to you without draining your battery.
He took a sip of his coffee, then glanced at you over the rim like he was trying very hard to look casual about something he’d already decided to bring up.
“So,” he said, measured, “you escaped pretty quick last night.”
You blinked. “I did not escape.”
Steve’s mouth quirked. “Uh-huh. You left and Buck spent the next ten minutes pretending he wasn’t listening for the door.”
You huffed, trying to keep it light. “Maybe he was just… making sure the door latched. He’s weird about locks.”
Steve’s eyes crinkled. “Maybe.” Then, softer, like he couldn’t help it: “He’s just… different when you’re around.”
That landed quieter than it should’ve. You busied yourself with the menu board, as if latte options could save you from emotions.
Steve didn’t push right away. He let the line move, let the moment breathe. He was good at that. Then he said, like it was nothing: “He was up early.”
You glanced at him. “Bucky? Voluntarily?”
Steve’s mouth tipped. “Didn’t say that.” A beat. “Just… seemed like something was on his mind.”
Your stomach did a small, annoying flip.
Steve’s gaze dipped to your hand, the way your thumb kept hovering over your phone like you were waiting for it to light up. He didn’t smile, just looked back at you with quiet, patient understanding.
“And you,” he added, “seem… a little distracted.”
You scoffed automatically. “I’m not distracted. I’m thriving.”
Steve smiled like he’d known you long enough to translate. “Sure you are.”
The line crept forward again. You were just starting to decide what you wanted when Steve, very casually, asked: “So… you and Buck still doing the “we’re just friends” thing?”
You paused for half a second, your brain doing a hard reset at the question. Steve’s eyes crinkled. “That’s not a no.”
You gave him an unimpressed look. “It’s also not a yes to whatever you’re trying to start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” Steve said, too innocent.
You scoffed. “You’re literally always starting something.”
Steve lifted his free hand in surrender, but his voice softened as he said it, no teasing now, just honest. “Okay, fine. I just…” he shrugged, eyes kind, “I care about him. And you’re important to him. That’s all.”
Your throat tightened in a way you didn’t love. You reached for sarcasm once again like it was a blanket. “I’m important to everyone. I’m a national treasure.”
Steve smiled like he believed you. “You kind of are.”
You rolled your eyes, but you can’t stop the little tug at the corner of your mouth. The line shuffles forward again, and now you’re close enough to the counter that you can actually smell the espresso. The barista at the register looks half-awake, hair shoved into a messy bun, name tag slightly crooked. “Next!” You step up automatically, slipping into your practiced morning voice as you rattle off your order.
You drift toward the pick-up counter after paying for your drink, the shop humming around you. Steam hissing, cups sliding, the low clatter of lids and sleeves. Music plays somewhere under all the conversation, muffled by the grinder going off again.
You lean back against the wall near the window, cradling your receipt like it’s a promise. Outside, students cross the quad in bundled-up clusters, their breath ghosting in the cold. Inside, it’s warm enough that your cheeks finally stop stinging.
Steve sips his coffee and watches you over the rim with that same I’m being casual but I’m actually paying attention look.
You lift your chin, already defensive. “Don’t.”
Steve’s eyes crinkle. “Don’t what?”
“Do your Captain Concerned face.”
“I’m not,” he says, which is a blatant lie.
You huff a laugh and look away, tracking the line of cups moving down the counter like you can will yours into existence. A barista calls a name and someone snatches the drink like it’s a life raft.
Steve shifts a little closer, voice dropping just enough to stay between the two of you. “You know you don’t have to figure all of that out at eight in the morning, right?”
You glance at him. “Figure what out.”
He gives you a look. Not pushy. Just… come on. “You and Buck,” he says simply.
Your stomach flips. “I’m not figuring anything out,” you say, a little too quickly. “There’s nothing to figure out.”
Steve hums, unconvinced, but lets it sit. “Okay,” he says lightly. “Just don’t spiral yourself into a wall over it.”
You flick your gaze back to him. “And if you keep talking like that, I’m going to start calling you ‘Dad’ unironically.”
Steve grins. “I can live with that.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and bounce lightly on your heels, half-impatient, half-anticipating that first sip like it’s going to reset your whole nervous system.
Then the barista calls your name and relief hits so fast you almost laugh. “That’s me.” You step forward, reach for the cup, warm in your hands, sleeve snug around it. The smell alone makes your shoulders drop like your body finally remembers how to unclench.
You turn back toward Steve… and nearly collide with someone entering the shop. You stop short on instinct, yanking your drink back so it won’t spill, heat sloshing dangerously close to the lid. Your apology is already on your tongue, automatic, practiced.
“Sorry—” But the word catches.
Because it’s Bucky. And for one stupid second, your body reacts like the universe just reached into your chest and squeezed.
He’s not dressed up. Just a worn jacket and a dark hoodie underneath, like he threw it on without thinking. His hair looks slightly damp, like he showered in a hurry and left with his hoodie still smelling faintly like soap. The cold outside has pinked his cheeks a little, and you hate how much you notice details you shouldn’t be noticing.
His eyes sweep the room once as he steps in on instinct and they land on you almost immediately. For a second, his face eases. The hard line of his mouth loosens. The set of his shoulders drops by a fraction. Like seeing you in the room resets something in him.
And your chest tightens, because you feel it.
Then Bucky’s gaze shifts, just a quick flick to your side where he notices Steve. You watch the tiny recalibration. Not anger. Not hostility. Nothing that would give him away. Just… awareness.
Bucky’s gaze flicks back to you like he’s checking in, like the only question that matters is are you okay?
“Hey,” you say, surprised into a smile that you try to make normal. Try to make casual. Try to make friend-shaped. It comes out softer anyway. “What are you doing here?”
Bucky clears his throat like your voice did something to him. “I—” His eyes dart to the menu board, like he needs a reason to exist in this space that isn’t you. “Was nearby.”
Nearby. On campus. At your coffee shop. Right when you’re here… Sure.
Steve, because Steve is Steve, lifts his coffee in greeting like this is all perfectly normal and not actively making your pulse misbehave. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Bucky returns, polite. Normal. The kind of normal he uses when he’s trying very hard not to show his cards.
Your fingers tighten around your cup without you meaning to, the sleeve warm against your palm. Bucky’s eyes dropped to the cup in your hand, lingering on it like it was safer to look at that than at your face for too long. “You got something?”
“Hazelnut latte,” you said. “Because I’m brave.”
Your voice comes out light, teasing, your practiced armor. Like you didn’t spend the entire morning trying not to think about him and that you didn’t stare at his text until your chest warmed in a way you refused to label.
He nods once, gaze still on your drink and then, casual, almost absentminded, he reaches out and adjusts the tote strap on your shoulder where it’s slipping.
The touch is quick, nothing dramatic, not even a full second. But it lands like a spark on dry paper.
His fingers brush the fabric, then the edge of your shoulder through your sweater, and your brain goes briefly blank, like someone unplugged it and forgot to plug it back in.
Bucky’s hand drops back to his side like it meant nothing. Like he hasn’t been doing little things like that for years.
Like you don’t remember a hundred tiny versions of this: him tucking your scarf in when you didn’t notice it slipping, him nudging your notebook back onto the desk when it slid, him sliding your coffee closer when you were too busy talking to reach for it.
“Thanks,” you manage, and it comes out quieter than you intended.
Bucky meets your eyes for the smallest second, just enough for you to feel like he heard the softness and didn’t look away from it. “Yeah,” he says.
Steve watches it happen with the patient expression of someone seeing a puzzle piece click into place. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t pounce, doesn’t make you feel exposed. He just shifts his weight and asks, warmly, “You heading to lab?”
You clear your throat like a person who has not just short-circuited over a tote strap. “Yep. My own personal hell.” You try to laugh but it comes out a little breathy.
Bucky’s gaze sharpens immediately, purpose sliding over his features like a mask he knows how to wear. “I’ll walk you.”
Your stomach drops again and you blink. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His tone is gentle, like he doesn’t mean it as pressure. Just fact. “I want to.”
The words hit like a warm hand on your spine, your chest squeezes in that soft, terrifying way it did last night when he said doll. In the way it did this morning when he wished you good luck like he’d been thinking about you before you even woke up.
“Okay,” you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to flustered. “Sure. You can—” you gesture vaguely, because words are failing you, “escort me across the terrifying quad.”
Bucky nods, already turning with you like the decision is made. Like this is just what he does: follows you. keeps you warm. makes sure you get where you’re going.
Steve steps back to give you space and smiles at you. “Text me later,” he says. “I want the lab gossip.”
You point at him, grateful for something normal to hold onto. “Only if you promise not to mother-hen Sam into my DMs.”
Steve laughs. “No promises.”
You roll your eyes and start toward the door with Bucky beside you, your shoulder nearly brushing his, your body walking a little too carefully like it doesn’t trust itself not to lean in.
As you pass, Steve adds lightly, like it’s nothing at all: “Tell Buck I said hi later.”
You look back, incredulous, grateful for the excuse to blink and breathe. “He literally heard you.”
“I like to be thorough,” Steve calls, grin bright.
You snorted and stepped into the cold with Bucky, breath catching as the chill cut straight through you.
It was that sharp, early-winter kind that made the inside of your nose sting and turned every exhale into smoke. You tucked your chin into your scarf and immediately regretted wearing cute boots instead of practical ones.
Bucky didn’t seem to register the temperature at all. He moved beside you with that steady, unhurried pace he always had, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind.
The student union doors swung shut behind them, sealing in the warmth and noise and suddenly it was just campus morning again: footsteps on concrete, distant laughter, the thrum of cars, someone yelling into a phone about a quiz they definitely forgot.
You glanced at Bucky sideways and instantly noticed how he was walking half a step closer than normal.
Not touching. Not crowding. Not doing anything that anyone else would clock as anything. Just… close enough that when the wind cut hard between buildings, you felt the edge of his body heat brush your sleeve like a private little shelter.
It shouldn’t have felt like anything. And yet your brain kept tripping over it like a loose stair. You told yourself it was just him being protective. You told yourself that didn’t mean anything.
Your body, traitor, did not agree.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming to campus today,” you said, keeping your tone casual, like you weren’t overanalyzing his presence as if it were a crime scene.
Bucky’s eyes stayed forward. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, jaw set like he was bracing for the wind to pick a fight. “Didn’t know I was.”
You snorted. “That’s deeply concerning.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I was up,” he said, like that explained everything. Like being awake automatically meant he belonged wherever you were.
Your gaze flicked to the faint shadows under his eyes, the kind that didn’t come from one bad night but more like a pattern he pretended wasn’t a pattern. “You didn’t sleep.”
Bucky’s jaw shifted subtly, like a muscle flex. Like he didn’t love being perceived. “Some.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
He glanced down at you and for a second his expression softened in a way that always startled you. like the “Bucky Barnes who scowls at the world” melted into something warmer when it was just you.
“I’m fine,” he said, quieter.
You made a face. “You say that like it’s a spell.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched again. “Works most of the time.”
“It does not,” you said, and your voice wanted to be teasing, wanted to stay light, but there was something tender underneath it you couldn’t quite smother. You swallowed it down and tried again, steadier. “But really… why did you really come?”
Bucky’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug, but his eyes stayed fixed ahead, scanning the quad like he was tracking a hundred small things at once. “You had lab.”
You blinked, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t “Okay,” you said slowly. “And?”
“And it’s early,” he added, simple as a fact. “And it’s cold.”
Something in your chest shifted. It wasn’t fireworks, wasn’t a confession, wasn’t even romantic on the surface… but it hit you anyway.
Because it wasn’t about the weather. Not really.
It was about him showing up. About him quietly deciding that you shouldn’t have to do the morning alone. About him making himself part of your day the same way he always did, like it didn’t cost him anything, like it wasn’t a choice.
Your mouth went dry. You forced a laugh to cover it. “You’re acting like I’m going to get jumped by a chemistry beaker.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to you again, sharp and steady. “Stranger things have happened.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re dramatic.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “You’re underdressed.”
You gasped, offended, clutching your coat tighter around yourself like it was a courtroom drama. “These boots are fashion.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, quiet and rough, barely there, but it warmed something in you anyway. “Those boots are a lawsuit.”
You bumped your shoulder into his, a little harder than necessary, because you needed the contact to feel normal. “You’re such an old man,” you accused.
“I’m twenty-three,” he reminded you again, like he’d been waiting to say it.
You smiled despite yourself, couldn’t help it, even when you tried. “And yet. So ancient.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered on you for half a beat, like he wanted to say something else. Like there was another version of this conversation where he admitted the real reason he was here wasn’t the cold, or the hour, or the hypothetical beaker attack.
Like maybe the real reason was the simplest one: I wanted to see you.
But he didn’t say it.
You crossed the quad together, weaving through the morning crowd like you’d done it a hundred times except this time… you couldn’t stop noticing the shape of it.
Bucky stayed half a step closer than normal, body angled just enough that he took the worst of the wind when it knifed between buildings. His pace matched yours without you asking. When you slowed to dodge a cluster of freshmen walking five-wide like they’d never heard of spatial awareness, he slowed too. When you sped up to get around a skateboarder who nearly clipped your ankle, he adjusted without breaking stride, guiding you through the chaos like it was second nature.
It should’ve been funny. It was funny, a little. But it also made something in your chest twist in that warm, uncomfortable way you’d been trying to ignore.
By the time the science building came into view, your hands were cold inside your sleeves, but your face was warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the weather.
At the edge of the steps, you slowed.
“This is me,” you said, turning toward the doors like you weren’t reluctant to break away from him. Like you weren’t suddenly hyperaware of how much calmer your brain had been with him beside you.
Bucky stopped with you but didn’t immediately step away.
You became abruptly aware of how close you were now, close enough you could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth from the way he held tension, the little flecks of lighter brown in his eyes when the sun hit them right.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your hands. “You got gloves?”
You blinked down, as if the answer might change if you looked harder. Your fingers were shoved into your sleeves like a child. “No.”
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, and you weren’t sure if it was aimed at you or at the concept of winter itself. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of black knit gloves, and held them out.
You stared. “Are those… yours?”
Bucky’s face stayed neutral, but his ears pinked faintly, the only betrayal of anything happening under the surface. “Extra pair.”
“Since when do you carry extra gloves?” you asked, because your brain needed to cling to logistics before it got swallowed by the way your chest was tightening.
Bucky shrugged like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t at all strange to have an extra layer of warmth ready to hand to you.“Since always.”
You didn’t believe him. You didn’t believe most things Bucky said when he was trying to play something off. But you took them anyway because you always did. Because your hands were freezing. Because refusing would make this a thing, and you were trying so hard not to make things things.
Your fingers brushed his for the briefest moment as you took them and your body reacted like you’d been burned. A little jolt, sharp and hot, flaring up your arm and straight into your chest, and your stomach dipped like you’d stepped off a curb you didn’t see.
You focused on the gloves like they were the only thing holding you together. “You just carry extra gloves,” you said, a little too pointed, like you could logic your way out of whatever feeling was trying to take root in your ribs.
Bucky’s shrug came again, smaller this time. “Yeah.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re lying.”
“I’m prepared,” he said.
You huffed a laugh, but it came out thin. “You’re—” you started, ready to tease him, ready to keep it light… then the truth landed too cleanly in your mouth.
“You’re always prepared for me.”
The words hung there between you, visible in the cold. You hadn’t meant to say it like that, hadn’t meant to say it at all.
Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze lifted to your face, steady and unreadable except for the way something in it tightened, like your words had hit a place he kept guarded.
You swallowed, forcing air into your lungs.
“Well,” you said too brightly, voice climbing a note higher than usual. You shoved one glove on, then the other, because movement felt safer than standing still. “Thanks for walking me.”
Bucky’s voice dropped lower. “Text me when you’re done.”
You blinked. “Why?”
His gaze flicked past your shoulder toward the building, scanning like it was a threat, then came back to you, sharp and full of intent, like the only thing he was really paying attention to was you. “Just… do it.”
It wasn’t controlling. It wasn’t harsh. It sounded like a habit he didn’t realize he had: check in, make sure she’s okay, make sure she’s still here.
Your chest tightened. “Okay,” you said, quieter now. Honest despite yourself. “I will.”
Bucky nodded once, satisfied, as if that was all he needed. As if your promise was something he could hold onto. Then, finally, he stepped back like he’d completed his mission.
You turned toward the doors, breath fogging in front of you, and took one step… then hesitated.
You looked back and he was still standing there, watching like he always did until you were inside. Your heart did that stupid, traitorous thing again, beating too hard against your ribs.
You lifted a hand in a small wave, trying to look normal, trying to ignore the fact that your fingers felt warm inside hisgloves.
Bucky lifted his hand back, subtle and restrained, but his eyes stayed on you the whole time.
And you ducked inside before you could talk yourself into circles, before you could stand there long enough to do something reckless, like walk back down the steps and ask him what the hell you were to him.
The lab greeted you with the sharp scent of bleach and metal, disinfectant hanging heavy in the air. You shrugged off your coat, hung it on the rack, slipped your goggles into place, and forced yourself back into the rhythm of the room: steady hands, precise measurements, careful data collection.
You turned toward your station, the one with the slightly crooked label and the burner that always clicked twice before it lit. Your lab partner, Riley, was already there, hair in a messy bun, sleeves shoved up, face bright with the kind of morning energy that made you distrust her.
“Hey!” Riley chirped, waving like you were meeting for brunch instead of chemistry.
You waved back, grateful for something normal. “Morning.”
Riley leaned over the bench, eyes scanning your materials like she had a radar for preparedness. “Did you bring your notebook?”
You patted your tote bag. “Always. I’m the only reason you pass.”
Riley grinned, shameless. “True.”
That made you laugh, and for half a second you felt like yourself again, like you could just slide into the routine and let your brain go quiet. You both started setting up: measuring, labeling, filling small beakers with precise amounts of solution. You wrote your names on a strip of lab tape and stuck it to the glassware.
Normally, you loved this part, the rhythm of it. Hands busy, mind narrowing down to a single point. The satisfaction of order: numbers, measurements, exactness. Lab work was one of the few places your brain could be loud without being chaotic.
But today your thoughts kept drifting like static, like a radio station you couldn’t tune out.
Bucky standing at the science building steps, still watching you when you turned back. Bucky’s quiet voice: Just… do it.Bucky’s gloves on your hands, now folded in your tote like a secret you couldn’t put down.
You shook your head once, sharp, like you could physically dislodge it.
Focus.
Riley was mid-sentence about your TA, something about the man’s obsession with “proper labeling” and “not treating acid like juice”, when a voice cut in from the station beside you, murmuring your name like it belonged in his mouth.
“Hey… that’s you, right?”
You glance over and another classmate, Ethan Calder, tall, sandy-haired, always wearing a hoodie like it was glued to him, stood by the neighboring bench with a smile that was trying a little too hard. He sat two rows behind you in one of your lecture classes. He’d asked you for notes once and now laughed too loudly at your jokes since.
“Yeah,” you said, polite. “Hey.”
Ethan’s smile brightened like you’d just rewarded him. He leaned an elbow on the counter, casual and rehearsed, like he’d seen someone do it in a movie and decided it counted as charm.
“Didn’t know you were a morning person,” he said, tone light.
You blinked. “I’m not.”
He laughed, like that was delightful. “That’s kind of cute.”
Your stomach twisted.
Not because Ethan was doing anything wrong, he wasn’t. He was flirting, harmlessly, the way college guys did when they thought they had an opening.
But the word cute landed on your skin like an ill-fitting sweater. Scratchy. Wrong. A label you didn’t want.
Ethan kept going, undeterred. “You always seem… chill,” he said, gaze lingering in a way that made your shoulders want to tense. “Like you’ve got your life together.”
You stared at him for a beat. My life together?
Your life was held together by color-coded planners, caffeine, and the sheer determination not to disappoint people. But sure. If that looked like “together” from the outside, maybe everyone else was worse off than you thought.
“Uh,” you said, trying to steer it back to neutral ground, “I just… write everything down.”
Ethan nodded like that was adorable, like the idea of you being organized was part of his fantasy. “Maybe you could write my number down.”
Riley made a very unfortunate choking sound that could’ve been interpreted as a cough if the universe was kind and your face went hot instantly.
Ethan smiled, pleased with himself. “Unless you’re seeing someone.”
The question should’ve been easy. You should’ve smiled, said no thanks, kept it polite. It would’ve slid off you like water. You’ve brushed off flirting before, deflected, redirected.
Except your brain didn’t stay in the present, no, instead it immediately supplied Bucky.
Bucky’s face at the coffee shop. Bucky stepping to your side like he belonged there. Bucky adjusting your tote strap without thinking, like touching you was instinct. Bucky giving you gloves as if keeping you warm was as natural as breathing.
Your mouth opened… and nothing came out.
Because if you said no, it felt like lying. And if you said yes, you didn’t know who you’d be talking about.
Ethan’s smile faltered slightly. “Or… are you?”
You forced a small laugh, light and awkward. “I’m… not really looking to—”
“That’s fair,” Ethan said quickly, eager to recover, but then he added, softer, like he thought this was romantic: “I could change your mind.”
Your skin prickled. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t cruel. It was the kind of line people said when they thought persistence was attractive, but it made something in you recoil. Not because he was scary… but because he wasn’t Bucky.
And that was the problem. That was the sudden, horrifying clarity of it.
You didn’t want attention like this from someone else. You didn’t want to be someone’s new interest, someone’s casual flirt, someone’s challenge. You didn’t want to be looked at like a prize. You wanted—
You froze. Because your brain finished the sentence before you could stop it.
You wanted Bucky.
The thought landed clean and undeniable, like a door slamming shut. Your breath caught in your chest and your hands, holding a test tube, went suddenly too still.
You swallowed past the tightness, forcing your voice steady the way you did when you were trying not to shake.
“Ethan,” you said, calm but firm, “you’re nice, but… no.”
Ethan blinked. “No?”
You nodded, firmer now. “No.”
He stared at you for a beat like he wasn’t used to being shut down without softness. Then he lifted his hands, backing off. “Okay. Got it. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you said, because you were always fine, always polite, always smoothing edges even when you didn’t owe it.
Ethan retreated to his station, cheeks a little pink, posture a little smaller, and the air around you finally loosened.
Riley leaned in, whispering, “Was that—”
“Don’t,” you hissed.
Riley held up both hands. “I was going to say ‘was that uncomfortable’ but okay.”
You exhaled sharply through your nose and focused on the beakers because if you looked at Riley’s face for one more second you might actually scream.
They worked in silence for a few minutes: measure, pour, record, repeat. Your hands moved on autopilot. Your mind, meanwhile, was in full catastrophe.
Why did that feel so wrong?
Because you didn’t like Ethan, that was normal, but it wasn’t just dislike.
It was… comparison. Immediate, involuntary comparison. Ethan’s smile against Bucky’s quiet warmth. Ethan’s practiced charm against Bucky’s raw sincerity. Ethan trying to impress you versus Bucky never trying at all and still somehow being the person you wanted most.
Your throat tightened again.
You’d been telling yourself for years that what you felt for Bucky was friendship.
You’d told herself the warmth in your chest when he smiled was normal. That the jealousy you felt when other girls laughed too hard at his jokes was just protectiveness. That the way you always noticed him first in a room was just because he was your person.
But Ethan had flirted with you for thirty seconds and all you could think was: I want Bucky.
Your hand steadied the burette like it was the only thing keeping you upright, eyes locked on the meniscus because if you looked up you might actually fall apart in front of fluorescent lights and twelve other people in goggles. You counted drops. You breathed through your nose. You pretended the tightness in your chest was just anxiety about the lab report.
Riley nudged you lightly with an elbow. “You okay?”
You blinked hard, refocusing on the liquid levels like your life depended on it. “Yep.”
Riley’s eyes flicked to your face, immediately unimpressed. “That was a ‘no’ disguised as a ‘yep.’”
Your laugh came out too sharp, more of a bark than a laugh, the kind that was all edges. “I’m fine.”
Riley narrowed her eyes like she could see straight through your skull. “Did Ethan bother you?”
You hesitated, because the truth wasn’t that Ethan bothered you. He was fine. He was normal. He was what flirting was supposed to look like in college: harmless lines, easy confidence, a little too much charm.
He’d held up a mirror for half a second, and you’d seen what you’d been refusing to look at, what your body already knew, what your mind had been trying to outrun.
You shook your head quickly. Too quickly. “No. He’s—he’s harmless.”
Riley didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just waited, patient in the way only someone who knows you well can be.
You stared at the data sheet until the numbers blurred into gray lines, swallowing thickly. And then, so quietly it barely registered over the lab noise, you whispered, “I think I’m screwed.”
Riley’s eyebrows lifted. “Academically or emotionally?”
A sound escaped you, half laugh, half broken exhale. “Both.”
Riley’s expression softened immediately, the teasing draining out of her face. “Hey…”
Your fingers tightened around your pen until it dug into your grip. “I didn’t like it.”
“Okay,” Riley said, gentle. “That’s allowed.”
“No, I mean—” You swallowed hard, throat tight in a way that made your eyes sting for the stupidest reason. “I didn’t like it because it wasn’t… him.”
Riley went still.
And you hated that your body betrayed you in real time, the heat crawling up your neck, the ache behind your ribs like something deep had been pulled awake, the way your breath turned shallow like you’d just run up stairs.
Riley’s voice dropped. “Bucky.”
You didn’t answer, because saying his name out loud felt like stepping off a cliff.
Riley’s face did that slow, dawning thing people do when the last gear finally clicks. “Oh my God.”
You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second. “Don’t say it like that.”
Riley’s whisper was reverent yet delighted, like she’d just discovered a secret romance in the margins of your life. “You like him.”
Your eyes snapped open. “No.”
Riley stared at you. “Dude,” she said, flatly.
Your throat bobbed. “I mean—I don’t know. We’re just—”
Riley held your gaze with the quiet endurance of someone watching a friend lie to themselves in slow motion.
“I didn’t want Ethan to ask for my number,” you admitted, your voice cracking with honesty as the words came rushing out. “I didn’t want anyone else to… want me like that. It felt wrong.” You inhaled shakily. “And then all I could think about was—” Your stomach rolled. “How Bucky looks at me.”
Riley’s mouth softened. “How does he look at you?”
You stared at the beaker like it contained the answer and if you stared long enough, the solution would change color and give you clarity. But the truth was already there, bright and unavoidable.
He looked at you like he was holding back, like he was always one breath away from doing something reckless.
Like he was trying to be good, trying to be careful, trying not to ruin what you had, while still orbiting you like gravity.
Like he wasn’t just watching you… he was keeping you.
Your voice came out on a whisper that scared you with how true it sounded.
“Like I’m his.”
Riley’s eyes widened.
Your heart thudded, loud in your ears. Because now that you’d said it, you couldn’t un-know it. And worse? You realized you wanted it to be true.
You wanted to be his. Not in some dramatic, possessive, unhealthy way. In that quiet, steady way Bucky did everything, like care could be a constant and safety could be a person.
The thought terrified you so badly your hands shook, the pen wobbling against the page.
Riley reached out and touched your wrist lightly, grounding you. “Okay,” she murmured. “Breathe. You’re not dying.”
You let out a shaky exhale. “It feels like I am.”
Riley’s eyes flicked to your phone on the counter. “Didn’t you say he walked you here?”
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
“And he told you to text him when you’re done.”
Your chest tightened again, because you’d almost forgotten, you’d been too busy unraveling. Riley gave you a look that was gentle but firm, the kind that didn’t let you run away from yourself. “Text him when lab ends,” she said.
You nodded, even though the idea of seeing Bucky now, knowing what you knew, feeling what you felt, made your stomach flip violently.
You finished the lab on autopilot. You recorded numbers. Cleaned glassware. Put equipment away. Smiled at the TA like you weren’t internally combusting. When the final timer beeped, relief hit you so hard you almost swayed.
Around you, the room loosened. Students started filtering out in clumps, noise swelling as people tugged off goggles and complained about the assignment, their voices overlapping into that familiar post-lab chaos.
You wiped your hands on a paper towel, tossed it, and reached for your phone with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, your screen lighting up. Your stomach flipped like it recognized what was about to happen and you stared at the screen like it might bite.
Your thumb hovered over Bucky’s contact for a second. You swallowed hard, pulse thumping in your throat and you typed before you could chicken out.
You: Done. Survived. Barely.
You hit send… and then you just stood there, heart pounding, staring at “Delivered,” because suddenly you couldn’t remember how to be casual with the boy you’d been casual with for years.
Riley nudged your shoulder gently, snapping you back into your body. “You okay?”
You blinked and realized you were holding your breath. Your hand was still hovering midair, phone clenched like a lifeline.
“No,” you whispered honestly, because you were past pretending now. “I’m not.”
Riley’s mouth quirked, sympathetic and smug at the same time. “Welcome to having feelings.”
You let out a small, shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t on the verge of panic.
Your phone stayed silent for one awful second. Then two. Your chest tightened.
Because now that you’d realized it, now that you’d said it out loud, even if only to Riley… there was no going back to just friends.
Not when your body reacted to him like this. Not when the thought of someone else flirting with you made your skin crawl. Not when being “casual” suddenly felt like standing on a fault line pretending the earth wasn’t moving beneath your feet.
Your phone buzzed in your hand, startling you out of your spiraling thoughts.
Bucky: Where are you coming out?
Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like your organs shifted.
Because… of course he was asking that.
Because he hadn’t actually said he’d be waiting, he’d just quietly built it into his day like a fact. Like your lab ending meant his next step was to be wherever you came out.
You swallowed, fingers suddenly clumsy on the screen, and typed back.
You: East doors. By the stairs.
The response came so fast it almost felt like he’d been holding the phone, waiting for it.
Bucky: Okay.
You shoved your phone into your tote, forced your face into something neutral, and started packing up the last of your things while Riley watched you with the kind of expression you wore when your friend was actively walking into a romcom plot.
The hallway outside the lab was crowded with students spilling out in little clusters, chattering about assignments or complaining about rubrics as you walked around them with your head down, moving with purpose.
Then you saw him, standing near the east doors like he’d been placed there on purpose.
Hands in his jacket pockets. Shoulders loose but alert. Hair slightly messy, like he’d run his fingers through it and forgotten to fix it after. That familiar, contained stillness that made him look like he’d been carved out of calm.
But the second his eyes found you… something in him eased. Not dramatic, just a subtle softening in his mouth, in his gaze, like tension he’d been holding finally released. He pushed off the wall and started toward you, closing the distance with that steady, unhurried stride of his.
And then, because the universe loved torment, Ethan appeared at your elbow like a poorly-timed jump scare, sliding into your path with the kind of confidence that only came from not realizing you were currently hanging on by a thread.
“Hey,” Ethan said, too smooth, matching your stride like it was the most natural thing in the world. “About earlier—”
Your skin prickled instantly. Not fear, not dread, just that full-body nope, the reflexive recoil of your nervous system when it recognized a situation you did not have the bandwidth for.
You didn’t want to do this again. Not in a hallway full of people. Not while you were still trying to pretend your life hadn’t tilted on its axis. Not with Bucky ten feet away, walking toward you, and your heart already sprinting like it knew.
“I meant what I said,” you replied, polite but firm. “No.”
Ethan blinked, then lifted both hands like you’d just pointed a weapon at him and he wanted you to know he was harmless. “I know,” he said quickly. “I just—listen, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”
The hallway swelled around you: voices, laughter, the squeak of shoes, the faint beep of a door mechanism. People streamed past in clumps, talking over each other, and you could feel your pulse in your throat like your body was trying to make itself heard.
“Okay,” you said, careful. “Thanks for saying that.”
Ethan nodded, and instead of stopping there like a normal person, he kept walking with you, still at your elbow, still in your space, still acting like proximity was something he was entitled to.
“So… no hard feelings?” he asked, as if the conversation needed to continue. As if he could negotiate his way back into comfort.
You opened your mouth to answer, but then Bucky reached you.
He didn’t wedge himself between you and Ethan. He didn’t square up or puff out his chest or do anything dramatic. He simply stepped into the space on your other side, close enough that the air around you changed. Like a warm wall appeared. Like your body recognized him and settled on instinct.
And Ethan, without even realizing he was doing it, drifted half a step away.
Bucky’s gaze flicked once to Ethan, quick and assessing, before landing on you like Ethan didn’t exist. Like you were the only thing that mattered.
“You okay?” Bucky asked quietly.
Your brain stuttered for a second before you nodded, a bit too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Bucky held your eyes for a second longer than necessary, like he was deciding whether to believe you. Like he could see the little crack in your “fine” and he wasn’t sure yet whether to push.
Then he shifted his attention just slightly to Ethan.
Ethan cleared his throat, suddenly aware of his own existence. “Hey, man.”
Bucky gave a short nod. “Hey.”
A beat of silence sat between them and you could practically hear Ethan recalculating his odds, his confidence shrinking by degrees. His gaze flicked from Bucky to you, then back, trying to read the situation like it was a test question he hadn’t studied for.
Ethan’s smile returned, smaller now, edges a little forced. “So you two are…?”
Your heart jumped into your throat, but Bucky didn’t look at you when he answered, didn’t glance at you for permission, didn’t hesitate. He just said it, calm and sure: “She’s with me.”
Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt. Not because it was a lie… but because it didn’t feel like one.
Ethan blinked, thrown off-balance. “Oh.”
Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yeah.”
Ethan’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to clarify or try to save face. But then he looked at Bucky again and thought better of it. “Okay,” Ethan said quickly, backing off with an awkward half-laugh. “Cool. My bad. Have a good one.”
He peeled away into the crowd, disappearing into the hallway noise like he’d never been there.
And you just… stood there, frozen in the hallway while the world kept moving around you. Students streamed past in waves. A girl laughed loudly behind you. Someone complained about the lab report. The doors hissed open, letting in a bite of cold air, then shut again.
But everything sounded muffled, like your hearing had dipped underwater.
Bucky turned back to you like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just taken your entire nervous system and shaken it.
“Let’s go,” he said gently. “It’s cold.”
Your voice came out too soft, almost fragile. “Bucky…”
He paused immediately, like your tone hooked him by the spine. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice quiet.
You didn’t know what to say, you just knew that a warm, traitorous part of you had liked it.
Liked the way Ethan had backed off without argument.
Liked the way Bucky had been effortless about it.
Liked the way he hadn’t asked you if it was okay first, because he’d read you, decided you didn’t have the bandwidth, and stepped in.
Liked the way it made you feel… chosen.
You swallowed hard, forcing your brain to function. “You didn’t have to do that,” you managed.
“Say… that.” You made a helpless little gesture in the air, fingers fluttering like you could physically wave the sentence away. “The… with me thing.”
Bucky stared at you for a second, like he genuinely didn’t understand why it was a big deal. Then his jaw shifted subtly, the smallest tell you’d learned to recognize over years of knowing him. Not anger or irritation, but something more like restraint.
“He was bothering you,” he said simply.
You blinked, thrown off. “He wasn’t— I mean, kind of, but—”
Bucky’s gaze sharpened, not at you, never at you, but like he was focusing in, narrowing down to the truth you were trying to dodge. “You didn’t like it.”
Your chest tightened. Because he wasn’t just guessing, he knew. Not in a dramatic, mind reading way, but in the way he always knew things about you.
You tried to laugh it off, because laughing was safer than letting your throat go tight like it wanted to. “You’re psychic now?”
Bucky’s mouth twitched once, the hint of humor faint and fleeting. “No.”
And then, quieter, like he was admitting something he didn’t usually say out loud: “I pay attention.”
The words hit you like a punch to the ribs.
You looked away quickly, because if you kept staring at him you were going to do something insane, something that would change the entire shape of your life like grab his sleeve and ask him what he meant by she’s with me.
You pushed through the doors into the cold with him. The wind met you immediately, biting at your cheeks, threading through your hair, slipping under the edges of your coat like it had a personal vendetta. You instinctively hunched and Bucky, without thinking, angled his body slightly on your side.
Not dramatically or obviously, just enough that the wind hit his shoulder first instead of yours.
Your fingers curled around your tote strap until your knuckles went pale under the knit gloves. Your heart wouldn’t calm down, pounding violently in your chest like it didn’t know how to be normal anymore.
You walked in silence for a minute. Not an awkward silence, exactly. Just… full. Packed with everything neither of you was saying.
Finally, the question bubbled up and spilled out before you could talk yourself out of it. “How did you know I didn’t like it?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes forward, scanning the walkway out of habit like he was still half in protector mode even though the biggest threat on campus was probably a rogue scooter.
His silence stretched just long enough to make your stomach dip, and when he did answer, his voice was low. “Because you smile different when you’re uncomfortable.”
Your throat went dry so fast it felt like someone had turned off a faucet. You swallowed, trying to force your voice back into something normal. “That’s… weirdly specific.”
Bucky shrugged, but his shoulders were tense like he’d said too much, like he’d let something slip past the walls he kept up around everyone else.
“I told you,” he said quietly. “I pay attention.”
And your brain, which had already been cracked open all morning, just… spiraled.
He notices my smiles. He knows the difference. He knows my uncomfortable smile. He knows me.
You stared at the path ahead like it might offer a lifeline. You needed something normal. Something you could grab onto that wouldn’t make your ribs ache.
“So,” you said, forcing lightness into your voice like you were shoving a smile onto a bruise, “do you just hang out outside my classes now? Like a campus security guard?”
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. It was small, but it was real. “No.”
You arched a brow. “Because it kind of feels like yes.”
“I was already up,” he said again, like that explained everything.
Your stomach twisted, the humor slipping away. “Why?” you asked, softer without meaning to be. You had brushed it off earlier but now it was going to nag at you. “Why didn’t you sleep?”
Bucky’s hands stayed buried in his pockets. His jaw was tight, a muscle shifting once as if he was grinding something down, and for a second you thought he might dodge. Thought he’d give you something vague and safe: had stuff on my mind, just couldn’t, it’s fine.
But then he said it, very quietly, like it slipped out before he could stop it.
“I didn’t like what Steve said last night.”
Your breath caught. “What did he say?” you asked, your stomach dropping to your feet as you could only imagine what Steve might’ve said.
“He said…” Bucky’s voice dropped, rougher than before. “If we’re just friends, he can… talk to you.”
Your heart slammed so hard it felt like it knocked air out of your lungs. For a second, the campus noise blurred, all of the chatter turned into background static as the sentence rearranged itself inside your head into something sharper.
Because Steve wasn’t a threat. Steve was Steve. But the idea had landed somewhere deep in Bucky and set off something instinctive.
And suddenly everything clicked into one clean, terrifying line: Bucky had come to campus because Steve’s joke had hit something real in him. He’d come because the thought of someone else having access to you made him restless.
He’d come because… Because he didn’t want to share.
You forced your voice steady. “And that bothered you?”
Bucky’s shoulders went rigid for half a second like your question hit the exact spot he’d been trying not to press, before he muttered, rough and blunt, “Yeah.”
Your pulse went so loud you could hear it in your ears, a frantic drumbeat that didn’t match the slow winter morning at all. “Why?” you asked, barely above a whisper, the word sound almost like a plea.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second and then snapped back to your eyes. His voice came out low. Careful. Measured like each word was something he had to decide to let go of.
“Because I—”
Your name being shouted from across the quad interrupted Bucky.
You turned on instinct, heart still lodged in your throat, and saw Sam jogging toward you from the sidewalk, one arm lifted in an enthusiastic wave. He was moving with that unmistakable Sam energy, loud even when he wasn’t speaking yet. Steve followed behind him at an annoyingly calm pace, moving like a man who had never once in his life been late to anything.
Beside you, Bucky’s posture changed, subtle, but immediate. His shoulders shifted, his stance angling a fraction closer to yours, like his body had decided to make you a safe point without asking permission first.
“There you are!” he said, slightly out of breath, grin wide. “Steve said he saw you earlier and I was like—”
He cut himself off mid-sentence as his eyes finally took in the scene properly: the proximity, Bucky’s position, your flushed face, the fact that you and Bucky looked like you’d been in the middle of something serious.
Sam’s grin sharpened into something gleeful and dangerous. “Ohhhh.”
Steve stopped beside Sam, gaze flicking between you and Bucky, taking in the distance between your shoulders, the way Bucky’s body was angled toward you, the slight tension in Bucky’s jaw like he was clenching down on words.
Steve’s smile was gentle. Not smug, just… knowing. “Well,” he said, like he was commenting on the weather, “this looks familiar.”
Heat flooded your face so fast you could’ve powered the entire science building. Bucky looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot.
Sam’s grin widened until it bordered on feral. “Oh my God.”
You cleared your throat violently, because if you didn’t make some sound you were going to combust. “Hi, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes sparkled with chaos, gaze bouncing between you and Bucky like he was watching live entertainment. “Hi,” he said brightly. “Are we interrupting something?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Yes,” he said flatly.
You and Steve both spoke at the exact same time. “No.”
Sam blinked, then slowly turned his head between the three of you like a referee. “That,” he said, delighted, “is a lie from at least two of you.”
You wanted to disappear into the concrete. Melt right into the sidewalk. Become one with the campus landscaping.
Bucky’s gaze flicked to you briefly and you could see the frustration, felt it like a touch. Not angry at you, but annoyed at the interruption. And even more annoyed at himself for almost saying something he couldn’t take back.
Because you could still feel it… the way he’d looked at you right before Sam showed up, the way his voice had dipped.
You couldn’t unfeel the sentence he’d been about to say. And you couldn’t ignore the sick little flip in your stomach when you realized:
Whatever Bucky had been about to tell you… It mattered.
Later that evening, you tried to be normal about it. You really did.
You went home, kicked your shoes off by the door like you always did, washed your hands like you’d been handling radioactive material, scrubbed under your nails, tied your hair up, made yourself a sad little dinner that consisted of a microwaved frozen dinner, a slice of toast, a handful of grapes you ate standing at the counter because sitting down felt like admitting you were home alone with your thoughts.
You even opened your laptop, even pulled up your lab notes, even stared at them long enough to pretend you were reading.
But the words might as well have been written in another language because your brain refused to care about molarity when it was busy replaying Bucky’s voice like a cursed audio loop.
She’s with me.
I didn’t like what Steve said last night.
Because I—
You pressed your palms to your eyes until you saw stars.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t known Bucky was… protective, he always had been. In ways that were easy to explain away if you kept your eyes half-closed and your heart on mute.
He walked you to your car. He waited until you got inside. He kept an eye on your drink at parties. He texted when you got home, sometimes hours later, like the worry came for him in waves.
You had always filed it under best friend behavior, because if you didn’t file it there, you’d have to file it somewhere much more dangerous.
Somewhere that asked you questions like:
Why does your heart do that when he looks at you?
Why do you hate it when he laughs with other girls?
Why did “she’s with me” make you feel… safe?
You groaned into your hands and slumped down onto the couch.
Your apartment was quiet in that particular way that made your thoughts louder. The window beside your couch showed a slice of campus life: students crossing the sidewalk, headlights in the dusk, the occasional burst of laughter.
You felt like you were trapped behind glass.
Your phone buzzed on the coffee table and you snatched it up so fast you nearly dropped it.
Bucky: You good?
You stared at the screen until your eyes stung. Because that was his favorite question. Like he could feel when you weren’t.
You typed back, deleted it, typed again, erased half the words and tried to make the lie look smaller.
You: Yeah.
You hated the lie the second you sent it.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again, like he was choosing his words carefully.
Bucky: Okay.
Bucky: You got my gloves?
You set your phone down like it was too heavy and opened your tote bag. Your fingers found the simple, black knit immediately. They were soft from use, warm in the way fabric got warm when it lived near someone’s skin. You turned them over in your hands like you might find an explanation stitched into the seams.
Your thumb brushed the inside cuff and caught on something. You frowned, pinching the fabric between your fingers and pulling it open. There was a little stitched tag on the inside with a name written in black ink like someone had labeled them carefully.
BUCKY
Your chest cracked open.
Of course he’d labeled them. Of course he’d kept track of them. Of course there was no such thing as an “extra pair” that just happened to be in his pocket the exact day you forgot yours.
He’d brought them for you, like he’d been prepared to take care of you before you even realized you needed it.
You stared at the name until you went a little dizzy, your vision blurring at the edges.
Stop, you told yourself. Stop being dramatic.
But your mind wouldn’t stop pulling at every thread, because now that you’d seen it, it was everywhere.
You swallowed hard, staring at your phone again like it might save you as your thumb hovered over Bucky’s name. You could call. You could text. You could pretend this was fine.
But it wasn’t fine. You didn’t do well with limbo, never had. It ate you alive.
And Bucky… Bucky was your best friend.
If this was going to change, you needed it to change on purpose, not in pieces, not in half sentences and interrupted almost-confessions and Steve and Sam showing up like the universe’s worst timing.
You needed to know if you had just imagined the whole thing… or if Bucky Barnes had almost admitted something that would rearrange your entire life.
You stood abruptly, like your body decided before your brain did. You paced the living room once, then twice, the gloves still in your hand like a stupid little talisman.
Your phone buzzed again.
Bucky: If you’re not, just say that.
You stopped mid-step, your throat tightening so hard it felt like swallowing glass.
He knew your “yeah” was a lie because he knew your voice even through text. Because he knew how you dodged when you were unraveling. Because he’d been paying attention for so long you didn’t even know what parts of you belonged only to you anymore.
You stared at the message for a long beat, chest rising and falling too fast. Then you typed before fear could talk you out of it.
You: I’m not.
The response came so fast it felt like he’d been waiting with his phone in his hand the whole time.
Bucky: Want me to come over?
Your pulse spiked as you imagined Bucky in your apartment, in this quiet space where there was nowhere to hide. You imagined him sitting on your couch, those steady eyes on you, his voice low and careful.
It made you feel like you might combust.
You swallowed, fingers trembling.
You: No.
You: I’m coming to you.
There was a pause. Not long, but long enough for you to imagine him reading it, blinking, sitting up straighter.
Bucky: Okay.
Bucky: Door’s open.
That did something to you, something soft and devastating. Like he’d been waiting for you all along.
You grabbed your coat without thinking, shoved your feet back into your boots, and headed out the door before you could reconsider.
The walk across campus was cold and surreal, streetlights pooling pale gold on the sidewalks. Your breath came out in nervous little clouds. The air smelled like winter, sharp, clean, faintly like smoke from someone’s distant cigarette.
Every step made your stomach tighten.
Because what if you were wrong? What if Bucky had been protecting you because that’s what he did and you were about to embarrass yourself in the most catastrophic way possible?
But then you remembered the gloves. The name inside them. And the way his voice had gone low and rough when he said he didn’t like Steve’s joke.
Your heart pounded harder.
Bucky’s building was only a few blocks away, but it felt like a mile by the time you made it there.
The stairwell smelled faintly like someone’s laundry detergent and old carpet. Your boots thudded softly as you climbed, the sound too loud in the quiet. Your hands were numb by the time you reached his floor and stopped outside his door.
You lifted your fist… and hesitated. Because this was it. This was the moment where you either saved your friendship by pretending nothing had happened… or risked everything by naming it.
You exhaled shakily, then knocked.
The door opened almost immediately, as if he’d been standing on the other side waiting for the exact moment you decided you were brave.
Bucky stood there in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp like he’d showered recently. He looked… tense, like he’d been pacing, like he’d been trying to burn nervous energy off with movement and failing.
His eyes found you and something in his expression eased. Relief. Quick and raw and so obvious it nearly broke you.
“Hey,” he said, voice low.
You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “Hey.”
For a half second neither of you moved. Then Bucky stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”
You walked in on legs that felt slightly unsteady, like your body was moving a beat behind your mind.
Bucky shut the door behind you, the click of the latch loud in the stillness.
You turned to face him and for a moment you just… looked at each other. Best friends, standing a little too close. Two people on the edge of something neither of you had wanted to name until the universe forced your hand.
Bucky’s eyes tracked your face the way they always did, like he was checking for damage, like he could read your mood in microexpressions you didn’t even know you made. Your throat tightened at the thought.
Your voice came out shaky despite your best efforts. “What were you about to say.”
Bucky blinked once, like your bluntness snapped him out of whatever careful script he’d been trying to build in his head. “What?”
You dug into your coat pocket and pulled out the gloves, holding them up between you like evidence. “These,” you said, breathy. “The ‘extra pair’ you just happened to have. With your name written inside.”
Bucky’s ears went pink instantly, the color creeping up like betrayal. His jaw flexed once, and his gaze flicked away to the side toward the kitchen, toward the counter, toward literally anything that wasn’t your eyes.
“You were about to say something today,” you continued, forcing yourself to keep going before you lost the nerve. “Outside the quad. You said… you didn’t like what Steve said.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
You stepped closer, just enough to make it impossible to pretend this was casual. “And then you said ‘because I—’” your voice cracked on the last word. “And you stopped.”
Bucky finally looked back at you, his eyes serious and unguarded in a way that made you feel like you’d stepped too close to the edge of something sharp. He breathed in slowly through his nose, controlled and measured, like he was trying to keep himself steady.
“I need you to tell me what that was,” you said quietly. “Because I’ve been spiraling for six hours and I’m either insane or… you meant something.”
Bucky’s throat bobbed as he looked down for a second, like he couldn’t bear the weight of your gaze, then back up at you. When he spoke, it wasn’t your question he answered first.
He said your name, rough and low, like saying it hurt.
You didn’t flinch. You lifted the gloves slightly, your hands trembling. “Tell me,” you whispered.
Bucky stared at you like the truth was something fragile in his hands. Then he exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath for years.
“I meant it,” he said.
Your chest tightened. “Meant what.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to your mouth, quick and involuntary, then snapped back up to your eyes like he hated himself for it.
“When I said you were with me,” he said quietly. He took a step closer, closing the space between you until you could feel his warmth like heat rolling off a radiator.
His voice dropped, softer but more dangerous somehow. “I didn’t say it to scare you,” he said. “Or to… make you feel trapped.”
You shook your head quickly. “I didn’t—”
“I know.” His words cut in gently, not harsh, just urgent, like he needed you to understand this part. “But I need you to hear me anyway.”
His hands stayed at his sides, fists loose but clenched enough to show he didn’t trust himself to reach for you.
“I said it because the idea of someone else—” Bucky stopped, jaw working, like he was fighting himself for control over the sentence. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Because I don’t like it.”
Your heartbeat was so loud in your ears it felt like it filled the whole apartment. “Don’t like what?” you whispered, even though you knew.
Bucky’s gaze held yours, steady and raw. “I don’t like anyone thinking they can have you,” he said, voice low. “Like you’re… available. Like you’re a thing they can just try for.”
Your breath hitched. The words shouldn’t have sounded as intimate as they did. They shouldn’t have made your chest ache like relief… but they did.
Bucky’s eyes went a little darker, not with anger, not really, but more like restraint straining at the edges. Like he was trying to keep himself from stepping over a line he’d drawn for himself years ago.
“And I know that’s not—” he swallowed again. “I know I don’t get to decide that. I know you’re not mine.”
Your eyes burned. Because the words hurt in a way that didn’t make sense.
You’re not mine.
You hated it.
Bucky’s voice broke just slightly and it was the crack in it that shattered you more than anything. “But I want you to be.”
Silence stretched between you like a held breath, too big for the room, too heavy for your ribs. Your chest went tight, as if your lungs forgot how to work. Bucky’s eyes looked almost panicked now, the kind of panic that didn’t match his size or his stillness, like he’d said too much and was about to start taking it back.
“Shit,” he said quickly, words tumbling out rough and hurried. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t— I—”
He started to shift, shoulders pulling inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, like he was about to back away and put space between you before you could reject him, but you stepped forward and grabbed his wrist before he could.
Bucky froze, his eyes snapping to where your fingers wrapped around him.
Your voice came out small. “I didn’t like it,” you admitted.
Bucky’s brow furrowed, pain flashing so fast it made your stomach twist. “I—”
“No,” you rushed, tightening your hold just a fraction, not to restrain him but to anchor him. “Not… not what you said. Not you.”
You swallowed hard, throat tight. “I didn’t like it when Ethan flirted with me today,” you said, the words feeling like an electric shock to your nervous system. “Because it wasn’t you.”
Bucky went completely still.
“I realized it in lab today,” you whispered. “And it scared the hell out of me.”
Bucky stared at you like you’d just handed him oxygen. Your name left his lips on a breathless whisper, soft and disbelieving, like he needed to say it just to make sure you were real.
You laughed shakily, the sound wobbling on the edge of tears because apparently your body decided this was the moment to be dramatic. “I think I’ve liked you for a long time,” you confessed, and your voice broke on the last part, “and I just… didn’t let myself know.”
Bucky’s eyes softened so suddenly it made your heart ache. He lifted his hand slowly, like he was asking permission with every inch of movement, and brushed his knuckles along your cheek, so gentle it almost didn’t feel real.
“You’re sure?” he whispered.
The question wasn’t just about the words. It was about the jump, the change, the way there was no putting it back once you stepped over this line.
You leaned into his touch before you could stop yourself, your cheek fitting into his hand like it belonged there. “Yes,” you said.
Bucky exhaled like a prayer, then nodded once, jaw tight, like he was trying not to fall apart right in front of you. “Okay,” he murmured, and it sounded like he was telling himself as much as he was telling you. “Okay.”
Your fingers tightened around his wrist. Your voice trembled, suddenly shy in a way you hadn’t been in years. “So what now?”
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips again, slower this time. Less accidental, no longer fighting it.
“Now I kiss you,” he said softly, “if you’ll let me.”
Your breath hitched, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, in the space between your ribs.
And you didn’t even pretend to be brave, you just whispered: “Please.”
And Bucky moved, slow and careful, like he was handling something precious. Like he’d been wanting to do this for years and had forced himself not to.
His hand slid to the back of your neck, warm and steady, fingers spreading there like he’d memorized the shape of you in his head long before he ever got to touch you. He tilted his forehead to yours for a brief second, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a shaky exhale as if he needed to ground himself first.
Then his mouth found yours, soft at first. A question that you answered immediately without hesitation, your lips parting, your hand still holding his wrist like you were afraid he’d think this wasn’t real and pull away.
Bucky made a sound in the back of his throat, low and wrecked, as the kiss deepened with all the restraint he’d been holding back finally slipping loose.
You rose onto your toes without thinking, needing to be closer, needing to meet him fully. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his t-shirt like you needed proof he was solid and warm and not just a daydream you’d tortured yourself with.
Bucky’s hand tightened protectively at the back of your neck, pulling you in that last inch like he couldn’t stand the space anymore.
It wasn’t frantic, it was inevitable. The kind of kiss that rewrote the past. That made every late night “drive safe,” every tote strap adjustment, every “text me when you’re done” suddenly glow with new meaning.
When he finally pulled back, it was only an inch. His forehead stayed close to yours, his hand still at your neck like he was anchoring you both to the same reality. His eyes searched your face, as if he was checking for regret and finding none.
His voice came out rough, almost shaken. “Hi,” he murmured, like he was meeting you for the first time.
“Hi,” you breathed back, smiling through the residual tremble in your lips. “Took you long enough.” The words came out like a joke, but they landed like truth.
Because you could still feel him, still feel the warmth of his mouth on yours, the careful way he’d kissed you like you were something fragile and holy and real. Not a moment he’d stolen. A moment he’d waited for.
And now… now he was just looking at you like he didn’t know what to do with the fact that you were standing in his apartment and you’d said yes and the world hadn’t ended.
His chest rose and fell slow, controlled, but his hands were giving him away, hovering just above your waist like he couldn’t decide whether he was allowed to touch you again. Like he was holding himself back by force, braced on a thin line of restraint.
You watched his throat move when he swallowed, watched his gaze flick from your eyes to your mouth and back again like it hurt.
“You’re… really here,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You let out a soft breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Yeah, Buck. I’m here.”
His eyes softened, relief and disbelief tangling together, like he’d been preparing for you to change your mind at any second.
Your voice came out quieter, gentler, because you could see how hard he was trying to be careful. “Are you going to kiss me again,” you asked, heart thudding, “or…?”
Bucky huffed a low laugh, quiet and disbelieving, like you’d just handed him permission he didn’t trust himself to want.
Then he stepped in like the floor gave way beneath him. His hands found your waist gently, thumbs brushing the hem of your shirt. He leaned in, and this time when he kissed you, it wasn’t exploratory. It wasn’t cautious.
It was yes. It was finally.
You made a soft, helpless sound into the kiss, and that was all it took. Bucky responded with a quiet, almost desperate shift of his body, tilting his head, deepening the kiss with purpose. With hunger. With years of restraint breaking like a tide over both of you.
He kissed you like he’d been starving. Like this, like you, were something he’d wanted for so long that now, having you in his arms, was almost too much to believe.
Your hands slid up his chest, fingers fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt as he began walking you backward, not forcefully, never that, but with a steady, unspoken pull. The kind of guidance he’d always offered without words. The kind that made you feel like he’d always known how to take care of you, even now, even here.
Your back met his bedroom wall with a quiet thud, gasping softly against his lips.
Bucky froze the moment you made that sound. He pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes scanning your face with wide, protective panic.
“Too much?” he rasped, voice hoarse, already starting to pull back like he’d rather hurt himself than risk hurting you.
“No,” you whispered, your voice shaking as your fingers tugged at the front of his shirt to keep him close. “Please don’t stop.”
His eyes darkened instantly, breath catching.
“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he murmured, voice low, nose brushing yours, his hands still bracketing your waist like he was containing himself by touch alone. “Because I—” He swallowed. “I won’t be able to stop wanting you.”
You slid your hands up under his shirt, fingers meeting warm skin. The heat of him made your breath catch, His chest rising unevenly beneath your palms.
You traced the defined line of his abs, the faint scar that cut across his ribs, the familiar terrain you’d never let yourself map until now. His breath shuddered, body rocking infinitesimally closer to you like he couldn’t help it.
Your voice came out trembling, but sure. “I mean it.”
Bucky exhaled something close to a moan, a low, wrecked groan that sounded like surrender. “Fuck,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of your touch, your words, your want was too much all at once.
His hands slid beneath your shirt, palms dragging over the curve of your back, and you shivered at the heat of his skin. He kissed you again, deeper this time. Hotter. No hesitation. No fear. His mouth moved with urgency, his tongue parting your lips, teeth grazing your bottom one like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.
Your back arched with a soft moan when his fingers brushed the clasp of your bra, and he made a sound low in his chest, something primal and completely wrecked. Like he’d dreamed about this. Lived in the edges of it. And now that it was happening, he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this.
“I’ve thought about this,” he panted between kisses, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, “more times than I should admit.”
You let out a breathless laugh, light and shaky. “Tell me.”
He shook his head, kissed down the column of your throat with open-mouthed heat, nipping lightly at your pulse point as you gasped. “I’d rather show you.”
With shaking hands, you helped him pull off your sweater and bra, suddenly bare to him under the low golden light of his bedroom. You expected him to dive in hungrily, to lose control.
But Bucky didn’t move. He just stared like you were something sacred.
His breath hitched, eyes dragging over every inch of you like he was trying to memorize it. The reverence in his gaze made your whole body flush.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse with truth. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”
Your face went warm. “Stop looking at me like that.”
He blinked, confused. “Like what?”
“Like I’m going to disappear.”
His brow furrowed.
And then, so slowly, like he wanted you to feel it, he leaned in and kissed the center of your chest. Then just above your heart. Then lower, to your sternum, your collarbone, the soft swell of your breast.
“I look at you like that,” he murmured against your skin, “because I still can’t believe you’re real.”
You made a small, broken sound, a half sigh, half laugh, and reached for him with shaking hands. You pulled his shirt up and over his head, and your fingers immediately splayed across his chest.
You felt everything, the lines of his muscle, the warmth of his skin, the old scars that you’d only ever glimpsed before. Now, they were yours to learn.
“You are so—” you choked, voice cracking. “God, Bucky.”
He kissed you again before you could finish, and this one was hot. Messy. Desperate. His mouth moved like he was drowning in you. Like he didn’t know how to stop. His hands slid down your sides, over your hips, gripping tight enough to make you gasp.
“Come here,” he breathed.
You didn’t even hesitate.
He walked you backward toward the bed, guiding you with gentle pressure, and when your legs hit the edge, he caught you, lifting you just enough to lay you back like you were something precious.
Bucky hovered over you like he was afraid you might fade if he moved too fast. You reached up again, arms around his neck, legs curling around his waist, needing the contact, the heat, the pressure.
He kissed you like he wanted to know every inch of you by heart.
When his mouth finally moved down over your chest, your ribs, your stomach, you could barely breathe. He peeled your leggings down slowly, dragging his hands over every new inch of revealed skin.
Bucky looked up at you from between your thighs, hair falling into his eyes, pupils blown, lips swollen. “You still sure?” He asked, waiting.
You bit your lip and nodded, dazed, already unraveling. But he didn’t move.
“Use your words, baby,” he said softly, gently kissing the inside of your thigh. “Need to hear it.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “God, yes.”
The look he gave you, starving, reverent, almost ruined, was something you would never forget.
Then he lowered his mouth to you.
There was no urgency in him, only intention. Purpose in every movement, like he’d waited his whole life to be here and now that he was, he wasn’t going to waste a second of it.
His mouth was slow and devastating, tongue dragging in languid, sinful strokes that made your breath catch and your thighs twitch around his head. He held you down when you tried to lift your hips, just enough pressure to remind you who was in control, making your stomach flutter and your fingers clutch the sheets like they were your only tether.
Bucky learned you. Treated every gasp and every stuttered moan like gospel. He was methodical, alternating between soft, teasing licks and firm, relentless pressure that made you feel like you were unraveling from the inside out.
He groaned when your thighs clenched around him, like it turned him on just knowing how close you were.
When you pulled his hair harder than you meant to, he let out a ragged moan against your skin, the vibration sending another shudder straight through you. One of his hands slid up to lace his fingers with yours above your head, grounding you, anchoring you, holding you still as your body began to tremble beneath his mouth.
And when you finally came, loud and breathless, your back arching, eyes shut tight, voice breaking on his name… he didn’t stop.
He didn’t stop.
He slowed, yes, gentled his mouth, softened the drag of his tongue, but he didn’t stop. He coaxed you through it, easing you down from the high with care in every movement. He kissed the inside of your thigh as you shook. Pressed his cheek to your skin like he was listening to your heartbeat there. He murmured something low and sweet that you couldn’t quite hear. couldn’t think enough to make out, but it sounded like “That’s it, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
And then he crawled up your body slowly, each movement deliberate, almost languid. He kissed the soft slope of your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone, your lips. Slow and messy. Open-mouthed and gentle. Like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be but here.
You tasted yourself on his tongue and whimpered into his mouth, trembling. “Bucky,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “I need—please—”
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice rough and broken in the middle. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”
He stripped the rest of the way, pushing his sweatpants down his hips with hands that weren’t nearly as steady as he probably wanted them to be. The last barrier between you fell away and for a second he just stood there, exposed and breathing hard, eyes flicking over your body like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
You were already bare beneath him, skin flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen from his mouth.
For one blinding second, nerves flared sharp and electric in your chest. Not because you weren’t sure, but because this was real now.
No more almost. No more tension disguised as friendship. No more pretending the looks didn’t linger too long.
What if this changed everything?
Bucky’s gaze lifted to yours, vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be. Not cocky. Not smug. Not assuming.
Just… hoping.
And that’s when you knew… It already had.
He moved back between your thighs slowly, like he was stepping into something sacred rather than something physical. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like he was grounding himself.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured. “I’ll never—”
You kissed him quiet. “Please,” you whispered against his lips. “I want you.”
He groaned softly and dropped his forehead to yours. His breath mingled with yours in the quiet space between, warm and ragged. You could feel the heat of him, the solid weight of his body pressing you into the bed, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.
Then, slowly, achingly slow, he began to push into you.
The head of his cock nudged at your entrance, teasing at first, until he started to sink deeper, inch by inch. Your breath caught, a soft gasp breaking from your lips as he stretched you open, filling you with steady, unrelenting pressure. There was no rush in his movement, only worship. Like every second inside you was something sacred.
Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails grazing down his skin, trying to anchor yourself as your body trembled beneath the overwhelming sensation. Every inch he gave you felt like a new place inside you had been claimed.
He didn’t stop until he was buried fully, flush against you, his hips nestled to yours. Both of you stilled, breathless, bodies shaking under the weight of it.
His forehead rested against yours again, nose brushing yours, eyes fluttering closed. His voice was barely a whisper when it came, raw and wrecked. “Fuck… You feel like home.”
Your chest cracked wide open like a dam giving way, every nerve ending suddenly too exposed, too alive. You couldn’t get enough air. Each breath stuttered in your lungs, shallow and desperate, like your body had forgotten how to function under the weight of him.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp as you tugged him closer, like proximity alone could soothe the ache blooming hot and needy between your hips.
“Move,” you whispered, already wrecked, your voice breaking on the word. “Please… I need you.”
He groaned low in his throat, like the sound had been ripped from the center of his chest, and obeyed, rolling his hips forward devastatingly slowly.
The stretch was deep and intoxicating, the drag of him inside you so full it made your mouth fall open in a silent cry. He didn’t thrust like someone chasing release. He moved like someone memorizing you. Like someone savoring every inch.
His hips circled once before he pushed in again, deeper this time. Your back arched helplessly off the bed, breasts brushing against his chest as your thighs tightened around his waist.
“Jesus…” he breathed, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel so damn good.”
Every word vibrated between you.
He pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, slow and unhurried, and you felt every single inch. The heat. The stretch. The way your body welcomed him like it had been waiting.
You moaned openly now, unable to hold it in, your nails dragging down his back as you tried to pull him even closer, impossible as that was. “Bucky,” you sobbed softly. “Please.”
“Got you,” he rasped, kissing along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
His pace shifted, still deep, still intentional, but heavier now. Each thrust pressed into that sensitive place inside you that made your toes curl and your stomach tighten. He wasn’t frantic. He was claiming.
Every roll of his hips said I’ve wanted this.
Every slow drag said you’re mine to learn.
Every deep push said I’m not letting go.
Your legs locked tighter around him, ankles crossing at his lower back as if your body had made the decision before your brain could. You rocked up to meet him, desperate for friction, for more.
He groaned when you did that and his hands slid from your waist to grip your hips, steadying you as he began thrusting harder.
“Could live here,” he muttered against your throat, kissing and biting at the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “Die right here.”
Your body clenched at the rawness in his voice.
He kissed down your neck, tongue smoothing over the spot he’d just bitten before moving lower, dragging his mouth across your collarbone, your chest. His thrusts never faltered. Slow, powerful, stretching you open around him again and again.
The bed creaked softly beneath you. The sound of skin against skin filled the room. You could feel the slick heat of yourself coating him, feel the way he slid inside you with increasing ease, each motion sending sparks down your spine.
His name spilled from your mouth in broken, breathless sobs. Over and over. Like a mantra. Like you needed him to know exactly who was doing this to you.
“Mine,” he growled against your ear, the word rough and possessive but not demanding, just overwhelmed. “You’re mine, sunshine. Every inch.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Bucky—God—please—”
That did something to him. His hips snapped forward harder, a sharp thrust that made you cry out. His hand slid between your bodies without breaking rhythm, fingers finding your clit immediately, like he’d studied you for this moment.
He circled once, slow and precise. You jolted, your thighs trembling violently around him.
“Look at me,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours.
You forced your eyes open. His were dark, blown wide, pupils swallowing the blue. He looked wrecked. Completely undone.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he said hoarsely. “Taking me so good.”
The praise shattered whatever control you had left as your orgasm hit hard and blinding, ripping through you with a cry that broke in your throat. Your body locked up around him, clenching tight, pulsing helplessly as wave after wave tore through your core.
You shook violently beneath him.
Bucky swore, his thrusts losing their smooth rhythm as your body milked him. He pressed deeper, hips grinding against you as he worked you through it, not stopping, not pulling away.
“That’s it,” he groaned. “That’s it—come for me—”
You felt like you were falling apart, like your entire nervous system had short-circuited. Your hands clawed at his back, your legs tightening impossibly tighter as you rode out the aftershocks.
He snapped once more, deep and desperate, before he was coming too. His hips stuttered against yours, his whole body trembling as he buried himself fully inside you. A low, broken sound tore from his throat, your name spilling out with it like confession.
He held you close, so close your ribs ached, while he came undone. You felt him everywhere. The heat. The fullness. The way he pulsed inside you as he finished, forehead pressed hard to yours like he needed the anchor.
Neither of you moved for a long moment. Just breathing. Just feeling.
His face dropped into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your pulse. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves against yours, sweat-damp skin sticking together.
And when your legs loosened slightly around his waist, his arms tightened instinctively, pulling you back against him like letting space form between you wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not ever, if he could help it.
His hand slid up your back, slow and grounding, fingers threading gently through your hair as your heartbeat came down from the clouds. “You okay?” he murmured, lips brushing the skin just beneath your ear.
You nodded, still breathless, still floating. “More than okay.”
There was a beat, a moment suspended in the quiet, where the air felt thick with everything unspoken. And then it spilled from you, raw and steady, like it had been waiting all along.
“I’m in love with you,” you whispered, voice rough with truth.
Bucky’s hand stilled mid-stroke. Then he leaned in, nose brushing your temple, and breathed you in like that was the only answer he’d ever needed.
“You’re lucky,” he murmured, voice thick. “Because I’ve been gone for years.”
You blinked up at him, lips parted. And this time, when you kissed him, slow and soft and certain…
It didn’t feel like a first. It felt like forever.
Warnings/Tags: Modern/College AU, Best Friends To Lovers, Mutual Pining, Idiots In Love, Oral Sex, Unprotected Sex, Emotional Intimacy, Fluff And Angst, Protective Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Is Down Bad
Word count: 22k
Music:
Delicate - Taylor Swift
Stick Season - Noah Kahan
Guilty as Sin? - Taylor Swift
Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys
Ruin The Friendship - Taylor Swift
I Put A Spell On You - Annie Lennox
Notes: hi hello!! When I tell you I have been working on this fic since the beginning of the year, I’m not kidding. I made this post January 2nd and it’s been sitting in draft hell while I write, and re-write, then edit, then re-write again. But here it is!! I hope you all enjoy this one! <3
Bucky’s apartment always felt like a second campus building you actually liked.
Not because it was clean, because it definitely wasn’t. There were always a couple of abandoned textbooks stacked on the coffee table like a small, depressing tower of responsibility. A stray hoodie draped over the arm of the couch. A lone sock that didn’t belong to anyone currently in the room (you refused to ask).
But it was his.
Warm light leaked out of mismatched lamps, one with a shade that was slightly crooked no matter how many times Bucky fixed it, another thrift-store find that cast everything in a soft amber glow. The couch had survived at least three different friend groups and probably a small war, it dipped in the middle like it recognized your body and welcomed you back.
The snack cabinet was perpetually half-empty in the way that proved Bucky tried to stock it and Sam took that as a personal challenge. And there was always some low-level hum of life: the radiator clanking, the faint buzz of street noise through the window, the occasional creak of the floorboards when someone shifted their weight.
The kind of easy, lived-in chaos that made your shoulders drop the second you stepped inside, like you could unclench without anyone noticing.
Tonight was no different.
Sam had claimed the “good” spot on the couch like he paid rent (he did not), sprawled out with his feet on the coffee table and a bag of chips balanced on his stomach like it was sacred. Steve was sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, posture stupidly perfect even while he ate pizza like an art form. There was an open notebook beside him that he’d pretended to take notes in for exactly five minutes before giving up and just existing pleasantly in the room.
And Bucky was in the kitchen. Well, not fully in the kitchen, more like hovering at the boundary between the living room and the counter, as if he couldn’t decide whether to participate or retreat. He’d made himself busy with something that didn’t require much effort: rinsing a glass that was already clean, rearranging the stack of paper plates, checking the oven even though nothing was in it.
The performance was obvious. So was the way he kept half an eye on you anyway.
You hovered near the counter too, picking at a bag of kettle chips like it was a delicate hobby. One chip at a time. Slow crunch. Salt on your fingers. A ridiculous amount of focus for someone who was absolutely not thinking about chips.
Bucky glanced over quickly, like a reflex, and his gaze landed on your hands, then your face. His expression didn’t change much… but it did soften at the edges, in that way it always did when you were around, like his body remembered you before his brain could get in the way.
You pretended not to notice. Because noticing made things feel… loaded.
“You know,” Sam said suddenly, craning his neck dramatically as if addressing an invisible audience, “I could do my homework tonight.”
You blinked, deadpan. “That’s a strange way to spell ‘ignore it until the deadline and panic-text me at 2 a.m.’”
Steve laughed into his soda, the sound bright and helpless. Sam pressed a hand to his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Et tu, Brute?”
“You say that like I haven’t watched you ‘suddenly remember’ an entire semester’s worth of work in one night,” you shot back.
Sam wagged a finger. “First of all, I prefer the term academically spontaneous.”
Steve snorted. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is a thing,” Sam insisted. “It’s just not a thing that gets you scholarships.”
From the kitchen, Bucky huffed, quiet and low, but there was a curve to it, something soft that always slipped into his reactions when you were there, like he couldn’t help it. “She’s not wrong.”
Sam whipped his head around. “Wow. Betrayal from within the house.”
Bucky didn’t look up from the cabinet he was pretending to organize. “Do your homework.”
“You’re all conspiring against me,” Sam said, pointing at each of you like you were a jury.
You smiled, reaching into the bag for another chip. “It’s not a conspiracy. It’s an intervention.”
Sam gasped. “I don’t need an intervention.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked to you again and this time it lingered a fraction longer, like he was tracking the way you smiled, the way you fit into this space like you belonged here. Like you always had.
Your eyes drifted to him without permission, pulled by something magnetic and irritating and familiar.
He was leaning against the counter with that permanently unimpressed expression he wore like armor, one hip hooked against the edge, arms loosely crossed. A dark henley stretched across his shoulders and chest like it had been designed solely to ruin your ability to think, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, skin warm-toned under the lamp light, and his hair was messier than usual in a way that looked accidental but… wasn’t helping.
His gaze met yours for half a second too long.
And the room didn’t go silent, Sam was still talking, Steve was still laughing… but your brain did. Just a brief blank, like your thoughts hit a wall.
You felt your heart stumble in your chest, just a little stutter. Like a skipped stair step. Like that moment right before you trip, when your body goes oh— and tries to correct itself.
It was stupid. It was so stupid how normal it all was, how easy it was to pretend this was just another night. Just another round of Sam being loud and Steve being kind and Bucky pretending he didn’t care while constantly making sure everyone had what they needed.
And still, your body acted surprised every time Bucky looked at you like that. Like you were something steady. Something safe. Something he didn’t have to brace himself around.
It made your throat tighten in a way you hated. So you did what you always did when emotions got too close: you shoved them back down, forced your attention onto Sam, and willed your face into neutrality before you did something embarrassing like smile too much, or soften too obviously, or let him see that his attention hit you like a touch.
Sam was mid-story, gesturing wildly with a chip like it was a microphone. “—and then the professor looked at me and said, ‘Mr. Wilson, what exactly are you contributing to this discussion?’”
Steve made a sympathetic noise. “What did you say?”
Sam spread his hands. “I said, ‘Vibes.’”
You snorted. “You did not.”
“I did,” Sam insisted. “And she said, ‘That is not a measurable academic contribution.’”
Steve laughed, shaking his head. “She’s not wrong.”
“Anyway,” Sam said, pointing at you like the moral of the story was your fault, “this is why I need you to bring the flashcards. Because if I’m left to my own devices, I will perish.”
“You brought the flashcards?” Steve asked hopefully, like there was a real chance you’d show up unprepared and the world would end.
You held up your tote bag with exaggerated dignity. “I’m not an animal.”
Bucky’s voice came from the kitchen without him even looking up. “Debatable.”
You turned slowly, deadpan, letting the pause stretch just long enough to make it a threat. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you said, calm as a scalpel, “I will personally label every cabinet in this apartment in Comic Sans.”
Sam made a choking sound that was half laughter, half horror. Steve gasped like you’d just threatened a war crime.
Bucky’s mouth twitched barely, like he was trying to smother it before it became a smile. He straightened a fraction against the counter, eyes narrowing like he was measuring you. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just… amused in that reluctant way he got when you cornered him.
“You wouldn’t,” he said, voice low, like he was calling your bluff.
You raised your brows. “Try me.”
His eyes stayed on yours, steady and challenging, but there was something warm underneath it now, something that made the air between you feel charged in a way it shouldn’t. “You’re evil,” he muttered, like it pained him to admit it.
You tipped your chin up. “You love it.” The words slipped out too easy, too familiar. Too true in a way that made your stomach do a slow, traitorous flip, like your body heard it and went Oh. That. That’s a thing.
For half a second, you regretted it. Not because it was wrong, but because it wasn’t. Because Bucky’s expression shifted in the smallest way, like he’d been caught off guard by how soft it sounded coming from you. Like he’d been prepared for sarcasm, for banter, for a fight.
Sam noticed immediately, because Sam noticed everything. He grinned like a shark. “Aww.”
You pointed at him with a chip. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it loud.”
You bit down on the chip and tried to ignore the way Bucky’s ears had gone a faint pink. Which was… ridiculous. Bucky Barnes did not blush. Bucky Barnes stared down frat guys at parties until they apologized for existing.
And yet… here he was, subtly flustered because you teased him the way you’d been teasing him since freshman year, back when you’d met him in Intro to Psych and he’d looked like someone had dragged him into the building against his will.
The lecture hall had been too warm, packed with bodies and backpack straps and the faint smell of overbrewed coffee. The professor had been cheerful in a way that felt illegal for an 8 a.m., clicking through a slide titled “Welcome to PSYCH 101!” like it was the most thrilling thing on earth.
And then there was Bucky. Three rows down, hunched in his seat like he wanted to shrink out of existence. Hoodie up. Jaw clenched. The kind of posture that screamed do not talk to me.
Which, obviously, had been a challenge.
You’d chosen the seat next to him like it was fate instead of impulse. Dropped your tote down. Pulled out a notebook. And when he’d flicked his eyes to you with that flat, unimpressed stare, you’d smiled like you were meeting a stray cat.
“Hi,” you’d said, bright and fearless, offering up your name. “You look like you hate it here.”
He’d blinked slowly, like he wasn’t used to someone pointing out the obvious. “I do,” he’d replied.
“That’s okay,” you’d said, utterly delighted. “I’m going to sit here anyway.”
He’d stared at you for a beat too long, like he couldn’t decide if you were annoying or dangerous. And then, begrudgingly: “Fine.”
That had been it. That had been the beginning. Not some grand meet-cute. Just you deciding, without consulting him, that you were going to be friends.
And somehow, impossibly, you’d gotten under his skin the way you always did. You’d teased him when he refused to participate in discussion. You’d slide your notes toward him when he’d missed a class. You’d offered him a piece of gum one day and watched him look at it like it was a trap.
He’d been prickly. Guarded. Uninterested in everyone. And still, somewhere along the way, he’d let you stay, let you become a constant.
Now, three years later, it was easy. So easy it should’ve been suspicious.
You could walk into his apartment without knocking. You could steal his hoodie off the back of his chair and he’d grumble but not stop you. You could talk over him, interrupt him, poke at his patience like it was a button you’d installed, and he would roll his eyes like he hated it while quietly making sure you had a plate, a drink, a place to sit.
It was easy. And the ease of it terrified you a little, because it felt like something you weren’t supposed to get for free.
The night kept rolling, a blur of half-studying and mostly roasting each other.
Sam was the loudest variable, as usual. He’d contributed absolutely nothing to the study effort but 80% of the noise, narrating the evening like it was a documentary no one asked for.
Steve had tried, earnestly, to implement structure—“Okay, twenty minutes of focus, five minutes break”—as if any of you were wired for that kind of discipline.
And Bucky continued to hover in the kitchen entrance, close enough to be part of the group but far enough to feel like he had an exit. He was present in that steady way that made the room feel anchored, even when Sam’s brain was ping-ponging around like a loose marble.
At some point the sky outside the windows shifted from dusky blue to full dark. You checked the time and groaned. “Okay,” you announced, cheerful but tired. “I should go. I have an eight a.m. lab and I’d like to arrive with my soul intact.”
Sam groaned, flopping back dramatically. “You’re leaving? But we were just getting to the part where we all admit we can’t read.”
“You’ve admitted that,” Steve said. “Like, ten times.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t processed it emotionally,” Sam argued.
Steve was already rubbing at his eyes, fatigue setting in like a slow tide. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice warm. “Get some sleep.”
You slung your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door, fingers curling around the strap like it anchored you. “Text me if you need anything.”
Sam lifted a hand immediately. “Need you to stay and explain what ‘citations’ means.” You flipped him off with love, a gesture so familiar it felt like home.
Then, because your body did it before your brain could stop it, you looked back at Bucky. He was still standing at the kitchen entrance like he’d been doing all night, pretending he wasn’t paying attention to you like you were the only thing in the room that made sense.
He took a step forward before he spoke, as if his body had decided for him. “I’ll walk you out,” he said, quick. Like the words had been waiting behind his teeth all night.
Your heart did that stupid thing again, thudding too hard, too fast, like it didn’t know how to be normal about him.“It’s…” you started, forcing a laugh that sounded steadier than you felt. “It’s ten steps to my car.”
Bucky’s eyes didn’t soften, not really. They stayed serious, grounded, like this was not a debate.
“Still,” he said. One word. No argument. Just Bucky being Bucky, like it was a rule carved into him: you don’t walk alone at night.
The door to Bucky’s apartment clicked closed behind you a few steps later and the warmth you’d been swimming in fell away as you stepped into cooler air that smelled faintly of old carpet and laundry detergent.
Bucky fell in beside you without making it a thing, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders broad enough to make the cramped corridor feel smaller, like he took up space even when he was trying not to.
He walked at your pace the way he always did, matching you without looking like he was doing it. Every few steps his gaze flicked forward, then to the side, checking corners out of habit, old instincts in a place that didn’t deserve them.
It should’ve felt ridiculous, letting him escort you ten steps to your car like you were made of glass. But it never did.
Because with Bucky, it didn’t feel like control. It felt like… care. Quiet and steady. Like a hand at the small of your back when you stepped off a curb or an umbrella offered without commentary.
Your fingers tightened around your bag strap as you walked, the fabric rough against your palm. “Thanks for tonight,” you said, because you always said it, even if the night had been chaotic and loud and half-useless academically.
Bucky gave a small nod like it was nothing. “Mm,” he murmured, noncommittal, like gratitude made him uncomfortable.
You tried not to smile too hard.
The front entrance came into view, glass doors, the small lobby beyond it lit by harsh overhead fluorescents. The building’s posted notices on the wall. A crooked bulletin board covered in flyers for lost cats and study groups and someone offering tarot readings for $10.
Your steps slowed without you meaning them to.
Bucky opened the lobby door and held it, letting you pass first. The air changed as you stepped into the brighter light: colder, cleaner, less forgiving.
He followed you through, the door easing shut behind him with a soft thump. His boots sounded heavier on the tile.
You stopped just before the final doors to outside.
Bucky stopped too, turning slightly, angling his body between you and the glass as if it mattered. As if it was his job.
It wasn’t. That was the problem.
“Drive safe,” he said, voice low.
“I always do,” you answered automatically.
He didn’t respond right away.
His gaze flicked down your face in a way that made your stomach tilt. Not scanning like he scanned the hallway. Not checking like he checked exits. This was different, slower, almost careful, like he was trying to place something he’d felt all night and didn’t have a name for.
Like he was memorizing you.
Your pulse stumbled.
Bucky’s jaw shifted like he was about to speak and decided against it. Like the words were right there behind his teeth and he didn’t trust them.
Your fingers tightened around your bag strap again “Bucky?” you heard yourself say.
His eyes lifted immediately. “Yeah?”
A single word and yet it felt like it meant too much.
You didn’t know what you were asking. Not really. Not unless you wanted to pull at the thread you’d been avoiding for months and watch everything unravel.
You didn’t know what you wanted from him… an answer, a confession, permission, denial. So you did what you always did when you got too close to the edge and grabbed humor like it was a life raft.
You smiled softly and said, “Tell Sam I’m not proofreading his essay if he keeps calling it ‘a vibe piece.’”
Bucky’s mouth curved, the tension easing with it. It wasn’t a big smile, Bucky didn’t do big smiles, but it was real and it warmed something in your chest you didn’t want to examine.
“I’ll tell him,” he said, voice rough with amusement.
“Good.” You shifted your weight toward the door, trying to behave somewhat normal. “Night.”
“Night, doll.”
The nickname slipped out like muscle memory. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… easy.
Your breath caught. Heat rushed up your neck and into your cheeks so fast you felt embarrassed by your own body. Because doll wasn’t new, he’d said it before, here and there, but tonight it landed different.
You forced a laugh that came out too thin. “Goodnight,” you repeated, like saying it twice could override the way your heart was sprinting.
Then you stepped backward toward the glass doors before you could do something stupid like stare. You lifted your hand in a small wave, because you were normal, and this was normal, and best friends said goodnight all the time.
Bucky lifted his hand back, just a fraction, like he didn’t want to let the moment go any more than you did.
You turned quickly before he could see how flustered you were. You hurried down the steps, boots tapping, the night air loud in your ears. You didn’t look back.
You told yourself you didn’t look back because you didn’t want to slip on the icy step, because you were focused, because you were responsible.
Not because if you looked back and saw him watching you, you might crumble.
You reached your car and fumbled your keys out, fingers clumsy from cold and nerves. You slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and sitting there for a beat with both hands on the steering wheel, breathing like you’d run a mile.
You started the car, heat blasting on weakly, the engine coughing awake. Only then did you glance up through the windshield… and see him. Bucky was still inside the lobby, standing just behind the glass doors.
Still, broad shoulders squared, hands in his pockets like he’d put them there to stop himself from doing something else. His face was turned toward your car, eyes fixed on you with that quiet, steady attention that always made you feel seen.
He didn’t wave this time, he just watched. As if you leaving was the part he hated most. As if he wasn’t satisfied until he knew you were gone, safe, out of sight, beyond the reach of whatever his brain insisted might happen.
You looked away quickly, because the moment felt too intimate through the glass. Because your cheeks were still hot. Because your heart was doing something stupid and hopeful and dangerous.
You backed out carefully, tires crunching over gravel, as you pulled out of your parking space and out onto the main street.
You didn’t see Bucky standing there, watching your taillights until they disappeared at the corner. You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched after you were gone.
Back upstairs, the apartment felt quieter without you, which was stupid because it was still three grown men and a TV that Sam refused to mute.
But your absence left a shape. Like the warmth you brought in with you didn’t fully disappear so much as drain out slowly, leaving everything a little flatter around the edges.
Bucky shut the door and leaned against it for half a second like he needed the wood to keep him upright.
Sam, half-sprawled on the couch, glanced up immediately because Sam had the survival instincts of someone who’d spent years learning how to read a room faster than it could read him. His grin came slow, sharp, delighted.
“Aww,” Sam crooned, all fake tenderness. “He walked her out.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He moved into the kitchen and grabbed a glass, filling it with water like hydration could fix… anything.
Steve was collecting empty cans and stacking them in a neat little row on the counter like he couldn’t help himself. His voice stayed casual, like he was narrating something harmless.
“She’s got lab early,” Steve said, as if that explained the tight line in Bucky’s jaw.
Bucky nodded once, short and clipped. Still not looking at them. He took a long drink of water that did absolutely nothing. Cold slid down his throat. His pulse stayed high anyway.
Steve didn’t push right away. That was Steve’s thing, he never yanked. He waited. He let people settle into their own truth.
Sam, on the other hand, lived to poke bruises and Bucky could feel Sam’s stare like heat.
Then Steve spoke again, tone light, like he was asking about the weather. “So…” He tipped his head toward the door. “You guys just friends?”
Bucky’s stomach did something unpleasant, like a drop on an elevator. He kept his eyes on the faucet even though it was off, like he was still busy. “Yeah.” But it came out too fast.
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. Steve’s expression didn’t change, but there was curiosity under it…real, quiet curiosity.
“Just friends,” Steve repeated, like he was testing the words.
Bucky’s grip tightened around the glass. “Yeah. We’ve been friends forever.”
Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Uh-huh. Bucky shot him a look that said don’t you dare. Sam held up both hands, delight practically vibrating off him. “I’m just… listening.”
Steve nodded slowly, like he’d reached a conclusion. “Okay.”
Bucky finally looked over, suspicious. “Okay?”
Steve shrugged. “Just checking.”
Bucky drank again because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. The water didn’t help. His chest still felt tight, like it remembered your smile too vividly.
Then Steve’s mouth tipped into something almost mischievous, so rare on him it should’ve been illegal “Cool,” he said, lightly. “So I can talk to her.”
The room went silent.
Not the normal “we ran out of things to say” silence, but the kind of silence that happens when something instinctive snaps into place.
Bucky’s entire body locked up like someone had flipped a switch in his spine. The glass in his hand stopped halfway to the counter.
Sam’s eyes widened, delighted. “Oh my God.”
Bucky’s voice came low. Flat. “What.”
Steve lifted his brows. “I said, if you’re just friends, then—”
Bucky set the glass down very carefully… then stepped closer. Not aggressive, at least not outwardly. But the air changed anyway, heavier, sharpened. Bucky Barnes did not have to raise his voice to make a room listen.
Steve’s smile faded into confusion. “Dude—”
“You’re not talking to her.” Bucky’s words were quiet, almost casual, which somehow made them worse.
Sam pressed a fist to his mouth to keep from laughing. It sounded like pain.
Steve stared. “Bucky. Why would I not talk to her? She’s cool. She’s smart. She’s funny—”
Bucky’s jaw flexed and Sam made a strangled noise like oh no he’s listing reasons. Steve, still oblivious in the way only Steve Rogers could be: “And she’s pretty, and—”
Bucky’s eyes went dangerous as he interrupted Steve, voice still calm but edged with something feral. “Stop.”
Bucky took another step, close enough now that Steve actually leaned back a fraction without realizing he was doing it.
“Listen,” Bucky said, each word measured. “You don’t get to—” He cut himself off, because saying you don’t get to look at her like that would’ve been admitting too much. But his stare did it for him anyway.
Steve’s eyes flicked across Bucky’s face like he was reading something he hadn’t noticed before, like puzzle pieces clicking together.
Realization dawned slowly. “Oh,” Steve said, very quietly. “Ohhhh.” Sam wheezed in the background.
Bucky’s cheeks went hot with irritation, at Steve, at Sam, at himself, at the fact that his body had reacted like a guard dog before his mouth could catch up.
Steve’s expression softened into something almost fond, which only made Bucky angrier. “You like her,” Steve said.
Bucky’s shoulders went rigid. “No.”
Sam barked a laugh. “That ‘no’ had a stutter in it, buddy.” Bucky looked like he wanted to throw the entire couch at Sam.
Steve held up both hands, backing off a little. “Okay. Okay. But you just told me you’re friends.”
“We are friends,” Bucky snapped.
Steve tilted his head. “But you want more.”
Bucky didn’t answer. Which was an answer.
Sam swung his legs off the couch, animated now. “Dude. You literally look like you’re about to challenge Steve to a duel for even imagining asking her out.”
Bucky’s gaze cut to Sam. “I’m not.”
Sam pointed. “You are.”
Bucky’s voice dropped again, stubborn. “I’m not.”
Steve’s smile came back, gentle this time, not teasing. “Bucky.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked away like the ceiling suddenly had something interesting going on.
Steve stepped closer, careful. “I wasn’t actually going to ask her out. I was messing with you.”
Bucky looked back at him, sharp. “Why.”
Steve shrugged, helpless honesty. “Because it’s been three years,” he said. “And you’ve been looking at her like she hung the moon.”
Bucky’s throat bobbed once. Steve kept going, because he wasn’t wrong and they all knew it.
“You keep calling her cute little nicknames like you don’t know what that does to you. You save her a seat without thinking. You go quiet when she’s tired like you’re trying to absorb the weight for her. And you get weird when anyone else gets her attention.”
Sam nodded violently. “So weird.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I don’t.”
“You do,” Steve said, gentle but firm. “And I’m not trying to steal your girl.” He paused, watching Bucky’s face. “I’m trying to get you to be honest… at least with yourself.”
That phrase, your girl, hit something deep and instinctive in Bucky’s chest, and the worst part was how right it sounded, like it had been written somewhere long before he’d even learned how to want things again.
Bucky exhaled, hard, like he was letting go of a fight he didn’t know he’d started.
Sam leaned forward, quieter now. “You gonna tell her?”
Bucky stared at the floor for a beat.
He could still see you at the door, turning with that small smile. He could still hear the soft “night.” He could still feel the way his chest had tightened when you stepped away, like his body didn’t know what to do when you weren’t within reach.
Then, barely, like the words cost him pride and oxygen, “She deserves better than me springing it on her,” he said.
Steve’s expression softened even more. “That’s not an answer.”
Bucky swallowed. “I’m not gonna—” He shook his head once, frustrated. “I don’t wanna mess up what we have.”
Sam’s voice went surprisingly gentle. “You mean the thing you’re already messing up by acting like a kicked puppy every time she smiles at someone else?”
Bucky shot him a look. Sam held it, unflinching.
Steve nodded, calm. “You don’t have to do anything tonight. But… maybe stop lying about what you feel.”
Bucky’s hands clenched at his sides. Then he muttered, like the words tasted like pride and fear at the same time, “I’m not lying.”
Sam lifted his brows. “Then what was that back there? ‘Yeah just friends’?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m just… defensive.”
Steve smiled, small. “You mean possessive.”
Bucky’s glare could’ve melted glass.
Sam slapped his thigh. “Oh, he’s down bad.”
Bucky’s voice came low, warning. “Sam.”
Sam held up his hands again, laughing. “Okay, okay. But for the record? If you don’t tell her soon, somebody else is gonna try. And you’re gonna have an aneurysm.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked to the door, like he could still see you, could still feel the warmth you left behind in the room. Then, reluctantly, like admitting it might break him, “…Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”
Steve’s smile went soft. “Good. That means you care.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve always cared.”
Sam grinned like Christmas came early. “Awww.”
Bucky turned, already moving toward his bedroom, because if he stayed in the living room any longer he was going to do something dramatic, like text you right now and say something catastrophically honest.
Sam called after him, bright and smug: “So we agree? She’s not just your friend.”
Bucky paused in the doorway, shoulders tense. Then, without looking back, he said, quiet and deadly: “Try and find out.” And shut the door.
Sam exploded into laughter. Steve just stood there, shaking his head, smiling like he’d finally solved a mystery.
And somewhere off in the distance, you were driving home with no idea that the line between “best friends” and “mine” had just been drawn hard inside Bucky’s chest.
You didn’t think about Bucky on the drive home. That was the lie you told yourself, anyway.
You told yourself you were thinking about your eight a.m. lab, about the way your TA looked like he’d been spawned by black coffee and bad sleep, about how you still needed to print your pre-lab worksheet, about whether you’d remembered to pack your goggles or if Future You was about to have to buy another pair from the bookstore for a price that felt criminal.
You told yourself you were thinking about the exam next week, the one that sat in the back of your head like a storm cloud you kept pretending wasn’t there. You told yourself you were thinking about literally anything else.
But your mind kept doing that annoying, traitorous thing where it rewound moments like a song you couldn’t stop replaying, even when you changed the station.
Bucky’s eyes on you in the kitchen. Not a glance. Not a check-in. A linger. Like he’d been looking at you and forgetting to look away.
The way his voice had dropped when he’d said “Night, doll”, soft and low, like it belonged in the quiet. And the pause after, that half second where everything in you had gone still because you could tell he’d realized he’d said it out loud.
You gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and forced your gaze onto the road, like you could steer yourself away from the thought if you held on hard enough.
It was nothing, you told yourself. It was a nickname. Bucky called people nicknames. Bucky was… Bucky. Quiet, protective, occasionally softer than he wanted anyone to notice. And you were his friend.
His best friend, technically, if you were counting hours spent in the same space, shared notes, shared snacks, shared silence. If you were counting the way he always saved you the seat that wasn’t too close to other people. The way he always angled his body between you and whatever made you tense. The way he somehow knew when your social battery was dying and would silently hand you your coat like here, I’m giving you an exit.
Friends did that. Friends walked you out. Friends texted you to make sure you got home.
You repeated it like an incantation as you drove, friends, friends, friends, like saying it enough times would make your stomach stop doing that weird, soft flip every time you pictured his face at the door.
You should not be noticing his shoulders. You should not be noticing the shape of his hands when he reached for a glass. You should not be noticing the way he looked at you like you were the only calm thing in a room.
You were not doing that. You were normal. This was normal.
Your brain, unfortunately, did not agree.
You swallowed hard at a red light and stared straight ahead, unblinking, like that could keep you from spiraling.
Because spiraling meant admitting something, and admitting something meant you’d have to do something about it… and you weren’t ready.
You weren’t ready to name the thing in your chest that kept swelling every time he said your name. You weren’t ready to admit that sometimes you caught yourself looking at his mouth. That sometimes, when he was laughing, rare and rough and real, you felt like your heart had been physically tugged in that direction.
You weren’t ready to ask yourself what it would mean if he didn’t just feel safe, but what it would mean if he felt like home.
So you did what you always did when feelings got too big: You shoved them into the “later” folder in your brain and hoped they would die of neglect.
By the time you pulled into your apartment complex and killed the engine, you’d decided it meant nothing. By the time you climbed the stairs and brushed your teeth and crawled into bed, you’d reinforced that decision so aggressively you almost believed it.
And by the time you fell asleep, you’d filed the whole night away under:
Bucky being Bucky. Me being dramatic. Nothing to see here.
When you woke up, your phone buzzed. You blinked at the screen through sleep-heavy eyes squinting at the brightness like it was personally offensive.
Bucky: You get home okay?
Your brain didn’t even have time to put up defenses before your body reacted, warmth blooming in your chest, soft and immediate. Like your insides had been waiting for it.
You stared at it for a full ten seconds until your thoughts caught up.
He texted to check in. That’s normal. People do that.
Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Don’t be weird, you told yourself as you typed back with a yawn and a smile you refused to examine.
You: Yeah. Fell asleep like a rock. You guys survive without me?
You hit send, then immediately rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling like it might tell you why your heart was suddenly beating like you’d just done cardio.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Bucky: Barely.
Bucky: Good luck in lab.
You blinked at the screen.
That second text, good luck in lab, was so stupidly sweet it made your chest do the thing again. That soft squeeze, right under your ribs, like your body recognized care before your brain could dismiss it.
He remembered your schedule. Of course he did. He remembered everything. He remembered your coffee order “by accident” and then never forgot it. He remembered the exact brand of granola bar you liked. He remembered the way you got quiet when you were anxious.
He wasn’t just being polite. He was being… Bucky. And you weren’t supposed to feel like this about Bucky.
Because feeling like this about Bucky meant risk. It meant the possibility of losing the easiest, safest relationship you’d ever had. It meant ruining the one thing in your life that didn’t feel complicated.
It meant taking something good and putting it in your shaky hands.
You typed a reply, erased it, typed again.
You: Thanks 😊
Too soft. Delete.
You: Appreciate it.
Too formal. Like he was your professor. Delete.
Your fingers hovered again and your brain scrambled for something safe and normal, something that didn’t scream I read your texts like they’re scripture.
So you sent the only armor you had: sarcasm.
You: Thanks, old man.
Three dots popped up immediately and you felt your mouth twitch, helpless, like you could already hear him.
Bucky: I’m 23.
You laughed before you could stop yourself, one of those soft, stupid laughs that made your whole face warm. You rolled onto your side and hugged your pillow tighter, smiling like an idiot.
Stop it, you told yourself. Stop smiling. Stop reading into it. Stop—stop—stop—
But your mind, traitorous as ever, offered up the image of him in his lobby again. The way he’d looked at you like he was holding something back. Like he’d wanted to say more and didn’t trust himself.
Your stomach dipped.
Because if you were being honest, if you peeled back all the sarcasm and denial and careful avoidance, there was a part of you that knew this wasn’t new. It had been building. In tiny, quiet ways. In ways you’d pretended were nothing because nothing was safer than something.
But last night… last night had felt like a line you’d both stepped too close to.
And now you were lying in bed with your phone in your hand, cheeks warm, heart stupid, and your lab looming, trying very hard not to think about how you wanted to text him something soft.
Something honest, something… terrifying.
Instead, you sat up fast, like movement could shake the thoughts loose, and threw the covers back.
“Nope,” you muttered to yourself, climbing out of bed. “We are not doing this today.”
You set your phone down like it had personally betrayed you, then immediately picked it back up and looked at the screen again.
Because you were weak. And because Bucky Barnes was your best friend. And because something in you was starting to realize that might not be the whole truth anymore.
Campus was already loud by the time you got there.
Winter air, backpacks, the smell of burnt espresso and wet concrete. You power-walked across the quad with your tote bag thumping against your hip and your hair still damp from the shower.
Halfway to the science building, you cut through the student union to grab coffee, because if you had to pipette anything before caffeine, you would simply pass away.
The line was long. Of course it was.
You shuffled forward, clutching your tote bag, scrolling your phone with the dead-eyed focus of someone trying not to think about how little you’d slept.
“Hey.”
You looked up and immediately softened at the sight of Steve, standing a few feet away with one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, the other lifting in a small wave like he’d been waiting to spot you.
He looked annoyingly put-together for eight in the morning in a hoodie, clean sneakers, his hair behaving. The human embodiment of “I definitely slept.”
“Steve,” you said, relief in your voice before you could help it. “Thank God. A friendly face.”
He smiled. “Is that what I am? Not ‘a walking lecture on responsibility’?”
“You contain multitudes,” you said gravely. “Mostly protein.”
Steve laughed, stepping up beside you so you were shoulder-to-shoulder in line like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which it was. You’d had enough shared group projects and late-night study sessions for it to be normal.
“Early lab?” he murmured, like he didn’t remember from the night before.
“Eight a.m. The crime of it all,” you sighed. “Why are you up? You don’t even have class until like… never.”
“Rude.” Steve took a sip of his coffee. “I have an eight-thirty. And Sam texted me at seven asking if ‘breakfast counts as a concept.’ So I’m on crisis duty.”
Your mouth twitched. “You’re enabling him.”
“I’m saving the GPA of the friend group.”
You bumped your shoulder lightly into his. “Hero complex.”
Steve’s grin widened. “Guilty.”
You both moved forward a couple steps. You felt your shoulders unclench, the simple ease of it. Steve was one of the few people who could talk to you without draining your battery.
He took a sip of his coffee, then glanced at you over the rim like he was trying very hard to look casual about something he’d already decided to bring up.
“So,” he said, measured, “you escaped pretty quick last night.”
You blinked. “I did not escape.”
Steve’s mouth quirked. “Uh-huh. You left and Buck spent the next ten minutes pretending he wasn’t listening for the door.”
You huffed, trying to keep it light. “Maybe he was just… making sure the door latched. He’s weird about locks.”
Steve’s eyes crinkled. “Maybe.” Then, softer, like he couldn’t help it: “He’s just… different when you’re around.”
That landed quieter than it should’ve. You busied yourself with the menu board, as if latte options could save you from emotions.
Steve didn’t push right away. He let the line move, let the moment breathe. He was good at that. Then he said, like it was nothing: “He was up early.”
You glanced at him. “Bucky? Voluntarily?”
Steve’s mouth tipped. “Didn’t say that.” A beat. “Just… seemed like something was on his mind.”
Your stomach did a small, annoying flip.
Steve’s gaze dipped to your hand, the way your thumb kept hovering over your phone like you were waiting for it to light up. He didn’t smile, just looked back at you with quiet, patient understanding.
“And you,” he added, “seem… a little distracted.”
You scoffed automatically. “I’m not distracted. I’m thriving.”
Steve smiled like he’d known you long enough to translate. “Sure you are.”
The line crept forward again. You were just starting to decide what you wanted when Steve, very casually, asked: “So… you and Buck still doing the “we’re just friends” thing?”
You paused for half a second, your brain doing a hard reset at the question. Steve’s eyes crinkled. “That’s not a no.”
You gave him an unimpressed look. “It’s also not a yes to whatever you’re trying to start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” Steve said, too innocent.
You scoffed. “You’re literally always starting something.”
Steve lifted his free hand in surrender, but his voice softened as he said it, no teasing now, just honest. “Okay, fine. I just…” he shrugged, eyes kind, “I care about him. And you’re important to him. That’s all.”
Your throat tightened in a way you didn’t love. You reached for sarcasm once again like it was a blanket. “I’m important to everyone. I’m a national treasure.”
Steve smiled like he believed you. “You kind of are.”
You rolled your eyes, but you can’t stop the little tug at the corner of your mouth. The line shuffles forward again, and now you’re close enough to the counter that you can actually smell the espresso. The barista at the register looks half-awake, hair shoved into a messy bun, name tag slightly crooked. “Next!” You step up automatically, slipping into your practiced morning voice as you rattle off your order.
You drift toward the pick-up counter after paying for your drink, the shop humming around you. Steam hissing, cups sliding, the low clatter of lids and sleeves. Music plays somewhere under all the conversation, muffled by the grinder going off again.
You lean back against the wall near the window, cradling your receipt like it’s a promise. Outside, students cross the quad in bundled-up clusters, their breath ghosting in the cold. Inside, it’s warm enough that your cheeks finally stop stinging.
Steve sips his coffee and watches you over the rim with that same I’m being casual but I’m actually paying attention look.
You lift your chin, already defensive. “Don’t.”
Steve’s eyes crinkle. “Don’t what?”
“Do your Captain Concerned face.”
“I’m not,” he says, which is a blatant lie.
You huff a laugh and look away, tracking the line of cups moving down the counter like you can will yours into existence. A barista calls a name and someone snatches the drink like it’s a life raft.
Steve shifts a little closer, voice dropping just enough to stay between the two of you. “You know you don’t have to figure all of that out at eight in the morning, right?”
You glance at him. “Figure what out.”
He gives you a look. Not pushy. Just… come on. “You and Buck,” he says simply.
Your stomach flips. “I’m not figuring anything out,” you say, a little too quickly. “There’s nothing to figure out.”
Steve hums, unconvinced, but lets it sit. “Okay,” he says lightly. “Just don’t spiral yourself into a wall over it.”
You flick your gaze back to him. “And if you keep talking like that, I’m going to start calling you ‘Dad’ unironically.”
Steve grins. “I can live with that.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and bounce lightly on your heels, half-impatient, half-anticipating that first sip like it’s going to reset your whole nervous system.
Then the barista calls your name and relief hits so fast you almost laugh. “That’s me.” You step forward, reach for the cup, warm in your hands, sleeve snug around it. The smell alone makes your shoulders drop like your body finally remembers how to unclench.
You turn back toward Steve… and nearly collide with someone entering the shop. You stop short on instinct, yanking your drink back so it won’t spill, heat sloshing dangerously close to the lid. Your apology is already on your tongue, automatic, practiced.
“Sorry—” But the word catches.
Because it’s Bucky. And for one stupid second, your body reacts like the universe just reached into your chest and squeezed.
He’s not dressed up. Just a worn jacket and a dark hoodie underneath, like he threw it on without thinking. His hair looks slightly damp, like he showered in a hurry and left with his hoodie still smelling faintly like soap. The cold outside has pinked his cheeks a little, and you hate how much you notice details you shouldn’t be noticing.
His eyes sweep the room once as he steps in on instinct and they land on you almost immediately. For a second, his face eases. The hard line of his mouth loosens. The set of his shoulders drops by a fraction. Like seeing you in the room resets something in him.
And your chest tightens, because you feel it.
Then Bucky’s gaze shifts, just a quick flick to your side where he notices Steve. You watch the tiny recalibration. Not anger. Not hostility. Nothing that would give him away. Just… awareness.
Bucky’s gaze flicks back to you like he’s checking in, like the only question that matters is are you okay?
“Hey,” you say, surprised into a smile that you try to make normal. Try to make casual. Try to make friend-shaped. It comes out softer anyway. “What are you doing here?”
Bucky clears his throat like your voice did something to him. “I—” His eyes dart to the menu board, like he needs a reason to exist in this space that isn’t you. “Was nearby.”
Nearby. On campus. At your coffee shop. Right when you’re here… Sure.
Steve, because Steve is Steve, lifts his coffee in greeting like this is all perfectly normal and not actively making your pulse misbehave. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Bucky returns, polite. Normal. The kind of normal he uses when he’s trying very hard not to show his cards.
Your fingers tighten around your cup without you meaning to, the sleeve warm against your palm. Bucky’s eyes dropped to the cup in your hand, lingering on it like it was safer to look at that than at your face for too long. “You got something?”
“Hazelnut latte,” you said. “Because I’m brave.”
Your voice comes out light, teasing, your practiced armor. Like you didn’t spend the entire morning trying not to think about him and that you didn’t stare at his text until your chest warmed in a way you refused to label.
He nods once, gaze still on your drink and then, casual, almost absentminded, he reaches out and adjusts the tote strap on your shoulder where it’s slipping.
The touch is quick, nothing dramatic, not even a full second. But it lands like a spark on dry paper.
His fingers brush the fabric, then the edge of your shoulder through your sweater, and your brain goes briefly blank, like someone unplugged it and forgot to plug it back in.
Bucky’s hand drops back to his side like it meant nothing. Like he hasn’t been doing little things like that for years.
Like you don’t remember a hundred tiny versions of this: him tucking your scarf in when you didn’t notice it slipping, him nudging your notebook back onto the desk when it slid, him sliding your coffee closer when you were too busy talking to reach for it.
“Thanks,” you manage, and it comes out quieter than you intended.
Bucky meets your eyes for the smallest second, just enough for you to feel like he heard the softness and didn’t look away from it. “Yeah,” he says.
Steve watches it happen with the patient expression of someone seeing a puzzle piece click into place. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t pounce, doesn’t make you feel exposed. He just shifts his weight and asks, warmly, “You heading to lab?”
You clear your throat like a person who has not just short-circuited over a tote strap. “Yep. My own personal hell.” You try to laugh but it comes out a little breathy.
Bucky’s gaze sharpens immediately, purpose sliding over his features like a mask he knows how to wear. “I’ll walk you.”
Your stomach drops again and you blink. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His tone is gentle, like he doesn’t mean it as pressure. Just fact. “I want to.”
The words hit like a warm hand on your spine, your chest squeezes in that soft, terrifying way it did last night when he said doll. In the way it did this morning when he wished you good luck like he’d been thinking about you before you even woke up.
“Okay,” you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to flustered. “Sure. You can—” you gesture vaguely, because words are failing you, “escort me across the terrifying quad.”
Bucky nods, already turning with you like the decision is made. Like this is just what he does: follows you. keeps you warm. makes sure you get where you’re going.
Steve steps back to give you space and smiles at you. “Text me later,” he says. “I want the lab gossip.”
You point at him, grateful for something normal to hold onto. “Only if you promise not to mother-hen Sam into my DMs.”
Steve laughs. “No promises.”
You roll your eyes and start toward the door with Bucky beside you, your shoulder nearly brushing his, your body walking a little too carefully like it doesn’t trust itself not to lean in.
As you pass, Steve adds lightly, like it’s nothing at all: “Tell Buck I said hi later.”
You look back, incredulous, grateful for the excuse to blink and breathe. “He literally heard you.”
“I like to be thorough,” Steve calls, grin bright.
You snorted and stepped into the cold with Bucky, breath catching as the chill cut straight through you.
It was that sharp, early-winter kind that made the inside of your nose sting and turned every exhale into smoke. You tucked your chin into your scarf and immediately regretted wearing cute boots instead of practical ones.
Bucky didn’t seem to register the temperature at all. He moved beside you with that steady, unhurried pace he always had, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind.
The student union doors swung shut behind them, sealing in the warmth and noise and suddenly it was just campus morning again: footsteps on concrete, distant laughter, the thrum of cars, someone yelling into a phone about a quiz they definitely forgot.
You glanced at Bucky sideways and instantly noticed how he was walking half a step closer than normal.
Not touching. Not crowding. Not doing anything that anyone else would clock as anything. Just… close enough that when the wind cut hard between buildings, you felt the edge of his body heat brush your sleeve like a private little shelter.
It shouldn’t have felt like anything. And yet your brain kept tripping over it like a loose stair. You told yourself it was just him being protective. You told yourself that didn’t mean anything.
Your body, traitor, did not agree.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming to campus today,” you said, keeping your tone casual, like you weren’t overanalyzing his presence as if it were a crime scene.
Bucky’s eyes stayed forward. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, jaw set like he was bracing for the wind to pick a fight. “Didn’t know I was.”
You snorted. “That’s deeply concerning.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I was up,” he said, like that explained everything. Like being awake automatically meant he belonged wherever you were.
Your gaze flicked to the faint shadows under his eyes, the kind that didn’t come from one bad night but more like a pattern he pretended wasn’t a pattern. “You didn’t sleep.”
Bucky’s jaw shifted subtly, like a muscle flex. Like he didn’t love being perceived. “Some.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
He glanced down at you and for a second his expression softened in a way that always startled you. like the “Bucky Barnes who scowls at the world” melted into something warmer when it was just you.
“I’m fine,” he said, quieter.
You made a face. “You say that like it’s a spell.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched again. “Works most of the time.”
“It does not,” you said, and your voice wanted to be teasing, wanted to stay light, but there was something tender underneath it you couldn’t quite smother. You swallowed it down and tried again, steadier. “But really… why did you really come?”
Bucky’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug, but his eyes stayed fixed ahead, scanning the quad like he was tracking a hundred small things at once. “You had lab.”
You blinked, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t “Okay,” you said slowly. “And?”
“And it’s early,” he added, simple as a fact. “And it’s cold.”
Something in your chest shifted. It wasn’t fireworks, wasn’t a confession, wasn’t even romantic on the surface… but it hit you anyway.
Because it wasn’t about the weather. Not really.
It was about him showing up. About him quietly deciding that you shouldn’t have to do the morning alone. About him making himself part of your day the same way he always did, like it didn’t cost him anything, like it wasn’t a choice.
Your mouth went dry. You forced a laugh to cover it. “You’re acting like I’m going to get jumped by a chemistry beaker.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to you again, sharp and steady. “Stranger things have happened.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re dramatic.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “You’re underdressed.”
You gasped, offended, clutching your coat tighter around yourself like it was a courtroom drama. “These boots are fashion.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, quiet and rough, barely there, but it warmed something in you anyway. “Those boots are a lawsuit.”
You bumped your shoulder into his, a little harder than necessary, because you needed the contact to feel normal. “You’re such an old man,” you accused.
“I’m twenty-three,” he reminded you again, like he’d been waiting to say it.
You smiled despite yourself, couldn’t help it, even when you tried. “And yet. So ancient.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered on you for half a beat, like he wanted to say something else. Like there was another version of this conversation where he admitted the real reason he was here wasn’t the cold, or the hour, or the hypothetical beaker attack.
Like maybe the real reason was the simplest one: I wanted to see you.
But he didn’t say it.
You crossed the quad together, weaving through the morning crowd like you’d done it a hundred times except this time… you couldn’t stop noticing the shape of it.
Bucky stayed half a step closer than normal, body angled just enough that he took the worst of the wind when it knifed between buildings. His pace matched yours without you asking. When you slowed to dodge a cluster of freshmen walking five-wide like they’d never heard of spatial awareness, he slowed too. When you sped up to get around a skateboarder who nearly clipped your ankle, he adjusted without breaking stride, guiding you through the chaos like it was second nature.
It should’ve been funny. It was funny, a little. But it also made something in your chest twist in that warm, uncomfortable way you’d been trying to ignore.
By the time the science building came into view, your hands were cold inside your sleeves, but your face was warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the weather.
At the edge of the steps, you slowed.
“This is me,” you said, turning toward the doors like you weren’t reluctant to break away from him. Like you weren’t suddenly hyperaware of how much calmer your brain had been with him beside you.
Bucky stopped with you but didn’t immediately step away.
You became abruptly aware of how close you were now, close enough you could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth from the way he held tension, the little flecks of lighter brown in his eyes when the sun hit them right.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your hands. “You got gloves?”
You blinked down, as if the answer might change if you looked harder. Your fingers were shoved into your sleeves like a child. “No.”
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, and you weren’t sure if it was aimed at you or at the concept of winter itself. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of black knit gloves, and held them out.
You stared. “Are those… yours?”
Bucky’s face stayed neutral, but his ears pinked faintly, the only betrayal of anything happening under the surface. “Extra pair.”
“Since when do you carry extra gloves?” you asked, because your brain needed to cling to logistics before it got swallowed by the way your chest was tightening.
Bucky shrugged like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t at all strange to have an extra layer of warmth ready to hand to you.“Since always.”
You didn’t believe him. You didn’t believe most things Bucky said when he was trying to play something off. But you took them anyway because you always did. Because your hands were freezing. Because refusing would make this a thing, and you were trying so hard not to make things things.
Your fingers brushed his for the briefest moment as you took them and your body reacted like you’d been burned. A little jolt, sharp and hot, flaring up your arm and straight into your chest, and your stomach dipped like you’d stepped off a curb you didn’t see.
You focused on the gloves like they were the only thing holding you together. “You just carry extra gloves,” you said, a little too pointed, like you could logic your way out of whatever feeling was trying to take root in your ribs.
Bucky’s shrug came again, smaller this time. “Yeah.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re lying.”
“I’m prepared,” he said.
You huffed a laugh, but it came out thin. “You’re—” you started, ready to tease him, ready to keep it light… then the truth landed too cleanly in your mouth.
“You’re always prepared for me.”
The words hung there between you, visible in the cold. You hadn’t meant to say it like that, hadn’t meant to say it at all.
Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze lifted to your face, steady and unreadable except for the way something in it tightened, like your words had hit a place he kept guarded.
You swallowed, forcing air into your lungs.
“Well,” you said too brightly, voice climbing a note higher than usual. You shoved one glove on, then the other, because movement felt safer than standing still. “Thanks for walking me.”
Bucky’s voice dropped lower. “Text me when you’re done.”
You blinked. “Why?”
His gaze flicked past your shoulder toward the building, scanning like it was a threat, then came back to you, sharp and full of intent, like the only thing he was really paying attention to was you. “Just… do it.”
It wasn’t controlling. It wasn’t harsh. It sounded like a habit he didn’t realize he had: check in, make sure she’s okay, make sure she’s still here.
Your chest tightened. “Okay,” you said, quieter now. Honest despite yourself. “I will.”
Bucky nodded once, satisfied, as if that was all he needed. As if your promise was something he could hold onto. Then, finally, he stepped back like he’d completed his mission.
You turned toward the doors, breath fogging in front of you, and took one step… then hesitated.
You looked back and he was still standing there, watching like he always did until you were inside. Your heart did that stupid, traitorous thing again, beating too hard against your ribs.
You lifted a hand in a small wave, trying to look normal, trying to ignore the fact that your fingers felt warm inside hisgloves.
Bucky lifted his hand back, subtle and restrained, but his eyes stayed on you the whole time.
And you ducked inside before you could talk yourself into circles, before you could stand there long enough to do something reckless, like walk back down the steps and ask him what the hell you were to him.
The lab greeted you with the sharp scent of bleach and metal, disinfectant hanging heavy in the air. You shrugged off your coat, hung it on the rack, slipped your goggles into place, and forced yourself back into the rhythm of the room: steady hands, precise measurements, careful data collection.
You turned toward your station, the one with the slightly crooked label and the burner that always clicked twice before it lit. Your lab partner, Riley, was already there, hair in a messy bun, sleeves shoved up, face bright with the kind of morning energy that made you distrust her.
“Hey!” Riley chirped, waving like you were meeting for brunch instead of chemistry.
You waved back, grateful for something normal. “Morning.”
Riley leaned over the bench, eyes scanning your materials like she had a radar for preparedness. “Did you bring your notebook?”
You patted your tote bag. “Always. I’m the only reason you pass.”
Riley grinned, shameless. “True.”
That made you laugh, and for half a second you felt like yourself again, like you could just slide into the routine and let your brain go quiet. You both started setting up: measuring, labeling, filling small beakers with precise amounts of solution. You wrote your names on a strip of lab tape and stuck it to the glassware.
Normally, you loved this part, the rhythm of it. Hands busy, mind narrowing down to a single point. The satisfaction of order: numbers, measurements, exactness. Lab work was one of the few places your brain could be loud without being chaotic.
But today your thoughts kept drifting like static, like a radio station you couldn’t tune out.
Bucky standing at the science building steps, still watching you when you turned back. Bucky’s quiet voice: Just… do it.Bucky’s gloves on your hands, now folded in your tote like a secret you couldn’t put down.
You shook your head once, sharp, like you could physically dislodge it.
Focus.
Riley was mid-sentence about your TA, something about the man’s obsession with “proper labeling” and “not treating acid like juice”, when a voice cut in from the station beside you, murmuring your name like it belonged in his mouth.
“Hey… that’s you, right?”
You glance over and another classmate, Ethan Calder, tall, sandy-haired, always wearing a hoodie like it was glued to him, stood by the neighboring bench with a smile that was trying a little too hard. He sat two rows behind you in one of your lecture classes. He’d asked you for notes once and now laughed too loudly at your jokes since.
“Yeah,” you said, polite. “Hey.”
Ethan’s smile brightened like you’d just rewarded him. He leaned an elbow on the counter, casual and rehearsed, like he’d seen someone do it in a movie and decided it counted as charm.
“Didn’t know you were a morning person,” he said, tone light.
You blinked. “I’m not.”
He laughed, like that was delightful. “That’s kind of cute.”
Your stomach twisted.
Not because Ethan was doing anything wrong, he wasn’t. He was flirting, harmlessly, the way college guys did when they thought they had an opening.
But the word cute landed on your skin like an ill-fitting sweater. Scratchy. Wrong. A label you didn’t want.
Ethan kept going, undeterred. “You always seem… chill,” he said, gaze lingering in a way that made your shoulders want to tense. “Like you’ve got your life together.”
You stared at him for a beat. My life together?
Your life was held together by color-coded planners, caffeine, and the sheer determination not to disappoint people. But sure. If that looked like “together” from the outside, maybe everyone else was worse off than you thought.
“Uh,” you said, trying to steer it back to neutral ground, “I just… write everything down.”
Ethan nodded like that was adorable, like the idea of you being organized was part of his fantasy. “Maybe you could write my number down.”
Riley made a very unfortunate choking sound that could’ve been interpreted as a cough if the universe was kind and your face went hot instantly.
Ethan smiled, pleased with himself. “Unless you’re seeing someone.”
The question should’ve been easy. You should’ve smiled, said no thanks, kept it polite. It would’ve slid off you like water. You’ve brushed off flirting before, deflected, redirected.
Except your brain didn’t stay in the present, no, instead it immediately supplied Bucky.
Bucky’s face at the coffee shop. Bucky stepping to your side like he belonged there. Bucky adjusting your tote strap without thinking, like touching you was instinct. Bucky giving you gloves as if keeping you warm was as natural as breathing.
Your mouth opened… and nothing came out.
Because if you said no, it felt like lying. And if you said yes, you didn’t know who you’d be talking about.
Ethan’s smile faltered slightly. “Or… are you?”
You forced a small laugh, light and awkward. “I’m… not really looking to—”
“That’s fair,” Ethan said quickly, eager to recover, but then he added, softer, like he thought this was romantic: “I could change your mind.”
Your skin prickled. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t cruel. It was the kind of line people said when they thought persistence was attractive, but it made something in you recoil. Not because he was scary… but because he wasn’t Bucky.
And that was the problem. That was the sudden, horrifying clarity of it.
You didn’t want attention like this from someone else. You didn’t want to be someone’s new interest, someone’s casual flirt, someone’s challenge. You didn’t want to be looked at like a prize. You wanted—
You froze. Because your brain finished the sentence before you could stop it.
You wanted Bucky.
The thought landed clean and undeniable, like a door slamming shut. Your breath caught in your chest and your hands, holding a test tube, went suddenly too still.
You swallowed past the tightness, forcing your voice steady the way you did when you were trying not to shake.
“Ethan,” you said, calm but firm, “you’re nice, but… no.”
Ethan blinked. “No?”
You nodded, firmer now. “No.”
He stared at you for a beat like he wasn’t used to being shut down without softness. Then he lifted his hands, backing off. “Okay. Got it. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you said, because you were always fine, always polite, always smoothing edges even when you didn’t owe it.
Ethan retreated to his station, cheeks a little pink, posture a little smaller, and the air around you finally loosened.
Riley leaned in, whispering, “Was that—”
“Don’t,” you hissed.
Riley held up both hands. “I was going to say ‘was that uncomfortable’ but okay.”
You exhaled sharply through your nose and focused on the beakers because if you looked at Riley’s face for one more second you might actually scream.
They worked in silence for a few minutes: measure, pour, record, repeat. Your hands moved on autopilot. Your mind, meanwhile, was in full catastrophe.
Why did that feel so wrong?
Because you didn’t like Ethan, that was normal, but it wasn’t just dislike.
It was… comparison. Immediate, involuntary comparison. Ethan’s smile against Bucky’s quiet warmth. Ethan’s practiced charm against Bucky’s raw sincerity. Ethan trying to impress you versus Bucky never trying at all and still somehow being the person you wanted most.
Your throat tightened again.
You’d been telling yourself for years that what you felt for Bucky was friendship.
You’d told herself the warmth in your chest when he smiled was normal. That the jealousy you felt when other girls laughed too hard at his jokes was just protectiveness. That the way you always noticed him first in a room was just because he was your person.
But Ethan had flirted with you for thirty seconds and all you could think was: I want Bucky.
Your hand steadied the burette like it was the only thing keeping you upright, eyes locked on the meniscus because if you looked up you might actually fall apart in front of fluorescent lights and twelve other people in goggles. You counted drops. You breathed through your nose. You pretended the tightness in your chest was just anxiety about the lab report.
Riley nudged you lightly with an elbow. “You okay?”
You blinked hard, refocusing on the liquid levels like your life depended on it. “Yep.”
Riley’s eyes flicked to your face, immediately unimpressed. “That was a ‘no’ disguised as a ‘yep.’”
Your laugh came out too sharp, more of a bark than a laugh, the kind that was all edges. “I’m fine.”
Riley narrowed her eyes like she could see straight through your skull. “Did Ethan bother you?”
You hesitated, because the truth wasn’t that Ethan bothered you. He was fine. He was normal. He was what flirting was supposed to look like in college: harmless lines, easy confidence, a little too much charm.
He’d held up a mirror for half a second, and you’d seen what you’d been refusing to look at, what your body already knew, what your mind had been trying to outrun.
You shook your head quickly. Too quickly. “No. He’s—he’s harmless.”
Riley didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just waited, patient in the way only someone who knows you well can be.
You stared at the data sheet until the numbers blurred into gray lines, swallowing thickly. And then, so quietly it barely registered over the lab noise, you whispered, “I think I’m screwed.”
Riley’s eyebrows lifted. “Academically or emotionally?”
A sound escaped you, half laugh, half broken exhale. “Both.”
Riley’s expression softened immediately, the teasing draining out of her face. “Hey…”
Your fingers tightened around your pen until it dug into your grip. “I didn’t like it.”
“Okay,” Riley said, gentle. “That’s allowed.”
“No, I mean—” You swallowed hard, throat tight in a way that made your eyes sting for the stupidest reason. “I didn’t like it because it wasn’t… him.”
Riley went still.
And you hated that your body betrayed you in real time, the heat crawling up your neck, the ache behind your ribs like something deep had been pulled awake, the way your breath turned shallow like you’d just run up stairs.
Riley’s voice dropped. “Bucky.”
You didn’t answer, because saying his name out loud felt like stepping off a cliff.
Riley’s face did that slow, dawning thing people do when the last gear finally clicks. “Oh my God.”
You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second. “Don’t say it like that.”
Riley’s whisper was reverent yet delighted, like she’d just discovered a secret romance in the margins of your life. “You like him.”
Your eyes snapped open. “No.”
Riley stared at you. “Dude,” she said, flatly.
Your throat bobbed. “I mean—I don’t know. We’re just—”
Riley held your gaze with the quiet endurance of someone watching a friend lie to themselves in slow motion.
“I didn’t want Ethan to ask for my number,” you admitted, your voice cracking with honesty as the words came rushing out. “I didn’t want anyone else to… want me like that. It felt wrong.” You inhaled shakily. “And then all I could think about was—” Your stomach rolled. “How Bucky looks at me.”
Riley’s mouth softened. “How does he look at you?”
You stared at the beaker like it contained the answer and if you stared long enough, the solution would change color and give you clarity. But the truth was already there, bright and unavoidable.
He looked at you like he was holding back, like he was always one breath away from doing something reckless.
Like he was trying to be good, trying to be careful, trying not to ruin what you had, while still orbiting you like gravity.
Like he wasn’t just watching you… he was keeping you.
Your voice came out on a whisper that scared you with how true it sounded.
“Like I’m his.”
Riley’s eyes widened.
Your heart thudded, loud in your ears. Because now that you’d said it, you couldn’t un-know it. And worse? You realized you wanted it to be true.
You wanted to be his. Not in some dramatic, possessive, unhealthy way. In that quiet, steady way Bucky did everything, like care could be a constant and safety could be a person.
The thought terrified you so badly your hands shook, the pen wobbling against the page.
Riley reached out and touched your wrist lightly, grounding you. “Okay,” she murmured. “Breathe. You’re not dying.”
You let out a shaky exhale. “It feels like I am.”
Riley’s eyes flicked to your phone on the counter. “Didn’t you say he walked you here?”
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
“And he told you to text him when you’re done.”
Your chest tightened again, because you’d almost forgotten, you’d been too busy unraveling. Riley gave you a look that was gentle but firm, the kind that didn’t let you run away from yourself. “Text him when lab ends,” she said.
You nodded, even though the idea of seeing Bucky now, knowing what you knew, feeling what you felt, made your stomach flip violently.
You finished the lab on autopilot. You recorded numbers. Cleaned glassware. Put equipment away. Smiled at the TA like you weren’t internally combusting. When the final timer beeped, relief hit you so hard you almost swayed.
Around you, the room loosened. Students started filtering out in clumps, noise swelling as people tugged off goggles and complained about the assignment, their voices overlapping into that familiar post-lab chaos.
You wiped your hands on a paper towel, tossed it, and reached for your phone with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, your screen lighting up. Your stomach flipped like it recognized what was about to happen and you stared at the screen like it might bite.
Your thumb hovered over Bucky’s contact for a second. You swallowed hard, pulse thumping in your throat and you typed before you could chicken out.
You: Done. Survived. Barely.
You hit send… and then you just stood there, heart pounding, staring at “Delivered,” because suddenly you couldn’t remember how to be casual with the boy you’d been casual with for years.
Riley nudged your shoulder gently, snapping you back into your body. “You okay?”
You blinked and realized you were holding your breath. Your hand was still hovering midair, phone clenched like a lifeline.
“No,” you whispered honestly, because you were past pretending now. “I’m not.”
Riley’s mouth quirked, sympathetic and smug at the same time. “Welcome to having feelings.”
You let out a small, shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t on the verge of panic.
Your phone stayed silent for one awful second. Then two. Your chest tightened.
Because now that you’d realized it, now that you’d said it out loud, even if only to Riley… there was no going back to just friends.
Not when your body reacted to him like this. Not when the thought of someone else flirting with you made your skin crawl. Not when being “casual” suddenly felt like standing on a fault line pretending the earth wasn’t moving beneath your feet.
Your phone buzzed in your hand, startling you out of your spiraling thoughts.
Bucky: Where are you coming out?
Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like your organs shifted.
Because… of course he was asking that.
Because he hadn’t actually said he’d be waiting, he’d just quietly built it into his day like a fact. Like your lab ending meant his next step was to be wherever you came out.
You swallowed, fingers suddenly clumsy on the screen, and typed back.
You: East doors. By the stairs.
The response came so fast it almost felt like he’d been holding the phone, waiting for it.
Bucky: Okay.
You shoved your phone into your tote, forced your face into something neutral, and started packing up the last of your things while Riley watched you with the kind of expression you wore when your friend was actively walking into a romcom plot.
The hallway outside the lab was crowded with students spilling out in little clusters, chattering about assignments or complaining about rubrics as you walked around them with your head down, moving with purpose.
Then you saw him, standing near the east doors like he’d been placed there on purpose.
Hands in his jacket pockets. Shoulders loose but alert. Hair slightly messy, like he’d run his fingers through it and forgotten to fix it after. That familiar, contained stillness that made him look like he’d been carved out of calm.
But the second his eyes found you… something in him eased. Not dramatic, just a subtle softening in his mouth, in his gaze, like tension he’d been holding finally released. He pushed off the wall and started toward you, closing the distance with that steady, unhurried stride of his.
And then, because the universe loved torment, Ethan appeared at your elbow like a poorly-timed jump scare, sliding into your path with the kind of confidence that only came from not realizing you were currently hanging on by a thread.
“Hey,” Ethan said, too smooth, matching your stride like it was the most natural thing in the world. “About earlier—”
Your skin prickled instantly. Not fear, not dread, just that full-body nope, the reflexive recoil of your nervous system when it recognized a situation you did not have the bandwidth for.
You didn’t want to do this again. Not in a hallway full of people. Not while you were still trying to pretend your life hadn’t tilted on its axis. Not with Bucky ten feet away, walking toward you, and your heart already sprinting like it knew.
“I meant what I said,” you replied, polite but firm. “No.”
Ethan blinked, then lifted both hands like you’d just pointed a weapon at him and he wanted you to know he was harmless. “I know,” he said quickly. “I just—listen, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”
The hallway swelled around you: voices, laughter, the squeak of shoes, the faint beep of a door mechanism. People streamed past in clumps, talking over each other, and you could feel your pulse in your throat like your body was trying to make itself heard.
“Okay,” you said, careful. “Thanks for saying that.”
Ethan nodded, and instead of stopping there like a normal person, he kept walking with you, still at your elbow, still in your space, still acting like proximity was something he was entitled to.
“So… no hard feelings?” he asked, as if the conversation needed to continue. As if he could negotiate his way back into comfort.
You opened your mouth to answer, but then Bucky reached you.
He didn’t wedge himself between you and Ethan. He didn’t square up or puff out his chest or do anything dramatic. He simply stepped into the space on your other side, close enough that the air around you changed. Like a warm wall appeared. Like your body recognized him and settled on instinct.
And Ethan, without even realizing he was doing it, drifted half a step away.
Bucky’s gaze flicked once to Ethan, quick and assessing, before landing on you like Ethan didn’t exist. Like you were the only thing that mattered.
“You okay?” Bucky asked quietly.
Your brain stuttered for a second before you nodded, a bit too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Bucky held your eyes for a second longer than necessary, like he was deciding whether to believe you. Like he could see the little crack in your “fine” and he wasn’t sure yet whether to push.
Then he shifted his attention just slightly to Ethan.
Ethan cleared his throat, suddenly aware of his own existence. “Hey, man.”
Bucky gave a short nod. “Hey.”
A beat of silence sat between them and you could practically hear Ethan recalculating his odds, his confidence shrinking by degrees. His gaze flicked from Bucky to you, then back, trying to read the situation like it was a test question he hadn’t studied for.
Ethan’s smile returned, smaller now, edges a little forced. “So you two are…?”
Your heart jumped into your throat, but Bucky didn’t look at you when he answered, didn’t glance at you for permission, didn’t hesitate. He just said it, calm and sure: “She’s with me.”
Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt. Not because it was a lie… but because it didn’t feel like one.
Ethan blinked, thrown off-balance. “Oh.”
Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yeah.”
Ethan’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to clarify or try to save face. But then he looked at Bucky again and thought better of it. “Okay,” Ethan said quickly, backing off with an awkward half-laugh. “Cool. My bad. Have a good one.”
He peeled away into the crowd, disappearing into the hallway noise like he’d never been there.
And you just… stood there, frozen in the hallway while the world kept moving around you. Students streamed past in waves. A girl laughed loudly behind you. Someone complained about the lab report. The doors hissed open, letting in a bite of cold air, then shut again.
But everything sounded muffled, like your hearing had dipped underwater.
Bucky turned back to you like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just taken your entire nervous system and shaken it.
“Let’s go,” he said gently. “It’s cold.”
Your voice came out too soft, almost fragile. “Bucky…”
He paused immediately, like your tone hooked him by the spine. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice quiet.
You didn’t know what to say, you just knew that a warm, traitorous part of you had liked it.
Liked the way Ethan had backed off without argument.
Liked the way Bucky had been effortless about it.
Liked the way he hadn’t asked you if it was okay first, because he’d read you, decided you didn’t have the bandwidth, and stepped in.
Liked the way it made you feel… chosen.
You swallowed hard, forcing your brain to function. “You didn’t have to do that,” you managed.
“Say… that.” You made a helpless little gesture in the air, fingers fluttering like you could physically wave the sentence away. “The… with me thing.”
Bucky stared at you for a second, like he genuinely didn’t understand why it was a big deal. Then his jaw shifted subtly, the smallest tell you’d learned to recognize over years of knowing him. Not anger or irritation, but something more like restraint.
“He was bothering you,” he said simply.
You blinked, thrown off. “He wasn’t— I mean, kind of, but—”
Bucky’s gaze sharpened, not at you, never at you, but like he was focusing in, narrowing down to the truth you were trying to dodge. “You didn’t like it.”
Your chest tightened. Because he wasn’t just guessing, he knew. Not in a dramatic, mind reading way, but in the way he always knew things about you.
You tried to laugh it off, because laughing was safer than letting your throat go tight like it wanted to. “You’re psychic now?”
Bucky’s mouth twitched once, the hint of humor faint and fleeting. “No.”
And then, quieter, like he was admitting something he didn’t usually say out loud: “I pay attention.”
The words hit you like a punch to the ribs.
You looked away quickly, because if you kept staring at him you were going to do something insane, something that would change the entire shape of your life like grab his sleeve and ask him what he meant by she’s with me.
You pushed through the doors into the cold with him. The wind met you immediately, biting at your cheeks, threading through your hair, slipping under the edges of your coat like it had a personal vendetta. You instinctively hunched and Bucky, without thinking, angled his body slightly on your side.
Not dramatically or obviously, just enough that the wind hit his shoulder first instead of yours.
Your fingers curled around your tote strap until your knuckles went pale under the knit gloves. Your heart wouldn’t calm down, pounding violently in your chest like it didn’t know how to be normal anymore.
You walked in silence for a minute. Not an awkward silence, exactly. Just… full. Packed with everything neither of you was saying.
Finally, the question bubbled up and spilled out before you could talk yourself out of it. “How did you know I didn’t like it?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes forward, scanning the walkway out of habit like he was still half in protector mode even though the biggest threat on campus was probably a rogue scooter.
His silence stretched just long enough to make your stomach dip, and when he did answer, his voice was low. “Because you smile different when you’re uncomfortable.”
Your throat went dry so fast it felt like someone had turned off a faucet. You swallowed, trying to force your voice back into something normal. “That’s… weirdly specific.”
Bucky shrugged, but his shoulders were tense like he’d said too much, like he’d let something slip past the walls he kept up around everyone else.
“I told you,” he said quietly. “I pay attention.”
And your brain, which had already been cracked open all morning, just… spiraled.
He notices my smiles. He knows the difference. He knows my uncomfortable smile. He knows me.
You stared at the path ahead like it might offer a lifeline. You needed something normal. Something you could grab onto that wouldn’t make your ribs ache.
“So,” you said, forcing lightness into your voice like you were shoving a smile onto a bruise, “do you just hang out outside my classes now? Like a campus security guard?”
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. It was small, but it was real. “No.”
You arched a brow. “Because it kind of feels like yes.”
“I was already up,” he said again, like that explained everything.
Your stomach twisted, the humor slipping away. “Why?” you asked, softer without meaning to be. You had brushed it off earlier but now it was going to nag at you. “Why didn’t you sleep?”
Bucky’s hands stayed buried in his pockets. His jaw was tight, a muscle shifting once as if he was grinding something down, and for a second you thought he might dodge. Thought he’d give you something vague and safe: had stuff on my mind, just couldn’t, it’s fine.
But then he said it, very quietly, like it slipped out before he could stop it.
“I didn’t like what Steve said last night.”
Your breath caught. “What did he say?” you asked, your stomach dropping to your feet as you could only imagine what Steve might’ve said.
“He said…” Bucky’s voice dropped, rougher than before. “If we’re just friends, he can… talk to you.”
Your heart slammed so hard it felt like it knocked air out of your lungs. For a second, the campus noise blurred, all of the chatter turned into background static as the sentence rearranged itself inside your head into something sharper.
Because Steve wasn’t a threat. Steve was Steve. But the idea had landed somewhere deep in Bucky and set off something instinctive.
And suddenly everything clicked into one clean, terrifying line: Bucky had come to campus because Steve’s joke had hit something real in him. He’d come because the thought of someone else having access to you made him restless.
He’d come because… Because he didn’t want to share.
You forced your voice steady. “And that bothered you?”
Bucky’s shoulders went rigid for half a second like your question hit the exact spot he’d been trying not to press, before he muttered, rough and blunt, “Yeah.”
Your pulse went so loud you could hear it in your ears, a frantic drumbeat that didn’t match the slow winter morning at all. “Why?” you asked, barely above a whisper, the word sound almost like a plea.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second and then snapped back to your eyes. His voice came out low. Careful. Measured like each word was something he had to decide to let go of.
“Because I—”
Your name being shouted from across the quad interrupted Bucky.
You turned on instinct, heart still lodged in your throat, and saw Sam jogging toward you from the sidewalk, one arm lifted in an enthusiastic wave. He was moving with that unmistakable Sam energy, loud even when he wasn’t speaking yet. Steve followed behind him at an annoyingly calm pace, moving like a man who had never once in his life been late to anything.
Beside you, Bucky’s posture changed, subtle, but immediate. His shoulders shifted, his stance angling a fraction closer to yours, like his body had decided to make you a safe point without asking permission first.
“There you are!” he said, slightly out of breath, grin wide. “Steve said he saw you earlier and I was like—”
He cut himself off mid-sentence as his eyes finally took in the scene properly: the proximity, Bucky’s position, your flushed face, the fact that you and Bucky looked like you’d been in the middle of something serious.
Sam’s grin sharpened into something gleeful and dangerous. “Ohhhh.”
Steve stopped beside Sam, gaze flicking between you and Bucky, taking in the distance between your shoulders, the way Bucky’s body was angled toward you, the slight tension in Bucky’s jaw like he was clenching down on words.
Steve’s smile was gentle. Not smug, just… knowing. “Well,” he said, like he was commenting on the weather, “this looks familiar.”
Heat flooded your face so fast you could’ve powered the entire science building. Bucky looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot.
Sam’s grin widened until it bordered on feral. “Oh my God.”
You cleared your throat violently, because if you didn’t make some sound you were going to combust. “Hi, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes sparkled with chaos, gaze bouncing between you and Bucky like he was watching live entertainment. “Hi,” he said brightly. “Are we interrupting something?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Yes,” he said flatly.
You and Steve both spoke at the exact same time. “No.”
Sam blinked, then slowly turned his head between the three of you like a referee. “That,” he said, delighted, “is a lie from at least two of you.”
You wanted to disappear into the concrete. Melt right into the sidewalk. Become one with the campus landscaping.
Bucky’s gaze flicked to you briefly and you could see the frustration, felt it like a touch. Not angry at you, but annoyed at the interruption. And even more annoyed at himself for almost saying something he couldn’t take back.
Because you could still feel it… the way he’d looked at you right before Sam showed up, the way his voice had dipped.
You couldn’t unfeel the sentence he’d been about to say. And you couldn’t ignore the sick little flip in your stomach when you realized:
Whatever Bucky had been about to tell you… It mattered.
Later that evening, you tried to be normal about it. You really did.
You went home, kicked your shoes off by the door like you always did, washed your hands like you’d been handling radioactive material, scrubbed under your nails, tied your hair up, made yourself a sad little dinner that consisted of a microwaved frozen dinner, a slice of toast, a handful of grapes you ate standing at the counter because sitting down felt like admitting you were home alone with your thoughts.
You even opened your laptop, even pulled up your lab notes, even stared at them long enough to pretend you were reading.
But the words might as well have been written in another language because your brain refused to care about molarity when it was busy replaying Bucky’s voice like a cursed audio loop.
She’s with me.
I didn’t like what Steve said last night.
Because I—
You pressed your palms to your eyes until you saw stars.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t known Bucky was… protective, he always had been. In ways that were easy to explain away if you kept your eyes half-closed and your heart on mute.
He walked you to your car. He waited until you got inside. He kept an eye on your drink at parties. He texted when you got home, sometimes hours later, like the worry came for him in waves.
You had always filed it under best friend behavior, because if you didn’t file it there, you’d have to file it somewhere much more dangerous.
Somewhere that asked you questions like:
Why does your heart do that when he looks at you?
Why do you hate it when he laughs with other girls?
Why did “she’s with me” make you feel… safe?
You groaned into your hands and slumped down onto the couch.
Your apartment was quiet in that particular way that made your thoughts louder. The window beside your couch showed a slice of campus life: students crossing the sidewalk, headlights in the dusk, the occasional burst of laughter.
You felt like you were trapped behind glass.
Your phone buzzed on the coffee table and you snatched it up so fast you nearly dropped it.
Bucky: You good?
You stared at the screen until your eyes stung. Because that was his favorite question. Like he could feel when you weren’t.
You typed back, deleted it, typed again, erased half the words and tried to make the lie look smaller.
You: Yeah.
You hated the lie the second you sent it.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again, like he was choosing his words carefully.
Bucky: Okay.
Bucky: You got my gloves?
You set your phone down like it was too heavy and opened your tote bag. Your fingers found the simple, black knit immediately. They were soft from use, warm in the way fabric got warm when it lived near someone’s skin. You turned them over in your hands like you might find an explanation stitched into the seams.
Your thumb brushed the inside cuff and caught on something. You frowned, pinching the fabric between your fingers and pulling it open. There was a little stitched tag on the inside with a name written in black ink like someone had labeled them carefully.
BUCKY
Your chest cracked open.
Of course he’d labeled them. Of course he’d kept track of them. Of course there was no such thing as an “extra pair” that just happened to be in his pocket the exact day you forgot yours.
He’d brought them for you, like he’d been prepared to take care of you before you even realized you needed it.
You stared at the name until you went a little dizzy, your vision blurring at the edges.
Stop, you told yourself. Stop being dramatic.
But your mind wouldn’t stop pulling at every thread, because now that you’d seen it, it was everywhere.
You swallowed hard, staring at your phone again like it might save you as your thumb hovered over Bucky’s name. You could call. You could text. You could pretend this was fine.
But it wasn’t fine. You didn’t do well with limbo, never had. It ate you alive.
And Bucky… Bucky was your best friend.
If this was going to change, you needed it to change on purpose, not in pieces, not in half sentences and interrupted almost-confessions and Steve and Sam showing up like the universe’s worst timing.
You needed to know if you had just imagined the whole thing… or if Bucky Barnes had almost admitted something that would rearrange your entire life.
You stood abruptly, like your body decided before your brain did. You paced the living room once, then twice, the gloves still in your hand like a stupid little talisman.
Your phone buzzed again.
Bucky: If you’re not, just say that.
You stopped mid-step, your throat tightening so hard it felt like swallowing glass.
He knew your “yeah” was a lie because he knew your voice even through text. Because he knew how you dodged when you were unraveling. Because he’d been paying attention for so long you didn’t even know what parts of you belonged only to you anymore.
You stared at the message for a long beat, chest rising and falling too fast. Then you typed before fear could talk you out of it.
You: I’m not.
The response came so fast it felt like he’d been waiting with his phone in his hand the whole time.
Bucky: Want me to come over?
Your pulse spiked as you imagined Bucky in your apartment, in this quiet space where there was nowhere to hide. You imagined him sitting on your couch, those steady eyes on you, his voice low and careful.
It made you feel like you might combust.
You swallowed, fingers trembling.
You: No.
You: I’m coming to you.
There was a pause. Not long, but long enough for you to imagine him reading it, blinking, sitting up straighter.
Bucky: Okay.
Bucky: Door’s open.
That did something to you, something soft and devastating. Like he’d been waiting for you all along.
You grabbed your coat without thinking, shoved your feet back into your boots, and headed out the door before you could reconsider.
The walk across campus was cold and surreal, streetlights pooling pale gold on the sidewalks. Your breath came out in nervous little clouds. The air smelled like winter, sharp, clean, faintly like smoke from someone’s distant cigarette.
Every step made your stomach tighten.
Because what if you were wrong? What if Bucky had been protecting you because that’s what he did and you were about to embarrass yourself in the most catastrophic way possible?
But then you remembered the gloves. The name inside them. And the way his voice had gone low and rough when he said he didn’t like Steve’s joke.
Your heart pounded harder.
Bucky’s building was only a few blocks away, but it felt like a mile by the time you made it there.
The stairwell smelled faintly like someone’s laundry detergent and old carpet. Your boots thudded softly as you climbed, the sound too loud in the quiet. Your hands were numb by the time you reached his floor and stopped outside his door.
You lifted your fist… and hesitated. Because this was it. This was the moment where you either saved your friendship by pretending nothing had happened… or risked everything by naming it.
You exhaled shakily, then knocked.
The door opened almost immediately, as if he’d been standing on the other side waiting for the exact moment you decided you were brave.
Bucky stood there in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp like he’d showered recently. He looked… tense, like he’d been pacing, like he’d been trying to burn nervous energy off with movement and failing.
His eyes found you and something in his expression eased. Relief. Quick and raw and so obvious it nearly broke you.
“Hey,” he said, voice low.
You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “Hey.”
For a half second neither of you moved. Then Bucky stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”
You walked in on legs that felt slightly unsteady, like your body was moving a beat behind your mind.
Bucky shut the door behind you, the click of the latch loud in the stillness.
You turned to face him and for a moment you just… looked at each other. Best friends, standing a little too close. Two people on the edge of something neither of you had wanted to name until the universe forced your hand.
Bucky’s eyes tracked your face the way they always did, like he was checking for damage, like he could read your mood in microexpressions you didn’t even know you made. Your throat tightened at the thought.
Your voice came out shaky despite your best efforts. “What were you about to say.”
Bucky blinked once, like your bluntness snapped him out of whatever careful script he’d been trying to build in his head. “What?”
You dug into your coat pocket and pulled out the gloves, holding them up between you like evidence. “These,” you said, breathy. “The ‘extra pair’ you just happened to have. With your name written inside.”
Bucky’s ears went pink instantly, the color creeping up like betrayal. His jaw flexed once, and his gaze flicked away to the side toward the kitchen, toward the counter, toward literally anything that wasn’t your eyes.
“You were about to say something today,” you continued, forcing yourself to keep going before you lost the nerve. “Outside the quad. You said… you didn’t like what Steve said.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
You stepped closer, just enough to make it impossible to pretend this was casual. “And then you said ‘because I—’” your voice cracked on the last word. “And you stopped.”
Bucky finally looked back at you, his eyes serious and unguarded in a way that made you feel like you’d stepped too close to the edge of something sharp. He breathed in slowly through his nose, controlled and measured, like he was trying to keep himself steady.
“I need you to tell me what that was,” you said quietly. “Because I’ve been spiraling for six hours and I’m either insane or… you meant something.”
Bucky’s throat bobbed as he looked down for a second, like he couldn’t bear the weight of your gaze, then back up at you. When he spoke, it wasn’t your question he answered first.
He said your name, rough and low, like saying it hurt.
You didn’t flinch. You lifted the gloves slightly, your hands trembling. “Tell me,” you whispered.
Bucky stared at you like the truth was something fragile in his hands. Then he exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath for years.
“I meant it,” he said.
Your chest tightened. “Meant what.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to your mouth, quick and involuntary, then snapped back up to your eyes like he hated himself for it.
“When I said you were with me,” he said quietly. He took a step closer, closing the space between you until you could feel his warmth like heat rolling off a radiator.
His voice dropped, softer but more dangerous somehow. “I didn’t say it to scare you,” he said. “Or to… make you feel trapped.”
You shook your head quickly. “I didn’t—”
“I know.” His words cut in gently, not harsh, just urgent, like he needed you to understand this part. “But I need you to hear me anyway.”
His hands stayed at his sides, fists loose but clenched enough to show he didn’t trust himself to reach for you.
“I said it because the idea of someone else—” Bucky stopped, jaw working, like he was fighting himself for control over the sentence. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Because I don’t like it.”
Your heartbeat was so loud in your ears it felt like it filled the whole apartment. “Don’t like what?” you whispered, even though you knew.
Bucky’s gaze held yours, steady and raw. “I don’t like anyone thinking they can have you,” he said, voice low. “Like you’re… available. Like you’re a thing they can just try for.”
Your breath hitched. The words shouldn’t have sounded as intimate as they did. They shouldn’t have made your chest ache like relief… but they did.
Bucky’s eyes went a little darker, not with anger, not really, but more like restraint straining at the edges. Like he was trying to keep himself from stepping over a line he’d drawn for himself years ago.
“And I know that’s not—” he swallowed again. “I know I don’t get to decide that. I know you’re not mine.”
Your eyes burned. Because the words hurt in a way that didn’t make sense.
You’re not mine.
You hated it.
Bucky’s voice broke just slightly and it was the crack in it that shattered you more than anything. “But I want you to be.”
Silence stretched between you like a held breath, too big for the room, too heavy for your ribs. Your chest went tight, as if your lungs forgot how to work. Bucky’s eyes looked almost panicked now, the kind of panic that didn’t match his size or his stillness, like he’d said too much and was about to start taking it back.
“Shit,” he said quickly, words tumbling out rough and hurried. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t— I—”
He started to shift, shoulders pulling inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, like he was about to back away and put space between you before you could reject him, but you stepped forward and grabbed his wrist before he could.
Bucky froze, his eyes snapping to where your fingers wrapped around him.
Your voice came out small. “I didn’t like it,” you admitted.
Bucky’s brow furrowed, pain flashing so fast it made your stomach twist. “I—”
“No,” you rushed, tightening your hold just a fraction, not to restrain him but to anchor him. “Not… not what you said. Not you.”
You swallowed hard, throat tight. “I didn’t like it when Ethan flirted with me today,” you said, the words feeling like an electric shock to your nervous system. “Because it wasn’t you.”
Bucky went completely still.
“I realized it in lab today,” you whispered. “And it scared the hell out of me.”
Bucky stared at you like you’d just handed him oxygen. Your name left his lips on a breathless whisper, soft and disbelieving, like he needed to say it just to make sure you were real.
You laughed shakily, the sound wobbling on the edge of tears because apparently your body decided this was the moment to be dramatic. “I think I’ve liked you for a long time,” you confessed, and your voice broke on the last part, “and I just… didn’t let myself know.”
Bucky’s eyes softened so suddenly it made your heart ache. He lifted his hand slowly, like he was asking permission with every inch of movement, and brushed his knuckles along your cheek, so gentle it almost didn’t feel real.
“You’re sure?” he whispered.
The question wasn’t just about the words. It was about the jump, the change, the way there was no putting it back once you stepped over this line.
You leaned into his touch before you could stop yourself, your cheek fitting into his hand like it belonged there. “Yes,” you said.
Bucky exhaled like a prayer, then nodded once, jaw tight, like he was trying not to fall apart right in front of you. “Okay,” he murmured, and it sounded like he was telling himself as much as he was telling you. “Okay.”
Your fingers tightened around his wrist. Your voice trembled, suddenly shy in a way you hadn’t been in years. “So what now?”
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips again, slower this time. Less accidental, no longer fighting it.
“Now I kiss you,” he said softly, “if you’ll let me.”
Your breath hitched, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, in the space between your ribs.
And you didn’t even pretend to be brave, you just whispered: “Please.”
And Bucky moved, slow and careful, like he was handling something precious. Like he’d been wanting to do this for years and had forced himself not to.
His hand slid to the back of your neck, warm and steady, fingers spreading there like he’d memorized the shape of you in his head long before he ever got to touch you. He tilted his forehead to yours for a brief second, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a shaky exhale as if he needed to ground himself first.
Then his mouth found yours, soft at first. A question that you answered immediately without hesitation, your lips parting, your hand still holding his wrist like you were afraid he’d think this wasn’t real and pull away.
Bucky made a sound in the back of his throat, low and wrecked, as the kiss deepened with all the restraint he’d been holding back finally slipping loose.
You rose onto your toes without thinking, needing to be closer, needing to meet him fully. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his t-shirt like you needed proof he was solid and warm and not just a daydream you’d tortured yourself with.
Bucky’s hand tightened protectively at the back of your neck, pulling you in that last inch like he couldn’t stand the space anymore.
It wasn’t frantic, it was inevitable. The kind of kiss that rewrote the past. That made every late night “drive safe,” every tote strap adjustment, every “text me when you’re done” suddenly glow with new meaning.
When he finally pulled back, it was only an inch. His forehead stayed close to yours, his hand still at your neck like he was anchoring you both to the same reality. His eyes searched your face, as if he was checking for regret and finding none.
His voice came out rough, almost shaken. “Hi,” he murmured, like he was meeting you for the first time.
“Hi,” you breathed back, smiling through the residual tremble in your lips. “Took you long enough.” The words came out like a joke, but they landed like truth.
Because you could still feel him, still feel the warmth of his mouth on yours, the careful way he’d kissed you like you were something fragile and holy and real. Not a moment he’d stolen. A moment he’d waited for.
And now… now he was just looking at you like he didn’t know what to do with the fact that you were standing in his apartment and you’d said yes and the world hadn’t ended.
His chest rose and fell slow, controlled, but his hands were giving him away, hovering just above your waist like he couldn’t decide whether he was allowed to touch you again. Like he was holding himself back by force, braced on a thin line of restraint.
You watched his throat move when he swallowed, watched his gaze flick from your eyes to your mouth and back again like it hurt.
“You’re… really here,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You let out a soft breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Yeah, Buck. I’m here.”
His eyes softened, relief and disbelief tangling together, like he’d been preparing for you to change your mind at any second.
Your voice came out quieter, gentler, because you could see how hard he was trying to be careful. “Are you going to kiss me again,” you asked, heart thudding, “or…?”
Bucky huffed a low laugh, quiet and disbelieving, like you’d just handed him permission he didn’t trust himself to want.
Then he stepped in like the floor gave way beneath him. His hands found your waist gently, thumbs brushing the hem of your shirt. He leaned in, and this time when he kissed you, it wasn’t exploratory. It wasn’t cautious.
It was yes. It was finally.
You made a soft, helpless sound into the kiss, and that was all it took. Bucky responded with a quiet, almost desperate shift of his body, tilting his head, deepening the kiss with purpose. With hunger. With years of restraint breaking like a tide over both of you.
He kissed you like he’d been starving. Like this, like you, were something he’d wanted for so long that now, having you in his arms, was almost too much to believe.
Your hands slid up his chest, fingers fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt as he began walking you backward, not forcefully, never that, but with a steady, unspoken pull. The kind of guidance he’d always offered without words. The kind that made you feel like he’d always known how to take care of you, even now, even here.
Your back met his bedroom wall with a quiet thud, gasping softly against his lips.
Bucky froze the moment you made that sound. He pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes scanning your face with wide, protective panic.
“Too much?” he rasped, voice hoarse, already starting to pull back like he’d rather hurt himself than risk hurting you.
“No,” you whispered, your voice shaking as your fingers tugged at the front of his shirt to keep him close. “Please don’t stop.”
His eyes darkened instantly, breath catching.
“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he murmured, voice low, nose brushing yours, his hands still bracketing your waist like he was containing himself by touch alone. “Because I—” He swallowed. “I won’t be able to stop wanting you.”
You slid your hands up under his shirt, fingers meeting warm skin. The heat of him made your breath catch, His chest rising unevenly beneath your palms.
You traced the defined line of his abs, the faint scar that cut across his ribs, the familiar terrain you’d never let yourself map until now. His breath shuddered, body rocking infinitesimally closer to you like he couldn’t help it.
Your voice came out trembling, but sure. “I mean it.”
Bucky exhaled something close to a moan, a low, wrecked groan that sounded like surrender. “Fuck,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of your touch, your words, your want was too much all at once.
His hands slid beneath your shirt, palms dragging over the curve of your back, and you shivered at the heat of his skin. He kissed you again, deeper this time. Hotter. No hesitation. No fear. His mouth moved with urgency, his tongue parting your lips, teeth grazing your bottom one like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.
Your back arched with a soft moan when his fingers brushed the clasp of your bra, and he made a sound low in his chest, something primal and completely wrecked. Like he’d dreamed about this. Lived in the edges of it. And now that it was happening, he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this.
“I’ve thought about this,” he panted between kisses, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, “more times than I should admit.”
You let out a breathless laugh, light and shaky. “Tell me.”
He shook his head, kissed down the column of your throat with open-mouthed heat, nipping lightly at your pulse point as you gasped. “I’d rather show you.”
With shaking hands, you helped him pull off your sweater and bra, suddenly bare to him under the low golden light of his bedroom. You expected him to dive in hungrily, to lose control.
But Bucky didn’t move. He just stared like you were something sacred.
His breath hitched, eyes dragging over every inch of you like he was trying to memorize it. The reverence in his gaze made your whole body flush.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse with truth. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”
Your face went warm. “Stop looking at me like that.”
He blinked, confused. “Like what?”
“Like I’m going to disappear.”
His brow furrowed.
And then, so slowly, like he wanted you to feel it, he leaned in and kissed the center of your chest. Then just above your heart. Then lower, to your sternum, your collarbone, the soft swell of your breast.
“I look at you like that,” he murmured against your skin, “because I still can’t believe you’re real.”
You made a small, broken sound, a half sigh, half laugh, and reached for him with shaking hands. You pulled his shirt up and over his head, and your fingers immediately splayed across his chest.
You felt everything, the lines of his muscle, the warmth of his skin, the old scars that you’d only ever glimpsed before. Now, they were yours to learn.
“You are so—” you choked, voice cracking. “God, Bucky.”
He kissed you again before you could finish, and this one was hot. Messy. Desperate. His mouth moved like he was drowning in you. Like he didn’t know how to stop. His hands slid down your sides, over your hips, gripping tight enough to make you gasp.
“Come here,” he breathed.
You didn’t even hesitate.
He walked you backward toward the bed, guiding you with gentle pressure, and when your legs hit the edge, he caught you, lifting you just enough to lay you back like you were something precious.
Bucky hovered over you like he was afraid you might fade if he moved too fast. You reached up again, arms around his neck, legs curling around his waist, needing the contact, the heat, the pressure.
He kissed you like he wanted to know every inch of you by heart.
When his mouth finally moved down over your chest, your ribs, your stomach, you could barely breathe. He peeled your leggings down slowly, dragging his hands over every new inch of revealed skin.
Bucky looked up at you from between your thighs, hair falling into his eyes, pupils blown, lips swollen. “You still sure?” He asked, waiting.
You bit your lip and nodded, dazed, already unraveling. But he didn’t move.
“Use your words, baby,” he said softly, gently kissing the inside of your thigh. “Need to hear it.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “God, yes.”
The look he gave you, starving, reverent, almost ruined, was something you would never forget.
Then he lowered his mouth to you.
There was no urgency in him, only intention. Purpose in every movement, like he’d waited his whole life to be here and now that he was, he wasn’t going to waste a second of it.
His mouth was slow and devastating, tongue dragging in languid, sinful strokes that made your breath catch and your thighs twitch around his head. He held you down when you tried to lift your hips, just enough pressure to remind you who was in control, making your stomach flutter and your fingers clutch the sheets like they were your only tether.
Bucky learned you. Treated every gasp and every stuttered moan like gospel. He was methodical, alternating between soft, teasing licks and firm, relentless pressure that made you feel like you were unraveling from the inside out.
He groaned when your thighs clenched around him, like it turned him on just knowing how close you were.
When you pulled his hair harder than you meant to, he let out a ragged moan against your skin, the vibration sending another shudder straight through you. One of his hands slid up to lace his fingers with yours above your head, grounding you, anchoring you, holding you still as your body began to tremble beneath his mouth.
And when you finally came, loud and breathless, your back arching, eyes shut tight, voice breaking on his name… he didn’t stop.
He didn’t stop.
He slowed, yes, gentled his mouth, softened the drag of his tongue, but he didn’t stop. He coaxed you through it, easing you down from the high with care in every movement. He kissed the inside of your thigh as you shook. Pressed his cheek to your skin like he was listening to your heartbeat there. He murmured something low and sweet that you couldn’t quite hear. couldn’t think enough to make out, but it sounded like “That’s it, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
And then he crawled up your body slowly, each movement deliberate, almost languid. He kissed the soft slope of your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone, your lips. Slow and messy. Open-mouthed and gentle. Like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be but here.
You tasted yourself on his tongue and whimpered into his mouth, trembling. “Bucky,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “I need—please—”
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice rough and broken in the middle. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”
He stripped the rest of the way, pushing his sweatpants down his hips with hands that weren’t nearly as steady as he probably wanted them to be. The last barrier between you fell away and for a second he just stood there, exposed and breathing hard, eyes flicking over your body like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
You were already bare beneath him, skin flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen from his mouth.
For one blinding second, nerves flared sharp and electric in your chest. Not because you weren’t sure, but because this was real now.
No more almost. No more tension disguised as friendship. No more pretending the looks didn’t linger too long.
What if this changed everything?
Bucky’s gaze lifted to yours, vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be. Not cocky. Not smug. Not assuming.
Just… hoping.
And that’s when you knew… It already had.
He moved back between your thighs slowly, like he was stepping into something sacred rather than something physical. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like he was grounding himself.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured. “I’ll never—”
You kissed him quiet. “Please,” you whispered against his lips. “I want you.”
He groaned softly and dropped his forehead to yours. His breath mingled with yours in the quiet space between, warm and ragged. You could feel the heat of him, the solid weight of his body pressing you into the bed, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.
Then, slowly, achingly slow, he began to push into you.
The head of his cock nudged at your entrance, teasing at first, until he started to sink deeper, inch by inch. Your breath caught, a soft gasp breaking from your lips as he stretched you open, filling you with steady, unrelenting pressure. There was no rush in his movement, only worship. Like every second inside you was something sacred.
Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails grazing down his skin, trying to anchor yourself as your body trembled beneath the overwhelming sensation. Every inch he gave you felt like a new place inside you had been claimed.
He didn’t stop until he was buried fully, flush against you, his hips nestled to yours. Both of you stilled, breathless, bodies shaking under the weight of it.
His forehead rested against yours again, nose brushing yours, eyes fluttering closed. His voice was barely a whisper when it came, raw and wrecked. “Fuck… You feel like home.”
Your chest cracked wide open like a dam giving way, every nerve ending suddenly too exposed, too alive. You couldn’t get enough air. Each breath stuttered in your lungs, shallow and desperate, like your body had forgotten how to function under the weight of him.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp as you tugged him closer, like proximity alone could soothe the ache blooming hot and needy between your hips.
“Move,” you whispered, already wrecked, your voice breaking on the word. “Please… I need you.”
He groaned low in his throat, like the sound had been ripped from the center of his chest, and obeyed, rolling his hips forward devastatingly slowly.
The stretch was deep and intoxicating, the drag of him inside you so full it made your mouth fall open in a silent cry. He didn’t thrust like someone chasing release. He moved like someone memorizing you. Like someone savoring every inch.
His hips circled once before he pushed in again, deeper this time. Your back arched helplessly off the bed, breasts brushing against his chest as your thighs tightened around his waist.
“Jesus…” he breathed, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel so damn good.”
Every word vibrated between you.
He pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, slow and unhurried, and you felt every single inch. The heat. The stretch. The way your body welcomed him like it had been waiting.
You moaned openly now, unable to hold it in, your nails dragging down his back as you tried to pull him even closer, impossible as that was. “Bucky,” you sobbed softly. “Please.”
“Got you,” he rasped, kissing along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
His pace shifted, still deep, still intentional, but heavier now. Each thrust pressed into that sensitive place inside you that made your toes curl and your stomach tighten. He wasn’t frantic. He was claiming.
Every roll of his hips said I’ve wanted this.
Every slow drag said you’re mine to learn.
Every deep push said I’m not letting go.
Your legs locked tighter around him, ankles crossing at his lower back as if your body had made the decision before your brain could. You rocked up to meet him, desperate for friction, for more.
He groaned when you did that and his hands slid from your waist to grip your hips, steadying you as he began thrusting harder.
“Could live here,” he muttered against your throat, kissing and biting at the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “Die right here.”
Your body clenched at the rawness in his voice.
He kissed down your neck, tongue smoothing over the spot he’d just bitten before moving lower, dragging his mouth across your collarbone, your chest. His thrusts never faltered. Slow, powerful, stretching you open around him again and again.
The bed creaked softly beneath you. The sound of skin against skin filled the room. You could feel the slick heat of yourself coating him, feel the way he slid inside you with increasing ease, each motion sending sparks down your spine.
His name spilled from your mouth in broken, breathless sobs. Over and over. Like a mantra. Like you needed him to know exactly who was doing this to you.
“Mine,” he growled against your ear, the word rough and possessive but not demanding, just overwhelmed. “You’re mine, sunshine. Every inch.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Bucky—God—please—”
That did something to him. His hips snapped forward harder, a sharp thrust that made you cry out. His hand slid between your bodies without breaking rhythm, fingers finding your clit immediately, like he’d studied you for this moment.
He circled once, slow and precise. You jolted, your thighs trembling violently around him.
“Look at me,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours.
You forced your eyes open. His were dark, blown wide, pupils swallowing the blue. He looked wrecked. Completely undone.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he said hoarsely. “Taking me so good.”
The praise shattered whatever control you had left as your orgasm hit hard and blinding, ripping through you with a cry that broke in your throat. Your body locked up around him, clenching tight, pulsing helplessly as wave after wave tore through your core.
You shook violently beneath him.
Bucky swore, his thrusts losing their smooth rhythm as your body milked him. He pressed deeper, hips grinding against you as he worked you through it, not stopping, not pulling away.
“That’s it,” he groaned. “That’s it—come for me—”
You felt like you were falling apart, like your entire nervous system had short-circuited. Your hands clawed at his back, your legs tightening impossibly tighter as you rode out the aftershocks.
He snapped once more, deep and desperate, before he was coming too. His hips stuttered against yours, his whole body trembling as he buried himself fully inside you. A low, broken sound tore from his throat, your name spilling out with it like confession.
He held you close, so close your ribs ached, while he came undone. You felt him everywhere. The heat. The fullness. The way he pulsed inside you as he finished, forehead pressed hard to yours like he needed the anchor.
Neither of you moved for a long moment. Just breathing. Just feeling.
His face dropped into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your pulse. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves against yours, sweat-damp skin sticking together.
And when your legs loosened slightly around his waist, his arms tightened instinctively, pulling you back against him like letting space form between you wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not ever, if he could help it.
His hand slid up your back, slow and grounding, fingers threading gently through your hair as your heartbeat came down from the clouds. “You okay?” he murmured, lips brushing the skin just beneath your ear.
You nodded, still breathless, still floating. “More than okay.”
There was a beat, a moment suspended in the quiet, where the air felt thick with everything unspoken. And then it spilled from you, raw and steady, like it had been waiting all along.
“I’m in love with you,” you whispered, voice rough with truth.
Bucky’s hand stilled mid-stroke. Then he leaned in, nose brushing your temple, and breathed you in like that was the only answer he’d ever needed.
“You’re lucky,” he murmured, voice thick. “Because I’ve been gone for years.”
You blinked up at him, lips parted. And this time, when you kissed him, slow and soft and certain…
It didn’t feel like a first. It felt like forever.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky moves into your spare room expecting nothing more than four walls and a place to sleep. instead, he finds floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sticky note conversations, late-night takeout, and a girl who always puts herself last.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › roommate!bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › roommates trope, post tfatws, sticky note communication, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, many many hot dog mentions, anxiety, work stress/burnout, author has mini geek speak moments, anthropology reader, emotional intimacy, quiet romance, self-doubt, mild emotional hurt/comfort, sticky note love language, reader insecurity, loneliness, not beta read we die like men.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 11.3k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › and they were roommates.... oh my god they were roommates
The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.
Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.
He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.
Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.
He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.
“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.
“No.”
“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”
“No.”
Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.
“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”
Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”
“It ain't charity.”
“Feels like it.”
Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.
“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”
Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.
“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”
That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.
Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.
He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.
Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.
The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.
Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.
Then another message.
He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.
What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.
There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.
Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.
He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.
The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.
There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.
The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.
The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.
But it isn't the room that makes him stop.
It's the hallway.
Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.
His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.
It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.
He pulls his phone out.
Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.
The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.
It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.
He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.
That last one almost makes him smile.
He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.
Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.
He never sees you once.
The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.
Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.
There is a sticky note on the fridge.
Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.
He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.
The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.
Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.
Then another on the kitchen counter.
If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.
It's strange, living with someone he has never met.
You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.
The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.
Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.
You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.
Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.
He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.
He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.
The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.
Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”
By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.
“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”
“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.
“You keep showing up, that's on you.”
He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.
The guy asks questions constantly.
You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?
Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.
Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.
Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.
The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.
He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.
He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.
“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”
He stops just inside the doorway.
You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.
For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.
He had built you into something abstract in his head.
Not a real person.
Certainly not a woman.
Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.
Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.
The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.
You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.
“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”
Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.
You freeze.
It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.
“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.
There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.
The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.
You recover first.
“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”
“Yeah.”Brilliant move.
You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”
He looks down too. “It was the plan.”
You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”
He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.
The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.
“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”
There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.
“Don't worry about it.”
You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.
“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.
“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”
“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”
Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.
“So what do you do?”
“How are you liking the place?”
You stop. He stops.
“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.
“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”
And it is.
He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.
You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”
More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.
“And you? Were gonna say...?”
“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”
“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”
He blinks once. “Wow.”
You laugh softly at the look on his face.
“That sounds awesome.”
“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”
He leans back slightly against the doorframe.
“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”
You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.
“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”
Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.
“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”
Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.
“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”
You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.
“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”
“You leave good notes.”
The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.
Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”
You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.
“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.
A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.
The apartment feels different after he meets you.
Not immediately and nothing dramatic.
You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.
But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.
The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.
He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.
You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.
Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.
Soup is still alive. I think.
He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.
Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.
You stop when you see him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.
“Soup still alive?” you ask.
“Barely.”
You drop your bag onto a chair.
“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”
Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.
After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.
Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.
He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.
Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.
Another day:
Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.
He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.
You had one job.
Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.
Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.
You leave back:
So do I.
He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.
One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.
New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.
He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.
Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.
The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.
I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.
And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.
As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.
Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.
So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.
Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.
The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.
He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.
Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.
You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.
The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.
The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.
This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?
He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.
After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.
You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.
Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.
Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.
The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.
You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.
One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.
You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.
“Rude,” you say.
“You weren't home yet.”
“You could've texted.”
He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.
“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.
You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.
You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”
“Normal people don't have metal arms.”
That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”
Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.
You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.
He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.
You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.
The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.
Thanks for the blanket.
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
That was very disgustingly nice of you.
A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.
He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.
You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.
You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.
He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”
You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.
“Sometimes.”
“You sure?”
“Not particularly.”
He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”
You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”
“You didn't know?”
“I thought it was maybe midnight.”
He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”
You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.
“I'm… up for a promotion.”
Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”
“A curator position.”
He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”
You nod.
“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”
As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.
“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”
“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”
You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”
Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.
“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”
Bucky frowns. “Why?”
You laugh softly to yourself.
“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”
He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.
He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”
You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.
“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”
Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.
“I don't know,” you say after a second.
“Yeah, you do.”
The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.
Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”
And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.
A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.
It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.
The shelves are uneven in places.
Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.
It feels lived in, it feels like you.
He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.
You actually read all of these?
He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.
He pulls it free.
Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.
He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.
There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.
Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.
The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.
You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.
The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.
I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.
He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.
You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.
He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.
But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.
A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.
Well?
He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.
Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.
The next day:
That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.
He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.
They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.
One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.
A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.
Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:
Thought this looked lonely.
Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.
After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.
You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.
Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.
One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.
“You got me one?”
“You looked tired.”
You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.
The hot dog guy notices eventually.
“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.
Bucky frowns. “Who?”
“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”
“No. Not happening.”
The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”
Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Mm.”
You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”
He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.
Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”
You look up from your book. “Yeah.”
“So what was the first?”
You smile immediately.
“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”
He watches your face change as you talk.
“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”
You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.
“I used all the money I had to buy it.”
“And then?”
“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”
“You found all of them?”
“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”
There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.
In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.
After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.
The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.
Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.
He knows immediately you're going to forget it.
And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.
“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”
Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.
“Happy birthday.”
You stop and blink at him.
“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”
You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”
Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.
So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.
It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.
He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.
That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.
He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.
The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.
Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.
“You forgot your birthday,” he says.
You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.
“Bucky...” is all you manage.
He gets flustered immediately.
“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”
The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.
“You got me a cake?”
“Yeah.”
“With candles?”
He glances at the little crooked row of them.
“That's usually how birthdays work.”
You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.
The candles flicker softly between you.
“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
“But you did anyway. Why?”
He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.
You look down at the cake then back up at him.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”
You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.
The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.
“And this is... also a thing.”
You blink. “You got me a present?”
“You don't have to sound so surprised.”
You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.
Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.
“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”
Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.
You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”
“Just found it.” He shrugs.
“Bucky.”
“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.
You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.
"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.
A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.
Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.
“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.
You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”
He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.
You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.
The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.
Bucky laughs.
“So you've always been weird about books.”
“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”
“Those are different.”
“They're really not.”
You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.
He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.
He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.
By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.
He notices you fighting sleep before you do.
“You're falling asleep.”
“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.
He smiles. “You absolutely are.”
You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.
For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.
You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.
“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.
“I got you.”
You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.
He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.
Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers.
As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.
The call comes on a Tuesday.
Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.
You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”
He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”
“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”
For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.
“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”
The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.
You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.
Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.
“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“No,” you say immediately.
He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”
You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”
“You won't.”
“What if they ask me something I don't know?”
“You'll know it.”
“What if I freeze?”
“You won't.”
You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”
He leans back against the couch.
“I know you.”
That quiets you for a second.
Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.
Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.
“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”
“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”
You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.
“You mean that?” you ask softly.
“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”
You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.
Then you freeze.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”
Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.
You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.
When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.
“Okay,” you say softly.
“Okay,” he echoes.
After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.
Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.
Now it just feels like home.
Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.
He fails.
By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.
You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You blink. “No.”
He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”
You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”
“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”
That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.
“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”
“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”
That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.
“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”
“Hey.”
You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.
“It's crooked.”
“Oh.”
His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.
“You got this,” he says.
You nod once then you're gone.
The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.
By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.
“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”
You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.
“I didn't get it.”
The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.
“Oh.”
You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”
He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.
But then you shrug one shoulder.
“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”
He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”
“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”
That takes him a second to process.
“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”
“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”
Bucky nods slowly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”
Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.
“Come on.”
You look up. “What?”
“Let's go get hot dogs.”
You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.
“Okay.”
The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.
“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”
You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.
“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.
“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.
“You had a bad day.”
“So?”
“So let me buy you a hot dog.”
You don't fight him after that.
On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.
It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.
“Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”
He glances over at you. “...No?”
You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”
“Okay.” He nods once.
“But that's not what I was getting at.”
He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.
“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”
“Yeah?”
Your smile is smaller now.
"I think it just came true.”
He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”
“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”
You look at him then, really look at him.
“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”
Everything in him goes still.
The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.
He ducks his head, shaking it a little.
“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.
You blush immediately. “Shut up.”
But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.
A week later, you come home before sunset.
Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.
“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.
“I know. Weird, right?”
He smiles a little. “You get fired?”
“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”
“Wow.”
“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”
He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.
“Do you wanna come by the museum?”
He looks up. “The museum?”
“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”
He tries to act casual. “Sure.”
But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.
The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.
You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.
Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.
You smile the second you spot him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.
You talk with your hands when you're excited.
You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.
“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”
Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.
Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.
At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.
“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.
Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”
You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”
He laughs harder than he should an you grin.
“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”
“You cried over a label?”
“I care deeply about accuracy.”
“You're insane.”
“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”
He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.
The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.
You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.
They're beautiful.
But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.
“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.
He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.
“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”
You lean back a little farther against the bench.
“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”
You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.
“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”
The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.
You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.
“It's pretty, huh?”
He smiles.
“Yeah...”
But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.
When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.
“What are you gonna do now?”
You blink. “With what?”
“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”
You let out a quiet breath, thinking.
“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”
You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”
He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”
You look up at him and smile softly.
“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”
He laughs and the sound echoes quietly through the stars, you both lean into each other, and suddenly the future doesn't feel so frightening. Because whatever it looks like now, you'll be in it together.
summary: After waking up from surgery still under anesthesia, you meet a ridiculously pretty stranger who claims to be your boyfriend. Convinced he's too perfect to be real, you spend the next hour flirting with him.
word count: 2.1 k
warnings: fluff, post-surgery / anesthesia humor, memory loss (temporary), established relationship, bucky barnes being soft, tooth-rotting fluff, mild embarrassment, idiots in love.
a/n: how crazy is that there's already +400 people following me now? I started working on this thing when I was a bit under 300 and timing was crazy. So I saw this tiktok (couldn’t find the og creator🥺) & came with this silly idea lol not used to writing this much fluff, but I hope you enjoy it. (Also, update on rockstar!Bucky coming soon.) | dividers by @enchanthings
You blinked down slowly, the world swimming into focus in patches of white and blue. Hospital room, beeping machines, and— oh.
There was a man sitting beside your bed. A really really pretty man. Dark hair, sharp jaw, shoulders that looked like they were personally crafted by Michelangelo. And his eyes, of the most ridiculous shade of blue you've ever seen.
"Hi," you breathed, the word slurring slightly. "Are you real?"
The pretty man's lips twitched into a smile. "Yeah, sweetheart, I'm real. How you feeling?"
"Floaty," you admitted, trying to lift your hand but it felt like it weighted a thousand pounds. "Everything's… soft. Are you a nurse? You're the prettiest nurse I've ever seen."
He laughed and the sound made your fuzzy brain light up. "I'm not a nurse, baby. I'm Bucky, your boyfriend."
You squinted at him suspiciously. "No."
"No?"
"No," you said firmly. "Because if you were my boyfriend I'd definitely remember. I would remember so hard you'd be all I ever thought about. I'd be insufferable about it."
"You're insufferable about it," he said, grinning now. He reached out and took your hands, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. One hand was warm, the other was cool metal. "You literally have a folder on your phone called 'Bucky being pretty' with like three hundred photos in it."
Your eyes went wide. "I do?"
"Yes, you do."
"…can I see?"
"After you're more awake." He was trying so hard not to laugh. "The nurse said you'd be loopy for a bit."
"I'm not loopy," you insisted, then immediately contradicted yourself by reaching up to poke his face. "You're loopy. Your face is loopy. Too pretty, not fair." Your finger booped his nose. "Boop."
Bucky caught your hand before you could poke him again, pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture was so tender it made your drugged heart skip. "You tell me that a lot."
"Well, it is true." You tried to sit up and failed spectacularly. Bucky immediately stood up, his hands gentle as he helped adjust your pillows. "Woah, you're really tall too. How tall are you? Like eight feet?"
"Just six feet, baby."
"That's so many feet." You grabbed at his jacket as he tried to sit back down. "Wait, come back. I need to look at you more."
"I'm right here." But he stayed standing, letting you stare up at him with unbashed wonder.
"Your eyes are blue," you announced, like you'd discovered something groundbreaking.
"They are."
"Like… aggresively blue. Who gave you permission to have eyes that blue? That's illegal, you should be arrested." You gasped suddenly. "Wait, are you a criminal? Is that why you're in the hospital? Are you on the run?"
"I'm not on the run, I'm here because my girlfriend had surgery and I wanted to take care of her and make sure she was okay."
You processed this slowly, then after a minute of silence, you said: "Your girlfriend is so lucky."
"Yeah?" His smile was soft, affectionate in a way that made your chest warm even through the drug haze.
"Yeah. I hope she knows how lucky she is, if I had a boyfriend that looked like you—" you sighed dreamily. "I'd never let you leave, I'd just stare at you all day. I'd cancel plans, I'd call in sick to work 'sorry, can't come in, too busy looking at my boyfriend's face."
Bucky actually had to cover his mouth to hide his laughter. "That so?"
"Mmhmm…" You tried to focus on him but everything kept going a little fuzzy at the edged. "What's your girlfriend like? Is she pretty? She's probably pretty, you seem like you have good taste."
"She's beautiful," he said quietly. "Smartest person I know, funny, brave as hell, a little reckless sometimes, which gives me heart attacks. But yeah, she's pretty perfect."
Your drugged brain felt emotions about this that you couldn't quite name. "Wow, you really love her."
"More than anything."
"That's…" your eyes were getting misty. "That's so nice, everyone should be loved like that. I wanna be loved like that." You looked up at him with the saddest eyes. "Do you think anyone will ever love me like that?"
Bucky's expression did something complicated. He sat back down on the edge of your bed, taking both of your hands in his. "Baby… sweetheart, I'm talking about you. You're my girlfriend."
You blinked slowly. "…I am?"
"Yes."
"But…" You looked down at your hands, then back up at his face. "But you're so pretty."
"So are you."
"And nice, you seem really nice."
"You're nicer."
"And you have good hair." You reached up to touch it and he let you, patient as a saint while your clumsy fingers carded through the strands."It's so soft, do you condition? What's your routine? I need your routine."
"You bought me the conditioner," he said, amused. "You did a whole presentation about hair care."
"I did?" You perked up. "Was it good? Did I use a PowerPoint?"
"It was very thorough, had charts and everything."
"Past me is so smart." Your hand dropped from his hair to his face, cupping his cheek. Your thumb traced his cheekbone, then down to his jaw. "You have a really good bone structure, like… really good. Are you a model?"
"Not a model."
"You should be, you'd be great at it. You'd just stand there being pretty and everyone would throw money at you." You gasped dramatically. "Do you even have a job?"
"I'm an Avenger."
Your jaw dropped. "Like… the superheroes?"
"Yep."
"Oh my god, you're a superhero! A pretty superhero." You looked at him with renewed awe. "What's your power? Is it being pretty? Because that should count."
He was fully grinning now. "I've got a vibranium arm. Super soldier serum."
"Can I see the arm?"
Bucky glanced at the door, then shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the black and gold vibranium arm. Your drugged gasp was deeply gratifying.
"That's so cool!" You grabbed at it, running your fingers over the plates. "It's pretty. You're pretty. Everything about you it's pretty… do you sparkle in the sunlight?"
"That's vampires, baby."
"Are you a vampire?"
"No."
"Are you sure? Because you look like you could be a vampire. A really hot vampire." You squinted at him. "Smile, let me see your teeth."
He humored you, smiling wide. You peered at his teeth very seriously. "Okay not a vampire, just a regular pretty person." You seemed satisfied with his conclusion. "Can I tell you a secret?"
"Always."
You leaned in conspiratorially, nearly falling out of the bed. Bucky caught you easily, steadying you. "I think I have a crush on you."
"Do you now?"
"The biggest crush. An embarrassing crush." You bit your lip. "But you have a girlfriend so I shouldn't be saying this… that's not good etiquette, I apologize." You tried to look serious. "I respect your relationship, even though I'm dying inside.
"Noted," he was shaking with silent laughter now. "What if I told you that you're the girlfriend?"
"Then I'd say you're lying because there's no way—" you gestured vaguely at him. "—that someone who looks like that would date someone like me."
"And what's someone like you?"
"You know, regular, average… not a superhero. Probably have weird hobbies." You paused. "Do I have weird hobbies?"
"I don't thinks is weird, but you enjoy collecting vintage objects—"
"See? Boring."
"I think it's cute."
You stared at him. "Okay, but if we're actually dating—which I still don't believe—but IF we are, then I need to know some things…"
"Shoot."
"Have I kissed you?"
"Many times."
Your hand flew to your mouth. "Oh my god."
"Just yesterday you kissed me goodbye like five times because you kept forgetting things and having to come back inside."
"What else? What else have we done? Have we—" You lowered your voice to a whisper. "—held hands?"
"We live together."
The machine monitoring your heart started beeping faster. "We what?"
"We share an apartment… have for three months now. We meal prep on Sundays—"
"That's so domestic!" You clutched his hand tighter. "Oh my god, am I living my dream? Is this real life?"
"Very real life."
"Prove it. Tell me something only my boyfriend would know."
Bucky thought for a moment, his smile going soft. "You talk in your sleep, usually about work, but sometimes you just say random stuff. Last week you had a full conversation whether cats understand democracy. You also steal all the blankets and I have to burrito wrap you to get any covers. And when you're really tired, you make me play with your hair until you fall asleep."
Your eyes were getting watery again. "That sounds nice."
"It is nice, the best part of my day."
"Even the blanket stealing?"
"Even that."
A nurse peeked in, smiling at the scene. "How's our patient doing?"
"She's very high," Bucky said.
"I'm in love," you corrected, squeezing his hand. "With him, this pretty man. He says he's my boyfriend but I think he might be a hallucination because he's too perfect."
The nurse laughed. "He's been here since they brought you in, hasn't left your side."
"Really?" You looked up at Bucky with wonder.
"Really," he confirmed.
The nursed checked your vitals, adjusted your IV and gave you some ice chips to suck on. "The anesthesia should wear off in another hour or so. You'll probably be pretty tired though."
After she left, you went back to staring at Bucky. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Anything."
"If we're dating, can I kiss you?"
His smile could've powered the sun. "You don't have to ask for permission, sweetheart. But maybe wait until you're a little less loopy?"
"What if I forget? What if the drugs wear off and I forget that I'm allowed to kiss you and I just pine forever?"
"Then I'll remind you. Like I do every morning."
"Every morning," you repeated dreamily. "We have mornings together. Plural mornings."
"So many mornings." You yawned suddenly, the exhaustion hitting you. Bucky stood and adjusted your bed so you could lie back more comfortably. "Get some rest, baby."
"Will you stay?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He settled back into the chair, but kept hold of your hand.
"Bucky?"
"Yeah?"
"When I wake up and I'm not high anymore, will you still be this pretty?"
He brought your joined hands up and kissed your knuckles, his eyes crinkling with tat smile you'd apparently been cataloging in a folder for months. "Guess you'll have to wait and see."
"Can't wait," you mumbled, eyes already drifting closed. "Gonna wake up with the prettiest boyfriend in the world."
"Get some sleep, sweetheart."
"Okay, but just so you know—" you forced your eyes open one more time to look at him. "—if we really are dating, then I'm the luckiest person alive."
"Funny, I was thinking the same thing."
You fell asleep with his hand in yours, the steady beep of the monitors, and a smile on your face.
Two hours later.
You woke up slowly, the fog clearing from your brain. Everything came back in pieces—the surgery, the recovery room, and oh god, Bucky. Your boyfriend Bucky. Who you'd apparently hit on while high.
He was still there, slouched in the in the uncomfortable hospital chair, scrolling through his phone. When he noticed you were awake, his whole face lit up.
"Hey," he said softly. "Welcome back, how you feeling?"
"Mortified," you croaked. "Please tell me I didn't say anything too embarrassing."
His grin was evil. "Define too embarrassing."
"Bucky—"
"You told me I should be arrested for having blue eyes. You asked if I sparkled in the sunlight. You said you had a crush on me and then apologized because you didn't want to disrespect my relationship."
You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my god."
"Oh and you called my face 'loopy'". He was definitely laughing now. "And you said you'd call in sick to work just to stare at me all day."
"I hate you."
"No you don't. You love me, you told me so multiple times, very emphatically." He stood and came to bed, gently pulling your hands away from your face. "For the record, I recorder about five minutes of it."
"You what?!"
"For posterity." His eyes were sparkling with mischief. "And for the next time you try to say I'm not pretty."
"I didn't—I don't—" You couldn't even form a defense. "You are pretty."
"So you keep telling me." He leaned down and kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. "Feeling better?"
"Physically, yes. Emotionally, destroyed."
"Well the good news is the surgery went great. The bad news is I'm definitely showing that video at our wedding."
"Bucky!"
But you were smiling, and so was he, and honestly? You'd embarrass yourself a hundred times over if it meant waking up to that face. Even if you already knew you were allowed to kiss it.
