batta

batta, 27, Slytherin, she/her Still waiting for Sirius Black to ask me out masterlist, add yourself to my taglist

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[mcrdvcks]

love language

summary: You and Steve crash on the couch after a long night of babysitting the kids, and when you wake up, the two of you are cuddled up together. word count: 10.1k+ pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader notes: friends to lovers that don't even realize they're in love with each other because they're idiots???? yes please i'll take ten warnings/tags: no use of y/n, friends to lovers, oblivious idiots, fluff, unintentional cuddling, thunderstorm, the kids are done with you and steve, robin trying to meddle, uhhhh idk what else

The Wheeler living room is already loud by the time you and Steve step through the door, the kind of loud that rattles the picture frames and probably traumatizes the furniture. Will and Eleven sit cross-legged on the floor sorting pieces, Mike and Lucas are arguing over the rule book, Max lounges sideways in an armchair like she owns the place, and Dustin—Dustin is the one who spots you first, eyes bright with relief because backup has arrived. He practically launches himself across the carpet. “Finally! Reinforcements! Do you know how long I’ve been trying to stop them from killing each other? Mike insists the rules don’t apply to him—”

“That’s not what I said!” Mike shoots back from the floor without looking up. “I said they don’t apply in this version.”

“That’s even worse,” Lucas mutters, flipping a game card toward him.

Steve nudges your shoulder with his, a soft laugh slipping out. “You sure we signed up for this voluntarily?”

Dustin answers for you both. “Yes. Absolutely. Because you love me.” He wags his eyebrows with a confidence that deserves its own award.

Steve groans but ruffles Dustin’s curls anyway. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t start any fires.”

You follow the chaos toward the couch, thinking you might sit at one end while Steve stays somewhere in the middle. The kids, however, have other plans. Eleven immediately takes the armchair beside Max and pats the cushion pointedly as if to say, these seats are taken, adult or not. Will sits closer to the coffee table, lost in arranging tiny tokens, and Dustin drops straight into the last open chair like he’s claiming territory.

That leaves the single space on the couch, a narrow sliver between two throw pillows. Steve glances at it, then at you, then back at it. “Guess we’re getting cozy,” he says under his breath, trying for casual but landing somewhere near hesitant.

You sit first, tucking your legs to one side to make room. Steve squeezes in beside you, his knee brushing yours, warm even through denim. The couch dips under his weight, pulling you closer than you meant to be, but the moment feels harmless—comfortable, even. The kids’ bickering rises again, filling the room with a familiar, buzzing energy that makes the closeness feel almost necessary, like the two of you are sharing the last quiet corner in a storm.

Mike slams the rule book shut. “We’re just going to play it how we played last time.”

Max rolls her eyes. “Last time you cried.”

“I did not cry,” he snaps, cheeks reddening.

“You absolutely cried,” Lucas insists. “You—”

You let your head fall lightly against the back of the couch, exhaustion settling through you like sand. Steve notices immediately. “You okay?” he murmurs.

“Just tired,” you admit, half-smiling. “Didn’t know babysitting involved this much diplomacy.”

“Diplomacy?” Steve scoffs. “These gremlins haven't known peace since third grade.”

Their argument grows more animated, and the low warmth in the room lulls your brain into a haze. You feel yourself drifting, not fully asleep but hovering right beneath it. The kids fade into background noise, their voices blending with the lamp hum and the whisper of cards shuffling.

That’s when you feel it—light pressure over your shoulders, the soft weight of a blanket being eased around you. The movement is gentle, almost instinctive. Steve doesn’t make a show of it; he doesn’t even look at you while he tucks the corner behind your arm. He just settles back beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours again.

The warmth mixes with your drowsiness, and you lean just a little into his side without thinking. He doesn’t move away. You’re not sure how long the peaceful moment lasts, because a sudden knock at the front door jolts the entire room. Mike groans. “If that’s another pizza flyer—”

But it isn’t a flyer. A familiar voice calls out, “your favorite coworker is here to liberate you!”

Robin strides into the living room like she lives there, hands on her hips, eyebrows already raised. She takes in the scene—Dustin mid-rant, Max smothering a grin, Eleven’s serious concentration, Steve tucked against you under a shared blanket—and something playful sparks behind her eyes.

She doesn’t comment. Not out loud. But she absolutely smirks, slow and knowing, like she’s mentally taking notes for future teasing ammunition. Steve stiffens at her expression, shooting her a warning look that only makes her smirk widen. Robin plops onto the floor beside Eleven. “So. Who’s winning?”

“No one,” Will sighs softly. “We haven’t even started.”

“That’s because someone won’t read the rules correctly,” Dustin says pointedly.

Mike glares. “Everybody shut up and let me—”

Their voices climb again, and Robin leans back on her hands, glancing between you and Steve with the quiet satisfaction of someone who just walked into a scene she fully intended to gossip about later.

Steve shifts slightly, adjusting the blanket so it covers both of you more evenly, pretending not to notice his best friend’s smug stare. His arm brushes yours again, warm and steady. You can feel him fighting the urge to explain himself—explain the blanket, explain the closeness—but Robin doesn’t ask. She doesn’t need to.

You settle deeper into the cushion, the room bright with noise and energy, and Steve’s presence at your side grounding you in a way you don’t question. Not yet.

By the time the last game piece clatters into its box, the kids have moved past the argument stage and straight into the collapse phase. Max is the first to fold, grabbing a pillow from the couch arm and dropping onto a sleeping bag like she’s been waiting hours for gravity to win. Mike mutters something about unfair rules before he flops down beside Will, whose eyes are already half-closed. Lucas arranges his blanket with unnecessary precision, as if he’s preparing for a military inspection. Eleven curls up beside him, and Dustin, in true Dustin fashion, declares he isn’t tired a single second before he faceplants into his pillow.

The room finally settles into something quieter, soft breaths replacing chaotic chatter. Empty cups sit on the coffee table. The lamp glows low. The chicken-shaped kitchen clock ticks faintly in the background. For the first time all night, you and Steve aren’t being pulled in ten different directions.

You stretch your legs out on the couch, your back sinking into the cushions. Steve slumps beside you, shoulders dropping, head falling back as he exhales a long, weary breath that sounds suspiciously like relief. His knee bumps your thigh again, though this time he doesn’t bother to shift away. You feel the warmth of him, steady and familiar in a way you didn’t expect. “You think they’ll actually stay asleep?” he asks quietly, voice rough with exhaustion.

“They better,” you murmur. “If I hear one more debate about whether Mike was cheating—”

“He was cheating.”

“You can’t cheat a game that doesn’t have real rules.”

Steve snorts a tired laugh, head tipping toward you. The sound pulls a smile from you before you can stop it.

For a while neither of you speaks. There’s no reason to. The silence feels earned, warm, comfortable. The kids breathe softly on the floor, the kind of peaceful that only comes after burning off every last ounce of energy. The blanket Steve offered earlier still rests over your lap, and you tug it higher, letting your fingers graze the fabric.

Your eyelids feel heavier than you want to admit. You didn’t plan on staying much longer. You definitely didn’t plan on falling asleep here. But the mix of exhaustion and the steady presence beside you makes it hard to keep your thoughts sharp.

You feel your head tip slightly toward Steve before you realize you’re moving at all. He doesn’t startle. He doesn’t shift away. Instead he leans just a little nearer, enough that your shoulders brush again, enough that it feels intentional even if neither of you says anything. He whispers, “you okay?”

“Mmhmm,” you breathe, already sinking. “Just tired.”

“You can sleep if you want.”

“You first.”

“I’m not falling asleep,” he says, which is bold considering his voice sounds like he’s half unconscious already. “I’m just resting my eyes.”

“Sure you are.”

He gives a sleepy huff of a laugh, and then the quiet wraps around you both again. His arm settles along the back of the couch, close enough that the warmth radiates through you. You try to stay awake, you really do, but the mix of his closeness, the blanket, and the leftover warmth from the room finally pulls you under.

The last thing you feel is Steve’s shoulder steady beneath your cheek.

The next thing you know, sunlight is leaking through the Wheeler curtains, pale morning gold painting stripes across the room. Your eyes blink open slowly, vision fuzzy, mind slow to piece together where you are and how you ended up with an arm snugly wrapped around your waist.

His arm.

You freeze for a second, breath held. Steve is still asleep beside you, his chest rising and falling in soft, even patterns. His nose is tucked near your hair, lips ghosting warm against the top of your ear. One of his knees slots gently against yours like you two figured out puzzle-piece positions sometime in the night and just… stayed there.

You’re wrapped in him. Entirely. And it feels impossibly natural.

Then Steve stirs. His breathing changes, body tensing slightly as he shifts. You feel the moment realization hits him—a small, startled inhale, followed by stillness. His arm tightens once in a reflexive squeeze, then he jerks it back like the couch suddenly caught fire. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t—uh—” he mutters, scrambling upright so fast he nearly elbows a pillow off the couch. His hair sticks up wildly, his face flushed.

You push yourself upright too, clutching the blanket like it might hide how warm your face is. “I must’ve… I didn’t mean to—uh—lean on you all night.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he says quickly. “Totally fine. Couch is small. Happens all the time. Not all the time. I mean—whatever. It’s cool.”

“Yeah. Cool.” You each sit there for an awkward heartbeat too long, both pretending you didn’t almost cuddle through the entire night.

A voice rises from the floor. “Oh my god,” Dustin groans dramatically, sitting up with all the energy of someone three seconds from combusting. He rubs his eyes as he peers toward the couch. “Did you guys seriously fall asleep together again?”

“Again?” Steve chokes.

Lucas rolls over, hair a mess. “They were basically on top of each other after the Snow Ball. Remember?”

Max sits up and smirks. “This is honestly not surprising.”

Mike points at both of you like he’s solving a mystery. “You always gravitate toward each other. It’s, like, magnetic or something.”

Eleven blinks sleepily at the scene, then nods once in agreement. “Yes. Always.”

You stare at the group, then at Steve, whose ears are turning a shade of red no human should naturally be capable of. Dustin flops back onto his pillow with the world’s heaviest sigh. “Unbelievable. I’m going to pull a muscle from how hard I’m rolling my eyes.”

You grab the blanket, suddenly too warm, while Steve runs a hand through his hair like he wants to hide inside it. The kids start packing up their sleeping bags with varying degrees of chaos, and you and Steve sit stiffly on the couch, avoiding each other’s eyes because neither of you knows how to handle the truth that, yes, you had gravitated toward each other—without even realizing it.

And somewhere in the middle of the mess, Dustin mutters, “I swear, one day you two are going to give me an aneurysm.”

A week passes, but the memory of waking tangled against Steve doesn’t fade as easily as you hoped. Every time you pass each other in the halls of Family Video, every time he hands you a VHS or brushes by you to reach the rewind station, there’s a flicker of that morning—sunlight on his face, his arm still wrapped around your waist like he belonged there. You keep pretending it’s no big deal. He keeps pretending he’s not thinking about it at all. Robin, on the other hand, has turned pretending into an Olympic sport.

Which is how you end up outside Family Video on a chilly Saturday morning, helping them haul in overstock boxes because Keith “accidentally” ordered three months of inventory at once. The air is colder than you expected, autumn biting a little sharper than last week. You try to hide the way you rub your arms for warmth, but Steve notices instantly.

He’s halfway to the door with a box when he glances over and blurts, “here.” Before you can respond, he shrugs off his jacket in one smooth motion and drapes it over your shoulders like it was already decided.

You blink at him, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. I’m not cold,” he says too fast.

“You’re definitely cold.”

“Nah, I run hot,” he insists, though the goosebumps on his arms say otherwise.

Robin freezes mid-step, one eyebrow lifting with the kind of slow, deliberate judgment she usually saves for customers who return tapes that smell like cigarettes. She watches Steve for a long, amused second before speaking. “Smooth,” she drawls, lips twitching. “Very subtle.”

Steve glares at her, which only makes her grin wider.

You’re still adjusting the jacket on your shoulders, and the moment you settle into it, you feel Steve go very still. His eyes drag over the sight of you in his jacket—soft from wear, smelling faintly of piney cologne and Family-Video-cleaner—and something in his expression falters. It’s a full-body stutter: shoulders stopping mid-breath, hands freezing around the box he’s holding, mouth parted like words abandoned him.

Robin’s eyebrows climb so high they might actually leave her face. “You good?” she asks, deadpan.

Steve jerks back into motion. “Yep. Totally. Fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

“Right,” she says, but the sarcasm drips enough to fill a swimming pool.

Inside, the store is a battlefield of cardboard towers. You help them stack boxes in the back, all while Steve keeps glancing at you like he’s trying not to, always looking away a second too late. Robin catches every single slip.

At one point, as you’re helping sort new releases, a customer wanders in—a woman in her thirties, cheerful, the type who probably owns matching holiday sweaters for her dog. She points at Steve, then at you. “You two are adorable,” she says warmly. “How long have you been together?”

You nearly drop the stack of VHS cases you’re holding. Steve goes rigid beside you. “We’re not—uh—we’re not together,” he stammers, waving his hands in front of him so wildly he nearly smacks a cardboard cutout of Tom Hanks.

The woman blinks. “Oh! Sorry, you just look like—well, you know. A couple.”

“No, yeah, totally fine,” Steve rambles. “We’re just, you know, coworkers. Friends. Normal friends. Nothing weird. Nothing romantic. Not that romance is weird or—I’m gonna stop talking now.”

The woman gives you a sympathetic smile before heading toward the rom-com aisle. Robin doesn’t even wait until she’s out of earshot. “Romance isn’t weird,” she mimics under her breath. “Wow. He’s really killing it today.”

Steve shoots her a glare so sharp it could slice through VHS plastic. “Can you not?”

“I can’t not,” she whispers, smug as ever. “This is better than cable.”

You try to keep your focus on stacking movies, but your cheeks feel uncomfortably warm. And the worst part? You don’t hate the assumption. You don’t hate the idea of being seen with Steve like you’re something more than coworkers and accidental couch cuddlers. But you don’t let yourself think too hard about it. You’re not sure your heart is ready for that.

The day goes on like that—little moments that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow do. Another customer asks if you and Steve are “movie-night regulars.” A teenager asks if you’re trying to “impress your boyfriend” with your horror recommendations. Steve denies it every time, and every time he gets a little pinker.

At one point, you’re shelving tapes near the back, Steve standing so close beside you that his arm brushes yours when he reaches for the top shelf. You swear he hesitates before pulling his hand back. “You sure you’re warm enough?” he asks softly, looking at his jacket wrapped around you.

“I’m warm,” you say, and you mean it. His smile is small but real.

From the counter, Robin mutters, “un. Be. Lievable.” You glance over to see her shaking her head, chin resting on her palm, smirk carved into her face like she’s witnessing the world’s slowest love story unfold in real time.

“What?” Steve snaps defensively.

“Nothing,” she says, sing-song and utterly unconvinced. “Just enjoying the show.”

Steve groans into his hands. You focus very hard on straightening a stack of VHS cases that absolutely do not need straightening. And yet despite the embarrassment, despite Robin’s commentary, despite customers assuming something neither of you have dared to name, you don’t take off Steve’s jacket.

Not even once.

Movie nights at the Wheeler house always start the same way: spilled popcorn, someone arguing about who gets the couch spot closest to the snacks, and Dustin insisting on an unnecessarily complicated projector setup that takes twice as long as it should. Tonight is no different. The kids have claimed most of the blankets, the lights are low, and Steve is fiddling with the VCR like it personally offended him.

You settle onto the couch, Steve’s jacket still wrapped around you from earlier that afternoon. You told yourself you’d give it back when the temperature evened out. You told yourself you’d hand it over once you got inside. You told yourself you’d return it when he asked.

He never asked.

And now, curled into the corner of the sofa, you can’t bring yourself to shrug it off. It’s warm. It’s soft. It smells like him in a way you absolutely refuse to think about too hard.

Lucas is the first one to notice. He stops dead in front of you, a bowl of pretzels in hand, eyes narrowing like a detective who’s just discovered a clue. “Whoa, whoa, hold on.” He points dramatically. “Why are you wearing Steve’s jacket?” You don’t even get a chance to answer. Lucas raises his voice—not a little, not gently—but with the subtlety of someone announcing the end of the world. “Are you two, like, dating now?”

The room goes still for exactly half a second before exploding. “What?!” Steve blurts, spinning around so fast he nearly pulls the VCR out of the wall. His face goes beet red immediately. “No. No! We’re not—there’s nothing—we’re not dating!”

“Sure,” Max says from the armchair, her tone so dry it could start a brushfire. “That’s why you keep staring every time the jacket moves.”

You choke on your own breath. “He’s not—”

“He absolutely is,” she cuts in. “Do you see his face right now?”

Steve, now floundering, tries to regain control. “Guys, it’s just a jacket. She was cold. I gave it to her. That’s it.”

Lucas doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah, but she never took it off. She’s still wearing it, man.”

“I’m going to,” you say quickly, even though you definitely don’t plan to. “Just… later.”

Max snorts and leans back. “Yeah, later. Sure.”

Dustin appears beside the couch, popcorn bowl tucked under his arm, shaking his head like he’s watching a soap opera he’s far too invested in. He leans toward Mike, who’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet. “This is painful to watch,” he whispers loudly enough for all of you to hear.

Mike nods solemnly. “Agreed.”

You want the couch to swallow you whole. Steve looks like he wants the entire house to collapse around him. He gestures vaguely toward your shoulder. “If it’s weird, I can take it back. Or you can—uh—give it back. If you want. Unless you don’t. I mean—whatever. No pressure.”

You stare at him, then at the collar he’s now fidgeting with between his fingers, picking at a loose thread like it’s a lifeline. “Steve,” you say slowly, “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

“Right,” he says, smoothing the fabric a little too carefully. “Okay. Cool.”

Max watches the whole exchange with narrowed eyes, elbow resting on the arm of the chair like she’s collecting data for a thesis. Lucas takes a handful of pretzels and throws himself into a beanbag with a dramatic sigh, muttering to Dustin, “they’re totally dating.”

Dustin doesn’t miss a beat. “No, they’re something, and it’s driving me insane.”

Eleven, sitting beside Mike, studies you with that serene, thoughtful look she gets when she knows more than she says. “Friends can share clothes,” she offers gently. You smile at her, grateful—until she adds in a quieter, almost conspiratorial voice, “but you both look happy.” Steve nearly drops the remote.

Mike groans. “Can we just watch the movie before this turns into a group therapy session?”

Everyone grumbles in agreement, and the chaos shifts as the kids rearrange themselves for the opening credits. But even as the room settles, the teasing dies down, and the screen flickers to life, Steve stays close beside you on the couch. His arm rests along the back, just near enough for your shoulder to brush his if either of you shifts even slightly.

And every once in a while, he glances over—not long enough to get caught again, but long enough to make your heart beat faster. You pretend you don’t notice. But you really, really do.

Domestic moments sneak in the way sunlight creeps through blinds—quiet at first, barely noticeable, then suddenly you’re surrounded by them, warmed before you even realize what’s happening.

It starts with something small. You’re at Melvald’s picking up snacks for the kids’ weekend hangout when you bump into Steve in the cereal aisle. He’s holding a box of Lucky Charms, looking deeply conflicted, like the fate of the universe depends on marshmallow distribution. You tease him about it, he complains about Dustin’s “freakishly specific snack expectations,” and before either of you know it, you’re pushing your carts side by side, arguing over which brand of chips is superior. He ends up tossing an extra pack into your cart with a casual shrug that is anything but casual, and you don’t point out the smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

The next time, it’s laundry. Your washer breaks spectacularly—a bit of flooding, awful noises, the works—and you’re left holding a basket of clothes with nowhere to put them. Steve just happens to call that afternoon, checking if you’re joining a movie night later. You mention the washer situation without thinking.

He shows up twenty minutes later with the trunk of his car popped open, leaning against it like he’s posing for a magazine cover called Accidental Heroics. “Laundry day?” he asks, totally nonchalant, except his voice is a little too bright with excitement.

“Are you offering your washer?”

“I’m offering my whole laundry room,” he says, then winces. “That sounded weird. Ignore that. Just—I don’t mind. Seriously.” You don’t ignore it. You smile instead, because of course he doesn’t mind.

Inside the Harrington house, you watch him gather detergent, fuss about water temperature, and act like this isn’t the domestic equivalent of a date. At one point, he stands beside you, arms folded, leaning on the counter while the washer rumbles softly behind you both. You talk about nothing in particular—movies you haven’t seen yet, the way Robin accidentally told a customer to “have a tolerable day,” Mike’s latest dramatic meltdown over homework—and you’re too aware of how close he is.

He’s comfortable. Relaxed. A little messy-haired from the humidity. Familiar in a way you’ve learned to accept but not examine too closely. His house echoes less when he’s speaking, less still when you laugh. You find yourself wondering how often he’s lonely in this big place, and the thought lingers longer than it should.

A few days later, he beats you to the familiar routine. You stop by Family Video on your way to the arcade with Max, planning on grabbing a few tapes. Steve spots you before you even make it past the counter. “Hey,” he says lightly, but then he’s already moving toward the break room. “Do you want coffee?”

“What? I didn’t even ask.”

He shrugs, awkwardly endearing. “You sort of have a look. Like a ‘please save me with caffeine’ look.”

Robin snorts from behind the counter. “Translation: he makes one pot and pretends it was my idea.”

Steve glares. “It was your idea!”

“I didn’t even want coffee.”

“Details,” he mutters.

But he hands you a mug anyway, warm and freshly poured, and the moment your fingers brush his, something in him softens. His eyes linger a second too long. The mug smells like vanilla creamer. His smile is small but real, the kind that sneaks up on you. “You make it good,” you admit.

He lights up more at that than at anything he probably should.

You catch him holding open doors for you without thinking. You find him saving the last bag of your favorite candy on movie nights. You realize he’s started keeping an extra soda in the fridge at Family Video “just in case.” You catch yourself smoothing the collar of his jacket before he leaves for his shift. You watch him wash dishes with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, humming off-key like he’s completely unaware of how easy he is to fall into step with.

Robin sees everything, of course. She sees the way Steve leans closer when you talk. She sees the way your hand rests near his without moving away. She sees the way you say his name a little softer lately, and how he straightens slightly every time you do. “You two are a disaster,” she mutters during a quiet shift, shaking her head like she’s dealing with toddlers. “A cute disaster, sure, but still a disaster.”

You pretend you don’t hear her. Steve pretends he isn’t listening. But the way he glances at you afterward, shy and hopeful, tells you both that she’s right. And little by little, something between you and Steve begins to settle too—warm, gentle, and too natural to be ignored forever.

Max and Eleven aren’t subtle when they ask for help with a school project. In fact, they aren’t asking at all—Max shows up at Family Video with a binder the size of a phone book, Eleven trailing behind her with glitter glue stuck to her sleeve. They plant themselves in front of the counter like a two-person intervention. “We need an adult,” Max announces.

Steve looks offended. “I’m an adult.”

“You’re barely an adult,” she counters.

Eleven nods, solemn. “You need supervision.”

You’re standing beside the display of horror tapes, trying not to laugh. Max turns to you next. “You’re the reasonable one,” she says. “We need help building this model of the solar system. It’s due Monday. It’s almost Monday.”

“It’s Saturday,” Steve mutters.

“Almost Monday,” Max repeats, giving the kind of look that says she will absolutely guilt you into this if she has to.

So the four of you end up at the Harrington house, the dining table buried under poster board, foam balls, paint cups, and construction paper. It’s the kind of chaos that looks innocent but will absolutely destroy the floor if left unattended. You settle into a chair, Steve drops into the one beside you, and Max drags over a lamp like she’s setting up a crime scene investigation.

For the first half hour, everything goes surprisingly well. Eleven carefully paints Saturn’s rings, Max supervises the glitter application with the authority of a seasoned general, and Steve handles the hot glue gun with far more confidence than he deserves.

But then Mars rolls off the table. The glitter gets everywhere. Steve burns his finger a little. Max shouts, “why is Jupiter bigger than the sun?!” and Eleven insists the sun looks lonely without a smiley face. The whole project devolves into laughter, complaints, and paint smudges across the poster board. And somehow, despite the mess, you end up enjoying yourself more than you expected.

By the time the solar system finally looks like a solar system—and not an arts-and-crafts explosion—the clock reads well past midnight. Max and Eleven are exhausted, the kind of slow-blinking tired that makes them stretch out on the floor with blankets and mutter about “five minutes” that quickly turn into sleep.

Steve runs a hand through his paint-flecked hair, sighing with the kind of relief that comes after surviving mild chaos. “I’m too tired to drive anyone home,” he admits quietly.

“They’ll be fine here,” you say, watching the girls curl closer under their blankets. “They did great.”

“You did great,” he counters, and the warmth in his voice catches you off guard.

The house feels different at night—quieter, softer, full of pockets of shadow and the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall. The dining table is a disaster zone of art supplies. Max mumbles something in her sleep. Eleven shifts, tucking her hands under her cheek. The girls look peaceful, and the sight makes something inside you settle too.

You and Steve drift toward the living room, neither of you saying it aloud, but both heading there like it’s the only place your bodies want to go. He collapses onto the couch with a groan, sliding down until his head touches the back cushion. You drop beside him, fully intending to stay awake, to keep some distance, to not repeat history. The moment your head brushes the cushion, your whole body sighs in surrender. Steve notices immediately. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft around the edges. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“You sound like you’re already asleep.”

“Not true. I’m extremely awake.”

You turn your head just enough to see his eyes half-lidded, his lips curled in a sleepy smile. He tries to sit up straighter, fails, and ends up leaning slightly toward you in a way that feels familiar. Natural. Like some quiet part of him gravitates to you without hesitation. You let your shoulder rest lightly against his. It’s not planned. Not something you think through. It just happens, the same way breathing does. And he doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts a little closer. “You comfy?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

“Maybe.”

“That’s good,” he says, and the softness in his tone makes your heart stutter.

The hum of the house fades into a warm nothingness. You feel the rise and fall of Steve’s breathing beside you. His head drops slightly until it rests against yours. You think about pushing yourself upright, about creating some polite distance so history doesn’t repeat itself… but the thought dissolves before it finishes forming. You’re tired. You’re warm. You’re comfortable. And Steve’s presence feels like a blanket all on its own.

The couch dips gently as he shifts again, and before you know it, you’re leaning into each other. His shoulder fits beneath your cheek. His arm settles near your side. His breath slows. Yours matches it without trying. You don’t plan to fall asleep. He definitely doesn’t plan to fall asleep. But the quiet wraps around you both like a spell, and somewhere between one blink and the next, your eyes close.

When you wake, it’s to soft morning light filtering through the curtains and the warmth of an arm around you—his arm, draped over your waist in a way that feels far too right. His nose brushes your hair. Your body is half against his. You’re wrapped in each other again, held by an instinct neither of you meant to let slip out.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what stirs him. Steve shifts, groggy, confused, then suddenly alert as he realizes exactly where—and how—you ended up. His hand flinches at your waist, and he sits up too fast, eyes wide, hair a spectacular disaster. “I—I didn’t mean—” he stammers. “I wasn’t—I didn’t know I—”

You sit up too, heat crawling up your neck. “It’s okay. We were just tired.”

“Right,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tired. Long night. Glue fumes, glitter poison. Makes sense.”

You’re both doing the thing where you avoid each other’s eyes, talking too quickly, pretending your heart isn’t still racing. It would almost work—if not for the two quiet figures who suddenly stir on the floor. Max lifts her head from her blanket, squinting. “Are you kidding me?” she croaks.

Eleven blinks awake, following Max’s gaze. “Again?” she asks, perfectly calm.

You feel your soul disintegrate. Steve covers his face with both hands. “Oh my god.”

Max sits up fully, pointing at the couch like she’s presenting evidence. “This is a pattern. A weird one. A very obvious one.”

Eleven nods, rubbing her eyes. “You always sleep close.”

Max snorts. “You don’t just ‘accidentally’ cuddle twice.” Steve makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a plea for the universe to swallow him whole. You can’t tell if you want to laugh or hide under a cushion. Max lies back down, pulling her blanket over her face. “Whatever. Just admit you’re into each other so I can sleep in peace next time.”

Steve chokes. You stare at the ceiling. Eleven simply closes her eyes again, satisfied that she has spoken truth into the world. And despite the embarrassment, despite the chaos, despite every reason you should deny it—you can’t help the small, traitorous flutter in your chest at the thought that maybe, just maybe, they see something you’ve been too scared to name.

The shift doesn’t happen all at once. It creeps in quietly, disguised as small, awkward moments that pile up until pretending nothing is wrong takes more effort than admitting something is.

Steve is the first to spiral. You notice it at Family Video before you really understand it. He stops leaning against the counter when you talk. He keeps a careful half-step of distance between you in the aisles. When you laugh at something dumb he says, his smile falters, eyes flicking away like he’s afraid he’ll give something away if he holds your gaze for even a second too long.

He starts overthinking everything. If your hand brushes his while passing a tape, he freezes like he’s done something wrong. If you smile at him, he smiles back a second too late. If you linger near the counter after your shift ends, he finds something else to do—restocking shelves that absolutely don’t need it, rewinding tapes that were already done.

Robin notices in approximately five minutes. She corners him behind the counter during a slow afternoon, arms crossed, expression sharp with concern and zero patience. “Okay. Explain.”

“Explain what?” he says too quickly, eyes on the register.

“Why you look like you’re one thought away from short-circuiting every time she breathes near you.”

“I don’t—”

“Steve.”

He exhales, shoulders slumping. “I just don’t want to mess things up.”

Robin blinks. “Mess what up?”

“Everything,” he mutters. “What if she didn’t mean to fall asleep like that? What if I crossed some invisible line? What if I make it weird and she stops wanting to hang out?”

Robin stares at him, unimpressed. “Buddy. You are already making it weird.” He winces. She sighs, softer now. “You like her. A lot. That’s not a crime.” He opens his mouth to deny it, then closes it again. His hands curl into the edge of the counter, knuckles pale. Robin leans closer. “You don’t panic this hard over people you don’t care about.”

The words hit deeper than he wants them to. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

Meanwhile, you’re spiraling in your own way. You’re sitting on the front steps of the Wheeler house with Max one afternoon, watching clouds roll lazily across the sky. She kicks at the concrete with the heel of her shoe, quiet for a moment longer than usual. “So,” she says eventually, glancing sideways. “How long are you and Steve planning on pretending you’re not together?”

You choke on air. “We’re not—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupts. “That’s what he says too.”

You groan, dropping your head back against the railing. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Because everyone thinks that,” she replies simply. “You act like a couple. You fall asleep like one. You fight like one without actually fighting. It’s kind of obvious.”

You stare at the sky, heart thudding. “What if I’m reading it wrong?”

Max shrugs. “Then you’ll survive. But I don’t think you are.”

Her honesty sits heavy in your chest long after she goes inside. From there, things only get worse. You and Steve start orbiting each other like nervous planets, always close but never colliding. Conversations turn stilted. Touch becomes something you both overthink instead of instinctively reach for. You miss the easy closeness more than you’re ready to admit.

He hands you coffee without meeting your eyes. You thank him too brightly. He smiles and looks away. Robin watches from the counter like she’s witnessing a slow-motion train wreck. At one point, you both reach for the same VHS tape and jerk back at the same time, muttering apologies in perfect sync. It would be funny if it didn’t hurt a little.

The kids notice too. Of course they do. Dustin squints at you across the table during lunch one day. “Why are you both acting like divorced parents at Thanksgiving?”

Mike nods. “It’s uncomfortable.”

Lucas frowns. “Did you fight?”

“No,” you say quickly.

Steve says, “no,” at the same time.

Max sighs loudly. “That’s worse.”

Every interaction feels charged now. Every glance you don’t hold lingers longer than it should. Every step back feels heavier than stepping forward ever did. At night, you lie awake thinking about the way Steve’s arm felt around you. About how natural it was. About how careful he is now, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he touches you the wrong way. Across town, Steve lies awake doing the exact same thing—only instead of wondering if he should reach for you, he’s convinced himself that wanting you at all might be the problem.

The weather turns without warning. One minute you’re at Steve’s place helping him reorganize the basement—because somehow that’s become a normal thing now—and the next, the sky outside cracks open with a sharp boom of thunder that rattles the windows. Rain slams down hard enough to sound angry, like it’s taking something personally. You pause mid-step, box balanced in your hands, heart jumping even though you tell yourself it’s just a storm.

Steve notices immediately. He always does. “Hey,” he says, too quick, already moving closer. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you lie, shifting the box onto a shelf. “Just surprised.”

Another crack of thunder answers you, louder this time. The lights flicker once, twice—then the entire house drops into darkness. “Shit,” Steve mutters at the same time you gasp.

The sudden quiet is heavy, broken only by the rain and the distant rumble of thunder. The basement feels smaller without the lights, shadows pressing in around you. Steve swears softly again and reaches out, his hand brushing your arm as he fumbles for the flashlight he definitely meant to put batteries in weeks ago.

Before either of you can say anything else, the wind howls outside, a violent rush that rattles the door at the top of the stairs. Something bangs against the side of the house—maybe a branch, maybe something worse—and your nerves snap all at once.

You don’t even think about it when you let out a gasp. Steve turns toward the sound, instinct kicking in, and you step into him at the exact same moment. His arms come up automatically, wrapping around you, pulling you tight against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You grab onto his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, breath shaky as thunder crashes again overhead. “It’s okay,” he murmurs immediately, voice low and steady near your ear. “It’s just the storm. I’ve got you.”

The words undo you more than the thunder ever could. You cling to him, forehead pressed into his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat thudding strong and fast beneath your ear. He holds you without hesitation, one hand firm at your back, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s shielding you from the world itself.

The rain pounds harder as the wind screams. The house creaks and groans, but inside Steve’s arms, everything feels quieter, safer. You don’t realize how long you stay like that until the thunder fades into a distant rumble and the rain softens into something steady instead of violent. The moment stretches, then stretches some more—and you still don’t let go. Neither does he.

His grip loosens eventually, not pulling away but easing, like he’s checking if you’re okay before daring to move. You breathe him in, familiar and grounding, and realize with a sudden, aching clarity that this is exactly where you want to be.

You pull back first, just enough to look up at him. He looks wrecked. Not scared—focused. Protective. His hands linger at your sides like they’re reluctant to leave, his thumb brushing your hip once without meaning to. His eyes search your face, worried, intense, softer than you’ve ever seen them. “You okay?” he asks again, quieter now.

You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Of course,” he says quickly, stepping back like the space between you is suddenly dangerous. “Anytime. I mean—I didn’t even think. I just—”

“It’s fine,” you interrupt, though your voice comes out thinner than you want. “I didn’t mind.”

He nods, running a hand through his hair, clearly overthinking it already. “Right. Good. I just… yeah.”

Another silence settles between you, thick and awkward and heavy with everything you didn’t say while his arms were around you. The storm keeps raging outside, but inside, neither of you knows how to move forward from the way you just fit together so easily. A few minutes later, the lights flicker back on, the sudden brightness feels almost intrusive. Steve clears his throat. “Power’s back.”

“Yeah,” you say, though you haven’t moved.

He steps away fully this time, grabbing the flashlight like he needs something to do with his hands. You hug your arms around yourself, already missing the warmth you’d been wrapped in seconds ago. The storm keeps going, but the moment is gone. And neither of you knows how to bring it back—or how to pretend it didn’t mean something at all.

The storm drifts farther away, thunder fading into something distant and dull, like it’s finally run out of things to say. The house settles with it, creaks softening, the air feeling heavy but calm. Steve turns off the overhead light and leaves only the lamp in the corner on, dim and warm, like the room is exhaling after holding its breath too long.

Neither of you suggests sitting on the couch again. Instead, you end up on the floor without really deciding it, backs against the couch, legs stretched out in front of you. Steve grabs his jacket from where he tossed it earlier and drapes it over your shoulders before you can object. This time, you don’t even try.

You tug it closer around yourself, fingers curling into the fabric. It smells like him and comfort and something steady you didn’t realize you’d been craving all night. Steve sits close—close enough that your knees brush, close enough that the warmth of his body seeps through the space between you.

The house is quiet. No voices. No teasing. No interruptions. Just the soft tick of the clock on the wall and the hum of the refrigerator down the hall. It feels different without an audience.  You rest your head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “That was… intense,” you say softly.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. “Didn’t realize storms could still get to me like that.”

“Me neither.”

Another pause stretches between you, but it isn’t awkward this time. It’s thoughtful. Careful. Like both of you are finally letting the moment exist instead of trying to rush past it. Steve shifts beside you, slow and deliberate. You feel the movement before you see it—the way his shoulder nudges yours, the way he hesitates, then leans just enough for his head to rest lightly against your shoulder. Not heavy. Not demanding. Just there.

Your breath catches for half a second. Then you lean into him. It’s instinctive, the way your shoulder angles slightly to support his weight, the way your head tips toward his without thinking. You fit together easily, like you’ve done this a hundred times already and only now stopped pretending it was an accident.

Steve exhales softly, tension leaving him in a way that feels almost tangible. His hand rests near yours on the floor, close but not touching, fingers flexing once like he’s fighting the urge. “You don’t have to,” he says quietly, almost unsure. “If you’re uncomfortable, I mean.”

“I’m not,” you answer just as softly. “I’m… comfortable.”

The word feels important. Real. He hums under his breath, something like relief. His head settles more fully against your shoulder, and you feel the warmth of him seep deeper into you. The jacket slips a little, and he reaches out to tug it back into place, careful and gentle, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

You let your eyes close. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time feels strange in the quiet, stretched thin and soft around you both. The rain becomes background noise, steady and harmless now. Steve’s breathing evens out, slow and calm, and you realize with a flutter in your chest that he trusts you enough to relax like this.

It makes something ache behind your ribs. You shift just enough to rest your head against his, temple to temple, and he responds by sliding his hand a fraction closer, your pinkies brushing.

Neither of you moves away. If anyone walked in right now, there would be no excuses. No scrambling. No pretending this is just another accident. But no one does. The house stays quiet. The moment stays yours. And for the first time in a while, you’re not overthinking it. You’re just there, wrapped in his jacket, his presence steady and warm beside you, leaning into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world—because maybe, finally, it is.

A few days pass, and the tension doesn’t fade the way you half-expect it to. It doesn’t explode either. It just… sits there. Quiet. Heavy. Following you through grocery aisles and movie shelves and half-finished conversations like a shadow neither of you knows how to outrun.

So when Steve asks if you can come over to help him reorganize the basement—again—you say yes without thinking about it too hard. His basement smells faintly like dust and cardboard and the lemon cleaner he used upstairs, the combination oddly comforting. Old boxes line the walls, some half-open, some still taped shut, relics of a life that keeps trying to move forward while dragging pieces of the past along with it. Steve hands you a stack of things to sort, apologizing like it’s a personal failing that he owns so much stuff. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, already tugging open another box. “I can finish it later.”

“You’ve been saying ‘later’ for months,” you point out, kneeling beside him. “I’m here. It’s fine.”

He smiles at that, small and grateful, and it makes your chest feel tight in a way you don’t bother fighting anymore.

You work for a while in companionable quiet. Dust clings to your hands. Your legs get tired from crouching. At some point, you give up and lay flat on the carpet, stretching your arms over your head with a soft groan. “I forgot how exhausting cleaning is,” you mutter.

Steve laughs and drops down beside you, back hitting the carpet with a thump. “Yeah. It’s a scam. Someone should warn people.”

You turn your head toward him, smiling, and for a moment you just look at each other. He looks tired. Comfortable. Real. There’s a faint smudge of dust on his cheek you fight the urge to wipe away.

You don’t lie down together at first. Not really. There’s a careful space between you, enough distance to pretend you’re not thinking about how easily it would disappear. You talk instead—about stupid things, important things, everything in between. He tells you about his latest nightmare of showing up to work in roller skates. You tell him about the song you can’t get out of your head. You talk about how strange it feels when life is quiet after everything you’ve all been through.

The words get slower as time passes. Sentences trail off and thoughts drift. At some point, you realize your eyes have been closed for longer than a blink. That your breathing has synced with his. That the space between you has shrunk without permission being asked. You don’t mean to fall asleep. Neither does he.

When you wake, it’s gradual. Warmth first. Pressure second. Awareness last. You’re curled against him, your face tucked into his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you like it’s been there forever. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head. Your hand is fisted in his shirt, knuckles pressing into fabric like you anchored yourself there in your sleep. You don’t pull away.

Steve stirs a second later, breath hitching slightly when he realizes you’re awake. You feel the moment he becomes aware of the position you’re in, the way his arm tightens just a fraction instead of loosening. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough and low.

“Hey,” you answer.

Neither of you moves. The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward. It’s fragile. Honest.

Steve’s fingers shift, brushing your knuckles gently, like he’s testing whether the moment will break if he acknowledges it. When it doesn’t, he threads his fingers through yours, slow and deliberate. “I don’t know when this started,” he admits quietly, staring at your joined hands like they might give him answers. “I don’t know when I started… wanting this. These moments. Being close to you like this.”

Your heart beats hard against his chest.

“I just know,” he continues, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soft, nervous rhythm, “that I don’t want it to stop. And I’m scared to say that out loud because I don’t want to mess things up. But I think pretending nothing’s happening is worse.”

You lift your head enough to look at him, really look at him. His eyes are open and vulnerable, fixed on you like this matters more than anything else in the room. “I’ve been wanting this too,” you say quietly. “For a while now. I just didn’t know if I was allowed to.”

His breath leaves him in a shaky exhale, relief softening his features instantly. His hand tightens around yours, grounding, certain. “You are,” he says immediately. “You always have been.”

You smile, small and real, and lean back into him like you belong there. This time, there’s no pretending it’s an accident. No excuses. No scrambling away when the moment settles. He pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours, and you let yourself stay.

Because this time, when you fall asleep tangled together again, it isn’t a mistake.

It’s a choice.

Movie night at the Wheeler house should come with a hazard warning. There are pillows everywhere, blankets in increasingly questionable piles, and snacks disappearing at rates that defy the laws of physics. You and Steve barely sit down before the chorus begins.

“We’re out of pretzels!” Lucas announces like an alarm.

“Popcorn’s gone,” Mike adds, peering into the bowl like it betrayed him.

Max holds up an empty chip bag. “Tragic.”

Dustin clasps his hands together. “If someone doesn’t refill the snacks in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to pass away dramatically on this carpet.”

Eleven nods in agreement. “More chocolate.”

You and Steve exchange a look—one of those looks you’ve been trading far more often lately, the kind that’s half can you believe them? and half come on, let’s just do it. You both reach for the empty bowls at the same time and stand in perfect sync.

Mike gestures at the two of you heading toward the kitchen. “See? I told you. They’re like… a domestic relay team.”

Dustin nods solemnly. “It’s disturbing how coordinated they are.”

You don’t hear any of this because Steve holds the swinging kitchen door open for you, hand grazing the small of your back in a way that still sends a warm spark up your spine no matter how many times he does it now.

Inside, the kitchen is quiet, lit only by the overhead fixture. Bowls line the counter, the chip bags waiting to be opened. Steve sets his bowl down beside yours, fingers brushing yours in a way that feels far too intentional to be chalked up to coincidence anymore.

He doesn’t pull his hand away this time. Instead, he lets his fingers trail lightly along your wrist, soft and slow. You inhale, surprised by how bold he’s suddenly become, though the warm flush in his cheeks says he’s feeling the moment just as intensely as you are. “You good?” he asks softly, trying for casual but sounding like he cares a little too much.

You smile up at him, leaning slightly closer without thinking. “I’m good.”

“Good,” he says, relieved. His thumb brushes your wrist again, and he steps into your space just enough that you feel the heat of him… not touching you yet, but close. Very close.

There’s a small pause, and then he reaches up and brushes your cheek, fingers lingering a moment too long—just long enough to make your breath catch. You don’t look away, and he doesn’t either.

The room goes still around you, the storm from a few days ago replaced with something quieter, warmer, but just as electric. His gaze flicks down toward your lips, then back up to your eyes, and you know—know—that he’s seconds from leaning in.

You’re seconds from meeting him halfway. Which is, of course, the exact moment the kitchen door slams open so hard it hits the wall.

“What the hell is taking so long?” Max demands, then freezes the second she actually sees you and Steve standing way too close, hands basically touching, faces definitely not far enough apart to be innocent. Behind her, the rest of the Party piles up like a traffic jam.

Dustin’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. “I knew it!”

Lucas points dramatically at both of you. “This! This is exactly what I’ve been saying!”

Mike claps a hand over his face. “Oh my god, you were about to kiss. You were—oh my god.”

Eleven tilts her head, serene as ever. “They like each other,” she says simply, like she’s announcing the weather.

Will tries valiantly to stay neutral but fails, biting back a grin. “This is kind of adorable.”

You and Steve jump apart—or try to. He bumps the counter, you bump him, and the pretzel bowl nearly takes a dive before he catches it with reflexes that would impress even Hopper. Your face burns. Steve looks like he wants to crawl under the table and live there permanently. “We—we were just—snacks,” he stammers, holding up the bowl like proof in a trial.

“Yeah,” you add weakly, grabbing a bag of chips with shaking hands. “Just snacks.”

Dustin folds his arms, unimpressed. “If that’s what you call that, then I’ve been misusing the word ‘snacks’ my entire life.”

Max squints at Steve. “Are you seriously blushing? You’re blushing.”

“I’m not,” he lies terribly.

Eleven steps forward and gently pats your shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says sweetly. “We won’t tell Robin.”

“Oh my god,” Mike groans. “Please, please tell Robin. She’ll have a field day.”

Steve shoots him a murderous look. “Don’t you dare.”

But the damage is done. The kids are buzzing like they just discovered national treasure. They herd you and Steve back into the living room with far too much glee, and when you sit down on the couch, Steve hesitates for exactly one second before sitting close—closer than before, shoulder pressed to yours in a way that feels like a decision.

Max leans toward Lucas. “Told you. They were definitely a thing.”

Lucas smirks. “I’m just glad we got to witness it.”

Dustin sighs dreamily. “I’m so proud of them.”

Steve groans into his hands and you hide your smile in the popcorn bowl. And despite the chaos, despite the embarrassment, despite the kids narrating your love life like a nature documentary, Steve’s fingers find yours under the blanket, brushing softly before settling into a gentle, certain hold. This time, you hold on without hesitation.

The first time you realize everything has shifted for good, it’s over something stupid. You’re standing outside Family Video on a quiet evening, the sky soft with fading light, waiting for Steve to lock up. You’re wearing his jacket again—same one, same familiar weight on your shoulders—but this time no one’s questioning it. No teasing. No deflecting. No internal monologue about whether you’re allowed to want this.

It just is.

Steve finishes with the door, turns, and catches sight of you leaning against the railing, jacket collar pulled up against the breeze. His mouth curves into that easy, fond smile that still makes your chest tighten, like your body hasn’t quite gotten used to how good this feels yet. “You stealing my clothes again?” he asks, but there’s no edge to it. Only warmth.

“You keep offering them,” you reply. “Sounds like a you problem.”

He laughs and steps closer, fingers catching the lapel of the jacket without hesitation. He tugs you gently into his space, close enough that you can feel his warmth through the fabric, close enough that the answer to everything feels obvious.

Robin clears her throat loudly from the doorway. “If you two are about to do something nauseating, I want at least ten seconds’ warning.”

Steve doesn’t even look at her. He tips your chin up just a little and kisses you—slow and unhurried—right there in front of her. It’s soft and familiar and so easy it almost makes you laugh into it.

Robin makes a gagging noise so dramatic it echoes. “I hate this. I waited years for this and I still hate it.”

Steve pulls back just enough to grin. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re both disgusting,” she mutters, but she’s smiling when she turns the lights off inside.

Later, it’s movie night again. Same couch. Same blankets. Same pile of bowls that somehow always ends up empty too fast. The difference now is that there’s no pretending you don’t gravitate toward each other. You sit together on purpose. His arm goes around you without hesitation. Your legs tangle with his because you want them to.

The kids complain briefly—about the movie choice, about snacks, about literally everything—then settle in, the room filling with familiar noise and warmth. Steve drapes the blanket over both of you, tugging it snug around your shoulders, and presses a kiss into your hair like it’s instinct.

Halfway through the movie, you’re curled fully against him, cheek resting on his chest, his arm firm and secure around your waist. You can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the gentle rise and fall beneath your ear. His fingers trace absent patterns on your arm, slow and soothing, like he’s memorizing you. “You comfy?” he murmurs.

“Very,” you whisper back.

“Good,” he says, and the word carries more weight than it should.

You fall asleep like that. Not by accident. Not because you’re too tired to move. But because you want to. Tangled up under a shared blanket, surrounded by quiet laughter and the soft glow of the TV, the world finally feels calm in a way you didn’t know you were missing.

Steve presses his forehead to yours when he feels your breathing slow, his hold tightening just slightly, protective and sure. Everything feels easy now; warm, real. And for the first time in a long while, you’re not bracing for something to go wrong.

You’re just home.

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes

steve harrington: @miffysoo @obsessivelyadoring @sparklediscoladybug @chansmai @ruwaidahmulla @beaflowersfly @yellowbirdbluetoo @emmswcn @iladamercedes @kkittykiss

[bwbatta]

The one where you get together (1)

Abstract: Y/N and Sirius have been friends since they first met on the Hogwarts Express, so when they do get together, they decide not to tell their friends straight away. (Friends AU)

Pairing: Sirius Black x Lupin sister!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, talking about sexual content

Word Count: 3.5K

A/N: To celebrate reaching 500 followers, I’m dropping another mini series as a thank you to everyone who has shared and supported my work! Add yourself to my taglist here 

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You could still vividly remember the first time you met Sirius Black.

Boarding the train to Hogwarts the first time, you managed to find a compartment with your brother, Remus, before it was descended upon by two rowdy boys with large grins.

James Potter and Sirius Black had, with no hesitation, introduced themselves to you and you quickly became friends, especially when you pulled your money together and bought a various selection of chocolates from the trolley. When the sorting hat placed all of you in Gryffindor, it only reaffirmed your friendship.

It wasn’t just the four of you in your little group though, the boys were placed in a dormitory with another boy, Peter, and you shared a dorm with two other girls who also became fierce friends of yours; Lily Evans and Marlene McKinnon.

Of course, growing up together through Hogwarts had it’s arguments and fall outs, though somehow you always seemed to remain friends.

It wasn’t until your seventh, and final year of Hogwarts did the surprising pair of Lily and James get together which solidified your friendship group even further. Between Sirius and you, the bet you had made in your fourth year regarding when the pair would get together, finally came to an end where you had happily took your winnings with a smile and paid for a bottle of Firewhiskey to celebrate.

After graduating, you ended up moving in with Marlene, finding a perfect two bedroom flat for you to share, close to Diagon Alley. The boys had taken a page from your book with Sirius using some of his inheritance from his great uncle and buying a flat directly across the Leaky Cauldron.

Whilst he had invited Peter to also live with him and Remus, the boy politely refused with the intention to stay with his parents for a while.

James however, had asked Lily to move in with him almost the second they graduated and the pair had moved to a little cottage in Godric’s Hollow. It wasn’t long afterwards that James had proposed to Lily which led to the current series of events.

About an hour before, you and Marlene had walked down the aisle in the gardens of Potter Manor in your bridesmaids dresses, while Lily had donned a white dress and followed you. Standing opposite your brother and Sirius, the latter caught your eye when your friends said their wedding vows.

With a wink, Sirius had your attention and you weren’t exactly sure what it was that felt different, but something definitely did.

Keep reading

[nonetoon]

[nonetoon]

I made this in reference to comic/game stuff but I’m glad to see this one’s going over well with all the writers

[sarroora]

Reblog to give your followers and mutuals the strength to continue

[vunblr]

Roots and Branches

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff. Smut. Unprotected sex.

Summary: Bucky has built a quiet life in the woods, content to keep the world at arm's length. But when a new neighbor moves to town, her presence ignites emotions he’s hesitant to face.

Word Count: About 18.6k.

notes: I’ve been wanting to write a story in a lumberjack AU for a while now, and here it is. It ended up being longer than I expected, but I have no regrets. In my mind, Lumberjack!Bucky=Beefy!Bucky.

By the way, I’m still dreaming that someone, feeling inspired, creates Bucky as an NPC for Stardew Valley. I would kiss the ground that person walks on.

The city stretched behind her, a blur of steel and noise shrinking in the rearview mirror. Relief and uncertainty warred in her chest, but she clung tightly to the thought of what lay ahead. The town had always been her haven: sunlit summers chasing fireflies, her grandmother’s laughter ringing from the porch, and the quiet that once cradled her restless mind in peace.

It had been years since she’d last visited, but the constant noise, relentless crowds, and a recent, unsettling encounter had made city life unbearable. Her grandmother’s house, nestled at the edge of a sprawling forest, now felt like her only escape. It wasn’t perfect -her uncle had warned her about the repairs needed- but she’d gladly trade peeling paint and creaky floors for the chaos she was leaving behind. Besides, without rent to worry about and the freedom of her home-office proofreading job, she had the space and time to start over, one step at a time.

The road stretched endlessly before her, winding through rolling hills and patches of dense forest. The further she drove, the quieter it became. No blaring horns, no traffic, just the hum of her engine and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. She cracked the window, letting in the crisp scent of pine and earth.

For the first time in months, she felt her shoulders begin to relax. And then, with an ominous thunk, the car jerked to one side.

Her stomach sank as she guided the vehicle to the shoulder, the once-smooth ride now bumpier than a cobblestone street. Stepping out, she found her fears confirmed: the back tire sagged, utterly deflated.

“Of course,” she muttered, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Why not?”

She retrieved the jack and wrench from the trunk, determined to fix it herself. She wasn’t helpless, after all. But after twenty minutes of grunting, tugging, and nearly twisting her wrist, the lug nuts refused to budge. Maybe they just needed a little more effort.

Two hours later, she slumped against the side of the car, her arms aching and her patience long gone. She’d tried everything -kicking the wrench, sitting on it for leverage- everything except calling for help, though the lack of cell signal made that impossible. Her lip trembled as she bit down hard, determined not to let the tears of frustration win.

“You wanted quiet? You got quiet,” she muttered, her voice tight with irritation. Walking seemed like the only option now. Maybe she’d stumble upon a house, a gas station, anything. Resolving trying her luck, she locked the car and started forward, her boots crunching against the gravel shoulder.

The air hung heavy with stillness, broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The walk felt endless, each step feeding her doubts. What if there was nothing ahead? What if she’d made a mistake leaving the car? Just as she was debating turning back, a low rumble cut through the quiet.

She froze, breath hitching as her eyes darted down the empty road. The sound grew louder, unmistakably the steady growl of a truck engine. Relief flooded her chest, tempered by a flicker of caution.

Moving closer to the edge of the road, she raised a tentative hand to wave. Moments later, an old, sturdy truck came into view, slowing as it approached.

Bucky wasn’t in any rush. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting long shadows on the road ahead. He kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. The hum of the truck engine was a comforting sound, a backdrop to his thoughts.

As he rounded a gentle curve, something caught his eye up ahead: a car parked awkwardly on the shoulder. He frowned, slowing the truck. From the angle it was sitting, it didn’t look abandoned, but it wasn’t going anywhere either. A flat tire, maybe? His brow furrowed. Someone had to own it, but there wasn’t another soul in sight.

He continued slowly, his gaze drifting to the road ahead, and that’s when he spotted her. She stood near the edge of the road, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and her hand half-raised in a cautious wave. She didn’t look panicked, just tired, a little frustrated, and undeniably relieved to see another human being out here.

He brought the truck to a stop a few feet ahead of her, letting the engine idle as he leaned across the seat to glance out the passenger window. “Need some help?” he called, keeping his tone easy.

She stepped closer, her cautious wave lowering as she approached. When she stopped short of the truck, her polite smile faltered, her gaze locking on his face.

He didn’t notice at first, but she stared, caught off guard by the sight ahead of her. Shoulder-length dark hair framed handsome face, shadowed with a day or two of stubble. And those eyes… crystal blue, so piercing they looked like they belonged to the lead character of a romance novel rather than the driver of an old truck.

Her lips parted slightly as her thoughts ran wild. Maybe she was hallucinating. Two hours of frustration and the heat of the sun must have gotten to her, conjuring a guy from one of those pink-covered novels she’d been proofreading.

“You okay?” His voice pulled her back, laced with just enough concern to cut through the fog in her head.

She blinked rapidly, heat flooding her cheeks as she scrambled for an excuse. “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just… fatigue, I guess.” She gave a quick laugh, brushing her hair back as if that would somehow erase her embarrassment. “It’s been a long day.”

Bucky didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

She cleared her throat, trying to sound more composed. “I’d really appreciate the help. The tire’s flat and the lug nuts are stuck. I’ve tried everything, but they won’t budge.”

Bucky nodded again, shifting the truck into park before stepping out. “I saw the car back there. Mind if I take a look?”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she offered a more genuine smile. “Please. That’d be great.”

She couldn’t help but stare as he climbed out of the truck. It wasn’t just the striking eyes or the scruff that made him look like he’d stepped off a book cover, it was everything.

Worn jeans sat low on his hips, perfectly fitted to legs that spoke of strength and endurance. A red flannel shirt, snug across his broad shoulders and well-defined arms, hinted at a life of hard, honest work. His boots crunched against the gravel as he moved with an effortless confidence that made it nearly impossible to look away.

Yup, she thought, feeling her cheeks warm again. A lead character.

She snapped her gaze away, trying to focus on literally anything else, the road, the sky, her worn-out sneakers. But as he approached, the heat creeping up her neck didn’t fade.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his brow furrowing slightly.

She blinked and met his eyes, cursing herself for getting caught again. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine,” she said waving a hand. “Just tired, I guess. Two hours of trying to fight with a tire does that to you.”

He nodded slowly, and his expression softened. “Fair enough.”

She gestured vaguely toward her car in the distance. “It’s over there. I’d appreciate the help, it’s like the universe welded those lug nuts on.”

When they reached the car, she unlocked it and retrieved the tools from the trunk, setting them down beside the flat tire. She stepped back, watching as he crouched and took the wrench in his hand. With what seemed like no effort at all, he twisted the lug nuts loose, the metal giving way under his grip as if it had never been stuck in the first place. She stared again, biting her lip as her gaze lingered on how his forearm flexed under the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. Completely oblivious to her scrutiny, he worked in focused silence, switching out the flat tire with methodical ease. When he finished, he stood up, brushed the dust from his hands, and glanced at the car. His gaze snagged on the backseat, where duffel bags and boxes were crammed together.

“Looks like you’re movin’,” he said, his voice low and gruff.

She nodded, brushing her hands on her jeans as if she’d done any of the work. “Yeah, I am. Heading to town. My grandmother used to have a house there, I’m moving into it.”

Bucky glanced at her, his sharp blue eyes unreadable, but not unkind. “The old house near the woods?”

Her brows lifted in surprise. “Yeah, actually. You know it?”

He shrugged lightly, his gaze slipping to the ground. “Small town,” he murmured.

Unsure if his hesitation was discomfort or just shyness, she shifted her weight. “Well, thanks again for helping. I’m Y/n, by the way.”

He didn’t respond for a moment and then blinked, as if snapping out of a thought. “Bucky,” he said simply, his tone softening just enough to feel welcoming.

“Well, nice to meet you, Bucky.” Her smile was warm despite the long, frustrating day.

He nodded slightly, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before it disappeared. “You should get goin’,” he said after a pause. “Road’s pretty empty once it gets dark.”

She nodded, grateful. “Right. Thanks again.”

He gave a short nod before turning to his truck. She lingered for a moment, watching as he climbed into the cab and started the engine, before finally slipping into her car and pulling back onto the road.

He gave her a brief nod, turning to his truck without saying another word. She stood there for a moment, watching him go, before climbing into her car.

Bucky climbed into his truck, shutting the door with a quiet click. As the engine rumbled to life, his thumbs tapped idly on the steering wheel, his mind drifting. So, she was the woman moving into the old blue house, the one the old ladies in town had been gossiping about lately.

“Fresh face,” they’d said, curious and speculative. The kind of talk he usually tuned out, but now he could picture her, standing on the side of the road with that friendly smile.

His jaw tightened as he glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of her car pulling back onto the road. Attractive, sure, but that wasn’t his business. He wasn’t in the habit of noticing things like that anymore, or at least, he tried not to.

Shaking his head slightly, he put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the road.

------------

She reached the house in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun painting the wooden structure in warm tones. From a distance, it looked charming, but as she got closer, the years of neglect became more apparent. A shutter hung by a single hinge, swinging slightly in the breeze, and the porch sagged in the middle, its boards warped and cracked.

It didn’t seem unlivable, though, and for that, she was grateful. The windows were intact, the roof looked solid, and the front door swung open without resistance when she unlocked it. She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell of a house left empty for too long. Dust coated the floors and every surface in sight, but nothing that a good cleaning wouldn’t fix.

Walking through the rooms, she made a mental list of things that needed attention. The walls could use fresh paint, the porch would definitely need repairs before it became a hazard, and a few wobbly cabinet doors in the kitchen caught her eye. It was all manageable.

By the time she returned to the living room, she realized the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the house in shadows. She flipped the light switch by the door, but nothing happened. A quick check of the other switches confirmed her suspicion, there wasn’t a single light bulb in the entire property.

“Figures,” she muttered, setting her hands on her hips. Luckily, she’d packed a portable lamp. Its soft glow filled the room as she set it on the floor and unrolled her sleeping bag in the corner, where the old sofa used to sit.

Dinner was a simple affair: a cup of instant noodles and a bottle of water, eaten cross-legged on the floor. She was too tired to think about anything elaborate, and the stillness of the house was oddly comforting after the chaos of the city.

Her thoughts drifted back to the day’s events, replaying the encounter on the road. Bucky’s face flickered in her mind, those piercing blue eyes, the way his long, dark hair framed his sharp features, the slight rasp to his voice when he’d asked if she was okay. She bit her lip, and the memory of the way he’d effortlessly changed the tire brought a faint smile to her lips as her eyelids grew heavy. The moving truck will arrive by morning, and with better lighting, she’ll assess the house and start making it livable. Ideally, she would have cleaned beforehand, but the moving company only had that date available, so she didn’t have much choice.

----------

Right at 8 o’clock sharp, the rumble of the moving truck echoed down the quiet street. She stepped outside, greeting the movers and directing them where to place the furniture. It didn’t take long to realize the porch’s sagging boards were going to be a problem. One mover nearly put his foot through a weakened plank, and after a few close calls, they opted to bring in as much as possible through the windows.

After tipping the movers and seeing them off, she grabbed her bag and headed into town. The general store was easy to find, nestled on the main street between a bakery and a small diner. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air as she pushed open the store’s creaky door, the tiny bell overhead jingling.

Inside, the aisles were narrow and well-stocked, offering everything from cleaning supplies to locally-made jams. She grabbed a basket and began filling it with essentials: sponges, dish soap, floor cleaner, and a few staples for the pantry.

At the checkout line, she felt the weight of a few curious stares. Small towns were like that, everyone wanted to know who the newcomer was. A man in line behind her gave her a polite nod, and a couple of women nearby exchanged whispers before one of them, an older lady with a kind smile, stepped forward.

“Moving into the old blue house on Maple, aren’t you?” the woman asked, her voice warm and curious.

She blinked, surprised but not entirely caught off guard. “That’s right,” she said, returning the smile. “Spent summers there as a kid. It’s been a while, though.”

“Well, welcome back,” the woman said, clasping her hands. “I’m Dorothy. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Actually…” she hesitated, seizing the moment. “The house needs a bit of work, especially the porch. Do you know a good carpenter?”

Dorothy’s face lit up. “Sam Wilson’s the man you’re looking for. Runs a workshop just outside town. He’s dependable and does fine work. I’ll jot down his address for you.”

After paying for her items, she loaded everything into the car and headed toward the workshop. The drive was short, and soon she spotted a neatly painted sign that read Wilson Woodworks. The building was modest but well-kept, with stacks of lumber and partially finished projects visible through the open garage door.

Grabbing her notepad and pen, she stepped out of the car, hoping Sam would be able to help bring her grandmother’s house back to life.

The workshop smelled of sawdust and varnish, the soft hum of a saw cutting through wood filling the air. She peered curiously through the open entry, her gaze scanning the neatly organized chaos: tools hanging on pegboards, wood shavings scattered across the floor, and a workbench cluttered with projects in progress. Near the center of the space stood a man in a faded gray t-shirt and jeans, his sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms. His easy smile and confident posture immediately struck her as someone who knew his craft.

“Sam Wilson?” she asked, stepping further inside.

The man turned, his grin widening. “That’s me,” he replied warmly. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi. I’m Y/n. I just moved into town, to the old blue house on Maple Street. The porch is in pretty bad shape, and I was told you’re the one to call.”

Sam gave an approving nod, wiping his hands on a nearby rag. “Maple Street, huh? Yeah, I’ve worked on a couple of those houses. They’ve got good bones but can be stubborn. I’d have to take a look before I can give you a plan.”

“Of course,” she said, relieved. “When do you think you’d be able to-”

Before she could finish, a gruff voice interrupted from the back of the shop. “Sam, I told you that damn hinge on the-”

Bucky appeared, stepping out from what looked like a storage area, drying his hands on a towel. His words faltered the moment he spotted her, his blue eyes locking onto hers in surprise. He froze for a moment, the towel still in his hand, before nodding stiffly.

“Hey,” he said, with a cautious tone.

She offered him a small, friendly smile. “Hello again.”

Sam’s gaze darted between the two of them, a knowing grin spreading across his face like a Cheshire cat. “Well, well,” he drawled. “You two already know each other so soon?”

Bucky shot him a look -half warning, half exasperation- but Sam’s grin only widened.

“We met yesterday,” she explained, glancing between them. “Bucky helped me with a flat tire.”

“Did he now?” Sam leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms. “Man of many talents, huh, Buck?”

Bucky muttered something under his breath, his ears turning slightly red as he turned away to busy himself with a random piece of wood.

Sam laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Don’t let him fool you,” he said to her, his tone light. “He’s a softie under all that brooding.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, unable to suppress a smile.

Bucky’s muttering grew quieter as he moved further into the workshop, but Sam wasn’t done. “You’re in luck, though,” he said to her, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think you’re gonna give his wood a good use.”

She let out a small laugh, not entirely sure why but unwilling to seem rude. “Well, I’ll do my best,” she said with a shrug, hoping that was the right response.

The sound of tools crashing followed by a sharp, muttered curse that carried through the workshop interrupted the exchange, and she turned toward the source. “Is he okay?”

Sam smirked, his tone teasing as he said, “Oh, he’s just fine. Just gets a little... tense when his work’s involved. My friend here is one of my suppliers. Keeps me stocked up on the best lumber in town.”

“Oh, I see,” she replied, her gaze briefly flicking toward where Bucky had disappeared. Inwardly, she couldn’t help but think that his... thick build seemed to match with the work lumber suppliers did. “So, should we arrange a time for you to come by and look at the porch?” she asked, mentally slapping herself and steering the conversation back on track.

Sam grinned, leaning casually against the counter. “Tomorrow works for you? Say mid-morning?”

“That sounds great,” she agreed, already mentally listing what she might need to tidy up before his visit.

As her car disappeared down the road, Bucky emerged from the back of the workshop, his steps deliberate and brooding as he approached Sam.

“What was that?” he asked, his voice low but edged with irritation.

Sam raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he crossed his arms. “What was what?”

“You know what,” Bucky growled, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t.”

Sam held up his hands, his expression mock-innocent. “Don’t what? You’re projecting, man. She’s just a new neighbor who needs some help with her porch. That’s all.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping even lower. “Whatever your bird brain is planning on doing, don’t. I’m not... Just stay out of my business.”

Sam gave him a sidelong look, clearly unimpressed by Bucky’s gruff warning. “You think too highly of yourself, Barnes,” he said with a smirk. “I’m just trying to help the lady out, same as you did.”

The logger threw one last dirty glance at Sam, muttering under his breath. “Next cargo’s in four days,” he grumbled, already heading for the door.

Sam’s amused chuckle followed him, but Bucky ignored it, his boots hitting the workshop floor with heavy steps.

As he reached the truck, a sharp twinge in his left arm made him curse softly. He grabbed it, flexing his fingers out of habit, then glanced up at the sky. It was streaked with soft clouds, their innocent appearance at odds with what he felt brewing in the air.

A storm was coming.

It wasn’t something anyone could see yet, but Bucky didn’t need a weather report. Since his arm had been crushed in Afghanistan, leaving him with orthopedic implants and lingering aches, he could always tell when the pressure was about to shift.

He flexed his arm again, rolling his shoulder to ease the discomfort. The storm would hit soon, inside and out.

Sliding into the truck, he decided to stop by the general store on the way home. He needed a bottle of scotch. Maybe two.

It was shaping up to be one of those nights.

When she got back to the house, she dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and let out a sigh. She glanced around at the dim, dusty space and resolved to tackle it head-on. After eating a quick sandwich, she got to work.

The first task was the lightbulbs, all of them. Room by room, she placed them, swearing quietly each time she had to stretch on tiptoe or drag a chair around. Next came the cleaning. By the time she was almost finished, it was late afternoon. She stood in the middle of the living room, exhausted and sweaty, a few stubborn cobwebs clinging to her sleeves. She pushed her hair off her forehead and noticed, through the newly cleaned windows, the unmistakable sight of grey clouds gathering on the horizon.

“Great,” she muttered, dragging the vacuum to a corner. She glanced up at the ceiling, half expecting to see a stain forming already. “Please, no leaks. Just this once, let me have some luck.” The wind outside began to pick up, rattling the loose shutter on the porch. She grimaced. The house might not be falling apart, but it wasn’t going to win any awards for weatherproofing either.

She pulled the last bag of cleaning supplies toward her, determined to finish what she could before the storm hit.

The rhythmic patter of rain on the roof accompanied her as she sat at the small kitchen table, nursing a simple dinner. Her arms ached pleasantly from the day’s cleaning spree, her newly functional lightbulbs casting a warm glow over the room. Despite the state of the house when she’d arrived, it felt more like a home now, or at least the beginning of one.

The rain grew heavier, drumming steadily against the windows as she finished eating and washed her dishes. With a satisfied sigh, she headed for the bathroom. The steamy warmth of the shower was a welcome reprieve, washing away the grime and fatigue of the day. She closed her eyes as the water cascaded down, her mind meandering to the list of things she still needed to tackle.

The porch needs fixing first. Maybe some paint for the walls. And that loose shutter... her lips curled into a soft, almost dreamy smile as her thoughts drifted to Bucky. She bit her lip, suppressing a laugh at herself. It had been a while since she’d had anyone to daydream about, and maybe it was just her exhaustion playing tricks on her. Clearly, she needed a break from all these romance novels. The irony wasn’t lost on her, spending her days proofreading swooning declarations and lingering glances wasn’t helping her sanity.

On the other side of town, the rain was more than just a backdrop for Bucky, it was a trigger, a reminder. He sat on the kitchen floor, his back pressed against the counter, cradling a bottle of scotch in one hand and absently flexing the fingers of his left arm with the other. The pain in his left arm wasn’t unbearable -he’d had worse- but the weather had settled into his bones.

One would think Afghanistan’s climate rarely saw rain, but he knew better. In the northern regions, heavy rains could flood entire valleys in minutes, turning the ground into treacherous mud. It wasn’t just the water he remembered, but the chaos it brought. Mud-caked boots slipping on uneven terrain. The deafening crack of gunfire cutting through the downpour. The screams of comrades who’d never make it out of the storm, swallowed by water and bullets alike.

He closed his eyes tightly, forcing the memories away, but the rain’s steady rhythm seemed determined to drag him back. He took a long swig from the bottle, the burn of the alcohol a poor distraction for his haunted mind.

And then, unbidden, he thought of her.

The way she’d smiled at him earlier today at Sam’s workshop. Like she was genuinely glad to see him. He shook his head sharply, scowling at himself. He didn’t deserve to think about her. Didn’t deserve to let himself linger on the way she’d looked at him with curiosity instead of judgment. He was a broken-down man who knew better than to let anyone get close. The rain’s rhythm matched the pounding in his head, and he rubbed his temple with a quiet groan. Thinking about her was a mistake, one he couldn’t afford to make.

------------

The low hum of a truck pulling up broke the peaceful morning. She peeked out the window, spotting Sam hopping out with a clipboard in hand, a tape measure clipped to his belt. His easy smile greeted her as she opened the door.

“Morning,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Ready to figure out what your little slice of heaven here needs?”

She chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. “Let’s call it a fixer-upper and go from there.”

Sam gave a low whistle as he stepped onto the sagging porch. “First thing’s first, this baby needs a lot of love. I’m surprised it’s holding up at all.” He tapped one of the warped boards with his boot, and it creaked ominously.

“Well, that’s why you’re here,” she replied lightly, crossing her arms.

They walked the perimeter of the house as Sam scribbled notes on his clipboard, occasionally pausing to point out things that needed attention, a loose shutter here, a weathered doorframe there. He climbed the porch steps again, shaking his head. “You’re lucky nothing major’s out of whack, though this porch... Yeah, we’ll start here.”

She nodded, leaning against the railing -carefully-. “Sounds good. So, what’s next?”

Sam grinned, snapping the clipboard shut. “Now comes the fun part, asking nosy questions while I figure out how to turn this place into a proper home. Where’d you move from?”

“City,” she said, her gaze flicking to the overgrown yard. “Needed a change. Too much noise, too many people.”

He nodded like he understood perfectly. “Yeah, city life can wear you down. And what do you do for work? So that I know if I ever need something specific.”

“I’m a proofreader,” she replied. “Not exactly glamorous, but it lets me work from anywhere.”

He chuckled. “Sounds pretty glamorous to me. Living the dream: working in pajamas, no one to bother you.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Not quite. Deadlines don’t care if you’re in pajamas.”

“Fair point,” Sam said, scribbling something on his clipboard. He glanced at her casually. “Anyone special missing you back in the city?”

Her brow furrowed slightly, caught off guard. “Uh, no. Why?”

“No reason,” he said with an exaggerated shrug, flashing his most innocent grin. “We small-town folks are just naturally curious.” Satisfied, he tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Well,” he said, turning on the charm, “I’ll put together a plan for the porch and those other fixes we talked about. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Thanks, Sam,” she said, smiling warmly.

He tipped his imaginary hat again. “Happy to help.” As he walked back to his truck, he patted the clipboard storing every little detail she’d just shared. Oh, he’d have fun with this later.

Over the next few days, she found herself settling deeper into the rhythm of small-town life. Locals stopped to chat whenever she ran errands, and she was finally starting to remember their names. The house was slowly transforming under her care, each repair bringing it closer to what she remembered from her childhood summers.

And then there was Bucky. He was a puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet. Quiet and guarded one moment, then unexpectedly kind the next. Their paths seemed to cross more often now. It wasn’t intentional, but each encounter left her feeling like she’d peeled back another layer of his carefully constructed wall.

The first time it happened, she was in the general store, arms full of cleaning supplies and pantry staples, along with a guilty indulgence or two. As she stepped into the checkout line, she spotted him just ahead of her with a modest basket of items, his broad shoulders blocking most of her view of the cashier.

As she shuffled forward, her eyes drifted to his basket. Among the practical items -bread, coffee, and what looked like a pack of nails- sat a brightly colored box of dinosaur-shaped mac and cheese.

She couldn’t help herself. “Didn’t peg you for the novelty pasta type.” She quipped lightly, a teasing smile curling her lips.

Bucky turned his head sharply, caught off guard. He glanced at the box, then back at her, a faint pink tinting his cheeks, as he muttered “They’re easy. And cheap.”

The combination of his flustered tone and stoic expression made her grin. “Hey, no judgment. Dinosaurs are awesome. I’d pick those over plain elbows any day.”

His lips twitched, just slightly, but enough to count. “You’ve got good taste,” he said, the faintest trace of a smirk softening his features.

The cashier rang up his items, and he moved through quickly, nodding politely as he passed her. But as she finished paying and struggled to balance her bags, she found him lingering outside near his truck.

“Need a hand?” he asked gruffly, though he was already moving toward her.

She hesitated for a moment before relenting. “If you don’t mind.”

Without a word, he scooped up the heaviest bags as if they weighed nothing. She blinked at the sight, muscles flexing under his worn henley.

“Thanks,” she said, slightly breathless, trying to keep up as he strode to her car.

“Welcome,” he said simply, setting the bags in her trunk with ease. His gaze flicked to her briefly, and he almost looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he just gave a curt nod and walked back to his truck.

It was only a few days later when they ran into each other again, this time at the post office. She had just picked up a package that was almost comically large, far too awkward for one person to handle easily. Balancing it against her hip, she tried to maneuver her way out of the building without dropping it, muttering a steady stream of curses under her breath.

Just as the box tilted precariously, a hand appeared to steady it, large and sure.

“Careful,” came the familiar low drawl.

She blinked, startled, and looked up into a pair of blue eyes she was starting to recognize all too well. “Thanks,” she said, exhaling in relief. “Starting to think you have impeccable timing.”

His lips twitched, that almost-smile she was beginning to appreciate flickering across his face. “Just passing through.” He replied, shifting his grip on the package and effortlessly hoisting it up, carrying it like it weighed nothing at all.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” he stated simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. He glanced at her car and walked toward it.

She trailed behind him as he easily strode with the package. By the time she unlocked the trunk, he deposited the box neatly inside, brushing his hands off quickly.

“Thanks,” she said again, feeling a little useless but sincerely grateful.

“It’s nothin’,” he replied, already stepping back. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer than usual before he turned toward his truck, parked a few spaces down.

She watched him go, following the deliberate, measured way he moved. Just as he reached his door, she called out impulsively, “I owe you one, you know.”

He paused, glancing back at her with a quirk of his brow. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. And then he was gone, leaving her with a warm, unexpected feeling she carried all the way home.

The days that followed were quiet but productive. Between finishing work assignments, and tinkering with small projects around the house, she hardly noticed how much time she spent indoors until her eyes began to ache from staring at her laptop screen for hours on end.

One crisp morning, the allure of fresh air proved too strong to resist. She decided to take a walk in the woods, craving a change of scenery. It had been years since the last time she’d wandered those familiar paths, but she still remembered some of the trails from her childhood summers.

As she wandered along the narrow dirt trail, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in golden shafts painted the forest in a warm, serene glow. She hadn’t expected to encounter anyone out here, but the steady, rhythmic thwack of an axe meeting wood broke through the quiet, catching her attention.

Curiosity stirred, and before she could think better of it, she found herself following the sound, her footsteps light on the soft earth.

There he was, in a small clearing just off the trail, splitting logs with effortless precision. Bucky’s axe swung high before coming down in a clean arc, the sharp crack of splitting wood breaking the stillness. A neat pile of firewood grew beside him, while fresh rounds waited in a haphazard stack.

He hadn’t noticed her yet, too focused on his work, and she found herself lingering longer than she should have, watching the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt and how his hair stuck to his forehead.

When he finally glanced up and spotted her, her stomach flipped. His brows knit together in mild surprise, and he straightened, propping the axe against a nearby stump.

“You lost?” he asked, with a low and even voice, though his tone wasn’t unkind.

She stepped closer, shaking her head. “No, just wandering. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” he said, grabbing a rag from the pile and wiping his hands. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, like he was trying to piece together why she was there. “Trail gets tricky up ahead. Lots of roots and uneven ground.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, glancing around the clearing. “This your spot?”

He nodded once. “Helps to stay busy.”

She looked at the pile of wood, then back at him. “Looks like more than just ‘staying busy.’”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Winters here are rough.”

There was a pause, not quite awkward, but heavy. She shifted her weight, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, it’s impressive. I mean, you make it look easy.”

“It’s not,” he said simply, picking up the axe again. “But you get used to it.”

She lingered, unsure if she should say more or let him get back to work. He tilted his head slightly, watching her with a curious expression.

“You like the woods?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling softly. “It’s peaceful out here. Different from the city.”

His gaze flicked back to the axe in his hand. “It is.” There was a weight to his words, hinting at something deeper than just the stillness of the woods, but she chose not to push.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” she said finally, offering him a polite nod.

“Careful on the trail,” he said again, his voice softer this time.

As she turned to leave, she couldn’t resist glancing back over her shoulder. He was already back to work, the axe slicing clean through another log. She bit her lip, shaking her head at herself as she continued down the trail.

He sighed. Winters are rough? That was the polite answer, the one people accepted without a second glance. The truth was darker, heavier. Every time the weight of old memories clawed at him -screams, chaos, the suffocating fear that came into walking a dark tunnel that could bury him alive- he found his solace in the rhythmic swing of an axe. Splitting firewood was his refuge, the repetitive motion carving out a rare emptiness in his mind.

He kept chopping, waiting until he was sure she wouldn’t glance back again. Then, he let himself linger, his eyes following her retreating form.

He was interested.

Shit.

Sam hadn’t been helping either, dropping “innocent” tidbits about her, like breadcrumbs, every time they crossed paths. How she worked from home. How she wasn’t seeing anyone. How she seemed to be settling in, though she was still getting used to small-town life. Bucky could tell Sam was trying to nudge him, but it only stirred something conflicted in him.

On one hand, he was drawn to her, from her curves to the way she smiled, also, the way her voice provoked a warmth in him he hadn’t felt in years. On the other hand, the thought of pursuing something -anything- good for himself felt... wrong. Like he didn’t deserve it.

And then there was the matter of simply not knowing how.

He was out of shape when it came to people. Always had been, even before life turned upside down. Now, with scars inside and out, the idea of approaching her felt like staring down at a puzzle he didn’t have the pieces for.

What would he even say? What would she think if she knew the mess he was?

Bucky swung the axe harder, the sharp crack of the log splitting echoing through the clearing. He flexed his fingers and tightened his jaw.

For now, all he could do was chop and hope the noise drowned out the voice in his head whispering that he wasn’t enough.

Over the next couple of months, the little town started to feel less like a temporary retreat and more like a place she could call home. The older women gushed over her porch restoration project and eagerly shared gardening tips, while the crowd closer to her age welcomed her into their fold with invitations for coffee dates or potluck dinners.

And then there was Bucky.

Though technically part of that age group, he was absent from most social gatherings. She couldn’t picture him at a potluck, anyway, sitting around sharing recipes or small talk. It just wasn’t him. Yet, in his own quiet way, he’d become more present in her life.

Bit by bit, he seemed to uncoil from whatever tension held him so tightly. He started to linger longer during their chance encounters, sometimes surprising them both with a dry, unexpected joke. Other times, he’d pitch in with simple acts of kindness, like carrying eventually heavy stuff to her car, or even fixing the wobbly step on her porch when Sam got busier and asked him to do it. He could have said no, but he still came, quietly getting the job done without any fanfare.

-----------

Then, the announcement of the annual town festival brought a new wave of excitement. It was the event of the season, where everyone came together to celebrate the town's founding. Without much hesitation, she signed up to contribute, deciding to sell pies and baked goods. Not only was it a way to contribute to the celebration, but it was also a chance to make a little extra income for the ongoing repairs to the house. The porch was done, but there was still plenty of work to do: fresh paint, creaky floorboards, and other little fixes that added up.

So, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The week leading up to the festival was a whirlwind of flour-dusted counters and the comforting aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. She tested each recipe to make sure they were just like her grandmother used to make.

The excitement of the upcoming festival settled over the town, and she felt like she was becoming part of something bigger, a tradition, a community.

Meanwhile, word had spread that she was setting up a booth to sell her pies. Sam, always the one to keep an ear to the ground, couldn't help but tease Bucky one morning while they were working on a new batch of supplies for the festival booths. They were building the structure for several of the vendors, and Bucky had come by to help with the heavier lifting, always lending a hand when needed.

“She’s doing a booth, huh?” Sam asked with a knowing grin as he hammered in a final nail. “Maybe you should swing by, get yourself a little sugar, hm?”

Bucky’s response was as sharp as ever. “Shut up, Wilson,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he worked, but Sam could see the way his shoulders stiffened, the way he held himself a little straighter.

He stayed silent for a beat, focusing on the sturdy plank of wood he was planing down. The rhythmic scrape of the tool seemed to be the only thing keeping him calm. Sam, however, was never one to let a good opportunity slip by.

“I’m just saying,” Sam pressed on, leaning casually against the workbench, “she’s single, she’s sweet, and she seems to like you.” He smirked, his tone teetering on playful. “You could, y’know, take a shot. Maybe buy a pie while you’re at it. You can’t live on just dino-shaped mac and cheese.”

Bucky huffed a humorless laugh, setting the plane down with a bit more force than intended. “And what would I even say to her, huh? ‘Hi, I’m good at chopping wood and screwing things up.’ That’s a real winner.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You don’t have to lead with the self-deprecating monologue, man. Just... be you. You’re a good guy, Buck, even if you refuse to see it.” He straightened, resting a hand on his hip. “And she’s clearly got some interest. Not every woman looks at a guy like he’s the only steady thing in a storm.”

Bucky shot him a sharp look, the tips of his ears unmistakably pink. “She doesn’t-“

“Oh, she does,” Sam interrupted with a grin that widened at Bucky’s growing discomfort. “And you’d see it too if you didn’t spend so much time convincing yourself you’re not worth her attention.”

For a long moment, Bucky said nothing, his jaw tightening as he flexed his left hand, a tell Sam recognized far too well. Finally, he sighed, leaning his weight on the workbench. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Sam agreed, his tone softening. “But you don’t have to figure it all out today. Start small. Talk to her at the festival. Buy a pie. Hell, buy the whole booth if you have to.” He clapped Bucky on the shoulder, eliciting a grunt. “Just don’t let this pass you by.”

----------

The day of the festival arrived, and the town square buzzed with life. Booths lined the streets, each one bursting with local goods: handmade crafts, fresh produce, and jars of preserves. Children darted through the crowds, their faces painted like butterflies or superheroes, their laughter weaving through the cheerful hum of a local band playing in the distance.

Her booth stood out in its simplicity, decorated with gingham tablecloths and jars of freshly picked flowers from her garden. The pies were the centerpiece, their golden crusts glistening in the sunlight, flanked by trays of cookies and jars of homemade jam.

She adjusted the sign that read “Baked Goods – From Granny’s Recipe Box” and stepped back, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

The day unfolded in a whirlwind of chatter and laughter. Her booth was busier than she’d dared to hope, a steady stream of customers stopping to sample the pies or chat about the sign. Compliments came easily from the townsfolk, praising her buttery crusts and spiced fillings. Each kind word felt like a little victory, her heart swelling with the realization that she was becoming a part of the community.

The sun climbed higher into the sky, casting warm golden light over the bustling festival. Her booth remained busy, the stream of smiling faces keeping her occupied and distracted, though not enough to stop her from glancing through the crowd now and then.

By mid-afternoon, Sam strolled up, hands in his pockets and an easy grin on his face. "Well, well. Look at you, baking queen," he teased.

She laughed, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Hardly. But I’ll take it. Want a slice?”

Sam leaned on the edge of the booth, scanning the offerings. “Tempting, but I might be here on more of a reconnaissance mission.”

Her brow lifted. “What kind of mission?”

“You know, checking in, seeing how you're doing, and maybe scouting for a certain broody lumberjack.” He winked, and she rolled her eyes with a chuckle.

“Let me guess, he sent you to grab a pie?” she joked, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Bucky? Nah.” Sam’s grin dimmed slightly, and he gave a small shrug. “Didn’t see him around earlier. Honestly, he might not even show. Festivals aren’t really his thing.”

She tried to keep the disappointment off her face, focusing instead on adjusting a jar of jam on the table. Sam caught the subtle shift in her expression, his teasing smile softening.

“He’s around,” Sam said casually, leaning an elbow on the edge of the booth. “Bucky’s just… not much of a crowd guy. Give him time.”

Her fingers paused on the jar, but she didn’t look up. “I wasn’t-”

“Sure you weren’t,” Sam interrupted with a knowing grin. “But I wouldn’t hold it against him. People aren’t really his thing. Except, maybe, certain people.”

She rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a small smile despite herself. “And you’re just full of insight, aren’t you?”

“Hey, I’m just observin’.” He straightened up, grabbing a cookie from the tray. “And I’ll take one of these for the road. Festival’s not complete without snacks.”

She shook her head, amused as Sam strolled off, leaving her alone to greet the next customer.

The hours passed in a blur of chatter and sales, the sun dipping lower in the sky. She’d almost stopped scanning the square for him when, late in the afternoon, a familiar figure emerged.

Bucky walked slowly, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, his gaze flicking over the booths like he wasn’t sure where to go. Then he spotted her. His shoulders straightened, and their eyes met across the square. For a moment, neither moved. Then, with an almost sheepish hesitation, he started toward her.

Each step closer felt like a mistake, and yet he didn’t stop. His eyes took in the sight of her booth, tidy and charming, and then her. She wore a casual dress under a cardigan, and a frilly apron tied neatly around her waist, the image of a vintage housewife. The dress fit snugly at her chest, the fabric pulling slightly when she moved to rearrange something on the table. It wasn’t anything overly revealing, but it didn’t matter; all of the visual information seemed to bypass his brain entirely and head directly to the south. He swallowed hard, trying to redirect his focus before he embarrassed himself.

“Hey,” he said when he reached the booth, his voice a little softer than he intended. He scratched the back of his neck, glancing briefly at the display of pies and jars before forcing himself to meet her eyes.

“Hi,” she replied, her face lighting up in a way that made the whole awkward journey worth it.

“I, uh... thought I’d stop by,” he continued, the words fumbling slightly as he fought the urge to retreat. “Looks like business is good.” He gestured vaguely at the booth, trying to seem casual, though his pulse was anything but.

“It’s been steady,” she said, her smile warm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”

Her words made him hesitate, but only briefly. He nodded toward the pies, his lips twitching into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss is about.”

“And?” she asked, a playful glint in her eye. “Are you finding the fuss justified?”

He looked at her then, his gaze lingering in a way that made her shift her weight slightly. His lips quirked into the faintest smirk. “Seen a few tempting products,” he said, his voice low, almost teasing.

Was that... a double meaning? She wasn’t sure, but the way her stomach flipped at his tone left her biting her lip to suppress a smile.

“Well,” she said, leaning slightly against the booth, “what might you be interested in, then?”

“Got any plum jam?” he asked after a moment, his eyes scanning the jars displayed on the table.

She winced apologetically. “Sorry, sold out this morning. It’s a popular one.”

He gave a small nod, not seeming too put out. “Guess I’ll settle for a slice of apple pie, then.”

“You won’t regret it,” she said, quickly cutting a generous slice and placing it in a little paper dish. As she handed it to him, their fingers brushed briefly, a small, electric jolt of contact that she tried not to overthink.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his gaze flickering back to hers for a split second before focusing intently on the pie. He took a bite, and the deep, guttural groan that escaped him had her blinking in surprise, and then staring at him, very much not with pure thoughts.

Her gaze dropped helplessly to his mouth, where a small dollop of apple mush clung stubbornly to the corner of his lips. Oh, how she’d love to help him clean that up, maybe even by lapping it up herself. The thought had her throat going dry. “Uh, you have... there,” she managed, signaling to her own mouth because words failed her entirely.

He frowned slightly, his thumb swiping at his lips. When he missed, she gave a quick, stifled laugh, shaking her head and pointing more precisely. His next attempt was successful, and when he scooped the apple filling with his thumb and licked it clean off, her breath caught.

That should be illegal.

“Damn,” he said, glancing down at the pie with newfound respect. “Guess you can marry now.”

She blinked, startled. “What?”

His ears reddened as he fumbled for an explanation, suddenly realizing how strange that sounded. “Uh... my ma used to say... I mean, like, if a woman could cook well, she’d be ready for marriage, or something… uh, forget it.” He waved a hand, suddenly looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

“Oh no,” she said, crossing her arms and quirking a brow, her lips twitching in amusement. “Now I really want to know what your ma used to say.”

“My ma used to say,” he admitted reluctantly, “a woman who can bake a pie like this could keep a man happy for life.”

As the words left his mouth, he realized -really realized- what he’d just said. Bringing up marriage, even indirectly, in what was supposed to be casual conversation? A new low, even for him. His inward grimace was immediate, a mortifying mix of regret and disbelief at his own lack of subtlety.

She blinked at him, her head tilting slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “Well,” she said slowly, the edge of her lip quirking up, “Bet she was the kind of person who made everyone feel at home.”

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, she... she was something.” Hoping to steer the moment away from the awkward territory he’d stumbled into, he gestured vaguely to the booth. “Anyway, uh... pie’s great. Really.”

“Thanks, Bucky. I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my granny’s best recipes.” She smiled warmly

He nodded, his lips twitching into something close to a smile. “She taught you well.”

That earned a soft laugh from her. “Yeah, she’d make me practice until I got it just right. Burned a lot of pies before this one.”

The conversation lingered as they eased into a rhythm, the earlier tension giving way to something more relaxed. She asked about his work, curious about how he supplied Sam with lumber, and he surprised her by sharing a bit more than usual talking about the care it took to choose the right trees and how the process wasn’t just chopping wood but understanding the forest itself.

“You make it sound like an art,” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“Guess it kinda is,” he admitted. “You’ve gotta respect it. If you don’t, it shows in the work.”

Before she could respond, a familiar voice interrupted, cutting through their moment like a buzz saw.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up!”

Sam’s broad grin was radiant as he strolled up to the booth, hands tucked casually into his pockets.

Bucky groaned softly, his shoulders slumping a fraction as if bracing himself for whatever teasing was about to come. “What do you want, Sam?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Sam said breezily, his eyes darting between the two of them. “Just thought I’d check in, maybe grab some pie, see what’s happening over here.” He smirked. “Looks like I picked the right booth.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Careful, Sam. You’re gonna run me out of inventory if you keep showing up.”

Sam leaned on the counter, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’m here only to make sure Bucky doesn’t scare off your customers with his broody face.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam only shrugged, completely unfazed.

“Actually, Buck, some of the people are starting to pack up. We should get a head start on breaking down everything so tomorrow’s not such a hassle,” Sam continued, his tone shifting to business mode. “Don’t give me that look, I'm not the one who strolled in here right before closing time.”

Bucky sighed but didn’t argue. “Right, right,” he muttered but didn’t seem eager to leave just yet.

She chuckled softly at their dynamic, watching as Sam started to organize a few things, seemingly trying to speed up the process of wrapping up.  “Well then, I’ll just get the last of these pies packed up.” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll make it a little easier on yourself if you let us take a couple of those home,” Sam said with a grin, his eyes scanning the remaining trays. “For later, of course. Can’t let all this deliciousness go to waste.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on the last few slices, making it clear he wasn’t about to pass up on some baked goods.

“Yeah, well, I suppose you’re right,” she said, laughing. “Guess you both deserve some for your hard work on the structures.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that,” Sam said, grinning as he reached for the remaining slices of pie. “Besides,” he said, gesturing toward Bucky, “look at him. He must be starving. You don’t know the amount of food it takes to keep all that going.”

Bucky froze mid-chew, his fork hovering just above the plate, and gave Sam a pointed look, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “Seriously?”

“What?” Sam shrugged innocently, though his smirk said otherwise. “It’s true. You’re always munching on something. Remember last week? Three sandwiches in one sitting, and you still stole my fries.”

Bucky’s glare sharpened, but it only fueled Sam’s amusement. “You ate half my wings, Wilson,” Bucky said dryly, his tone low and unimpressed.

“Details,” Sam said with a wave of his hand, his grin not fading. “Point is, you’ve got the appetite of a bear coming out of hibernation. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t go hungry.”

She laughed as she placed the box of pies on the counter. “Well, I can’t have that on my conscience,” she teased. “Take as many slices as you need, Bucky. We’ll call it a public service.”

Bucky shifted on his feet, his gaze darting between her and the pies. The faintest flush crept up his neck as he mumbled, “Thanks,” and slid another slice of pie onto his plate. His eyes lingered on the cookies for a moment before he reached for one, his movements a little hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how much was too much.

“You sure?” he asked, glancing up at her, his voice quieter now.

She smiled warmly, waving off his concern. “Positive. Consider it payment for all the heavy lifting.”

He huffed a low laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what could almost be called a smile. “Appreciate it,” he said, his words rough but sincere.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, almost making Bucky drop the cookie. “Alright, big guy, let’s get out of her way before you clean her out completely.

Bucky shot him a half-hearted glare but allowed Sam to steer him toward a cluster of tables nearby, his plate balanced carefully in one hand.

She watched them go, her lips curving into a smile as Sam said something that made Bucky shake his head in exasperation.

With a deep breath, she turned back to finish packing up, though her gaze flicked toward their working spot every now and then.

That night, she lay in bed, the exhaustion of the festival weighing her body down but leaving her mind buzzing. Every detail of the day replayed like a film reel, but one moment stood out above all: Bucky and his awkward, utterly endearing comment about marriage.

She groaned, burying her flushed face into her pillow like a teenager. Guess you can marry now. The memory of his hesitant, almost panicked attempt to explain himself made her toes curl, not in secondhand embarrassment but in something far warmer, more thrilling. And the way he’d looked at her as he said it... that fleeting vulnerability, his ears burning red. She shook her head, biting her lip against a smile.

An idea came to her mind while sipping her morning coffee, staring at the half-empty box of baked goods and preserves she hadn’t packed into the car the day before. She’d thought she was carrying too much, but now she saw what she’d left behind: two jars of plum jam. The very ones Bucky had wanted at the festival but hadn’t been able to get.

She turned one jar in her hand, smiling faintly. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do, a small gesture to thank him for all the ways he’d helped her. A friendly token, nothing more. The thought made her nerves tingle anyway.

Shoving those thoughts aside, she packed the jars into her backpack, laced up her boots, and headed out. She made her way toward the spot where she’d found him last time, the rhythmic thwack of his axe cutting through wood still vivid in her memory. She tried not to feel disappointed when the clearing came into view and she didn’t see him right away, but then a faint rustling sound caught her attention.

Bucky was there, further back, crouched near a stack of neatly cut logs, inspecting a wedge that had splintered unevenly. He looked so at ease in his element, that she almost turned back. But then he shifted, his head tilting slightly as if he’d heard her approach.

“Hey,” she called, her voice lighter than intended.

He stood, turning to face her. His brow furrowed slightly in surprise, but it softened quickly. “Hey.”

“I, uh...” She adjusted her backpack strap, suddenly feeling awkward for tracking him down like this. “I had some leftovers from the festival, and I remembered you wanted plum jam. Turns out I had two jars I didn’t even bring.” She opened the backpack and pulled them out, offering them with a tentative smile. “Figured I’d bring them to you as a thank-you for all the times you’ve helped me out.”

Bucky stared at the jars, his expression unreadable at first, but then his lips tugged into the faintest hint of a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said, shrugging lightly. “But I wanted to. It’s just jam, anyway.”

“Just jam,” he repeated, taking the jars from her hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly. He glanced at the labels, then back at her. “Thanks. Really.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, feeling breathless under his intense gaze. She stuffed her hands into her knitted jacket pockets, trying to play it cool. “Hope it’s as good as my pies.”

His lips twitched, that almost-smile appearing again. “Guess I’ll have to let you know.” For a moment, neither of them moved, then he cleared his throat, gesturing toward the logs behind him. “You walked all the way out here just for this?” he asked, slightly lifting his brow.

“Pretty much, yeah,” she admitted, her voice softening as a hint of shyness crept in. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how much effort she’d put into this small gesture.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, “That’s... thoughtful of you.”

Her cheeks warmed under his quiet scrutiny, but she forced a casual shrug. “Well, I figured it beats letting them collect dust in my pantry.”

“Still,” he murmured, “thanks. Means a lot.”

“You’re welcome. I, uh...” She glanced at the jars in his hands, suddenly unsure of herself. “I won’t take more of your time. Just wanted to...” She gestured vaguely toward the jam, the movement almost bashful.

Bucky’s gaze softened, his grip tightening slightly around the jars. Before she could step away, he called after her, his voice rough yet almost hesitant. “Hey.”

She turned back, catching the flicker of something earnest in his expression.

“Thanks again,” he said simply, holding up the jars slightly.

Her smile softened, more genuine now. “Anytime.”

Bucky stood there for a long moment after she left, staring at the jars in his hands. The deep, rich purple of the jam glinted faintly in the sunlight filtering through the trees, but his mind wasn’t on the contents. It was on her. The way her voice had faltered, the slight hesitance in her movements when she handed them to him, like she wasn’t sure if he’d even want them.

Why the hell wouldn’t I? he thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. He shifted the jars to one hand, his free one dragging down his face. Damn it.

The easy confidence he used to have, -the kind that once let him charm anyone he wanted- was long gone, worn away by years of service that had left their mark on his body and mind. His scars, both visible and hidden, weren’t just marks; they were reminders of a life split into before and after. He set the jars carefully on a stump, picking up his axe again and turning back to the log he’d been working on.

The first swing came down harder than necessary, the wood splitting with a satisfying crack.

What if Sam was right? What if she really did like him? What the hell would he even do with that? He couldn’t imagine someone like her -a woman who baked pies for town festivals and brought plum jam out to the woods- being happy with someone like him. Someone who carried more baggage than he knew how to unpack.

The axe came down again, the sharp sound echoing through the clearing.

She deserved better than someone like him. Someone whole. Someone who didn’t wake up in cold sweats or flinch at loud noises. Someone who could stand in a crowd without feeling like the walls were closing in. He couldn’t even have a simple conversation without fumbling over his words like a damn teenager.

Another swing and the log finally gave way, splitting clean in two. He adjusted the pieces and started again, the rhythmic motion grounding him even as his thoughts spiraled.

And yet... there she was, walking through the woods just to give him something she thought he’d like. Her smile was genuine, her laugh soft, and for a moment, it had felt almost normal, like maybe he wasn’t the broken mess he’d convinced himself he was.

Don’t kid yourself.

The axe paused mid-air as his gaze flickered to the jars again. She wasn’t just being polite, was she? There had been something in her eyes, something he didn’t know how to name but felt keenly.

God, I used to be good at this, he thought, lowering the axe and resting his hands on the handle. Before everything went to hell, before the nightmares and the scars and the sense of being completely out of place in a world that had moved on without him, he’d known how to read people. Known how to charm them.

Now, he couldn’t even tell if the kindest gesture he’d received in years was just... friendliness.

Bucky exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the axe. He had no answers, only doubts, and a feeling in his gut that maybe, just maybe, he was about to screw this up like he did everything else.

----------

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains as she sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees. She rubbed her temples and glared at the screen, rereading the same sentence for what felt like the hundredth time. The latest manuscript she was proofreading was a Highlander romance, complete with a Marie Sue, a couple of brawny warriors, and more plaid than a fabric store. It wasn’t that she disliked the genre, but this one was so cliché-ridden it was almost impressive.

“And then his emerald eyes bore into hers, as if he could see the depths of her soul,” she read aloud, her tone dry. She let out a groan, rolling her eyes for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. “Of course he did.”

Still, it paid the bills. She took a sip of her now lukewarm tea and leaned back, debating whether to power through or take a break. That’s when a knock sounded at the door.

Her brows furrowed. Dorothy, the old lady he met at the general store, had mentioned bringing over some plant bulbs today, and it was her signature to show up unannounced. Closing the laptop with a sigh of relief at the distraction, she stood and padded to the door.

“Dorothy, you didn’t have to-” she began, opening the door with a welcoming smile, only to have the words die in her throat.

It wasn’t Dorothy.

Bucky stood there, one hand gripping a well-worn toolbox and the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jeans. The red henley he wore was snug enough to highlight the curve of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest, but not enough to look like he was trying. His hair was slightly mussed, as if the wind had tussled it just before he knocked, and the faintest hint of stubble shadowed his jaw.

For a second, neither of them spoke. She blinked, her surprise evident, while he cleared his throat and offered a small, almost sheepish nod.

“Hey,” he said, his deep voice tinged with a hint of hesitation. “I, uh... remembered you mentioned during the festival needing to fix a couple of roof tiles.” He lifted the toolbox slightly as if to emphasize his purpose. “Thought I’d stop by and take care of it. For the jam.”

It was a perfectly logical explanation, but the sight of him on her porch, looking like an ad for rustic competence, left her momentarily speechless.

She groaned inwardly, the warmth of embarrassment creeping up her neck as she registered her current state, an old pair of sweatpants and an even older shirt with a faded logo, complete with a jam stain right across the bosom. Great. Just great.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she finally managed, her voice brushing off the initial surprise as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Really, it’s not that big of a deal.”

Bucky shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, easy smile. “Figured I owed you one. Besides, it’s no trouble.”

Despite herself, her lips quirked in a smile as she stepped aside and gestured toward the side of the house. “Well, okay then. The tiles that need fixing are just over there.”

He nodded, his movements purposeful but unhurried, as he turned toward his truck. “I’ll grab my ladder and get started.”

As he walked away, she shut the door with a quiet click and let out a soft exhale, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool wood. A glance down at her outfit made her wince. Nope. There was no way she was standing out there in this while Bucky Barnes fixed her roof looking like a walking ad for rugged, small-town charm.

She bolted for her room, tearing through her wardrobe with newfound urgency. A simple casual dress with a V neckline and cardigan was the winning combo, comfortable enough for an impromptu chat but still presentable. She smoothed the fabric over her hips and checked her reflection in the mirror, brushing her hair back into place before heading back to the living room.

The faint clink of metal outside signaled that Bucky was already at work. Feeling slightly more put-together, she made her way to the kitchen to make some lemonade, hoping she didn’t look like she was trying too hard.

Once the lemonade was ready, she poured a glass, her movements steady as she tried to keep her thoughts from spiraling. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a neighborly gesture to bring him something cool while he worked. Absolutely no ulterior motives, she told herself firmly, ignoring the tiny thrill that ran through her at the thought of talking to him again.

After tidying up a few things to stall for time, she finally stepped outside, the lemonade glass balanced carefully in her hand. The sun had warmed the air, and she spotted Bucky perched on the ladder, one boot firmly planted on a lower rung as he worked to secure a tile.

“Hey,” she called out lightly, making her way toward him.

He glanced down, his hands pausing mid-adjustment. His gaze caught on her new outfit, lingering for a moment before flicking back to her face. She wasn’t imagining it, the slight shift in his expression was hard to miss.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious under his sharp blue eyes, she offered the glass with a small smile. “Thought you might want something to drink.” Then, in a rush of nervous energy, she added, “Dorothy was supposed to drop by, so I figured I should look a little more... put together.”

His gaze flickered briefly to the neckline of her dress, the height of his vantage point affording a view to skin that other way should be concealed by cloth. For a split second, his focus lingered on the swell of her breasts before he forced his attention back to her face with an unreadable expression.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, reaching down to take the glass. His fingers brushed hers for a fraction of a second, the callouses rough against her skin, and she fought the urge to shiver at the contact.

“You’re, uh, making good progress,” she said, nodding toward the roof as if that would distract from the warmth in her cheeks.

“Not much to it,” he replied, taking a sip. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank, and her eyes dipped of their own accord, watching the movement.

When he handed the glass back, their fingers brushed again, and she swore his hand lingered just a moment longer this time.

She lingered by the ladder, holding her glass of lemonade, the condensation cool against her fingers. “You and Sam did a great job building the booths for the festival,” she said, her tone casual. “Not only a provider, huh? Seems like you’re quite the handyman too.”

Bucky glanced down at her, his lips twitching into a faint smile before he focused back on the tile he was securing. “It wasn’t just us. Plenty of other guys helped out.”

“Still,” she insisted, watching the muscles in his forearms shift as he worked, “it’s cool. You don’t see that kind of dedication every day.”

He didn’t respond right away, his grip tightening on the hammer. The compliment clearly unsettled him, and for a split second, his aim wavered. The hammer came down too close to his thumb, and he muttered a sharp curse under his breath.

“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer instinctively. Her brows knit together with concern as she watched him shake out his hand.

“Peachy,” he muttered with a gruff voice, though the faint pink creeping up his neck gave away his frustration, whether from the near miss or her watchful presence, she wasn’t sure.

Her lips twitched at his tone, but she held back a laugh, not wanting to poke the bear. “Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it before I distract you into taking off a finger.”

He glanced down at her, his blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re not a distraction,” he said after a beat, his voice softer this time.

Her stomach did a little flip, but she forced herself to keep her tone light. “Still, I’d hate to be the reason you get hurt. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

He gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned back to his work, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

She stepped back toward the house, clutching the empty glass tightly as she crossed the threshold and shut the door behind her.

With a deep breath, she returned to the couch, her laptop waiting for her where she’d left it. But even as she opened the screen and stared down the next line of plaid-covered Highlander melodrama, her thoughts drifted back to the man on her roof and the way his gaze lingered just a second too long.

---------

The knock at the door startled her out of the repetitive loop of her manuscript edits. Leaving the laptop on the coffee table, she stood, smoothing the fabric of her dress instinctively. When she opened the door, there he was, a faint sheen of sweat on his face and his toolbox in hand.

“All done,” Bucky said, his deep voice a little quiet, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how to say more. He gestured vaguely toward the roof with his free hand. “The tiles should hold up fine now. No leaks to worry about.”

Her smile was warm as relief and gratitude washed over her. “Thank you, Bucky. Really. That was so kind of you to come by and take care of it.”

He gave a small shrug, his lips twitching into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t take long. Figured it’d save you some hassle.”

“Still,” she said, stepping back to open the door wider, “you didn’t have to. Can I at least get you something? Another drink, maybe?”

He hesitated, his hand tightening slightly on the handle of the toolbox. “You don’t have to-”

“I insist,” she cut him off gently, her smile unwavering. “Please. It’s the least I can do.”

After a beat, he nodded, stepping over the threshold with a cautious ease, as if unsure of how much space he was allowed to take up. She led him to the kitchen, motioning for him to sit at the small table while she poured a fresh glass of lemonade.

He sat stiffly, setting his toolbox carefully by his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus and sugar, a scent that mingled oddly with the outdoorsy hint of sawdust and sweat he carried with him.

“Here,” she said, placing the glass in front of him before sitting across the table. “I hope it’s still cold enough.”

Bucky nodded his thanks, taking a sip. The silence stretched for a moment, not uncomfortable but loaded with unspoken thoughts. She was the first to break it.

“So, how long have you been working with Sam?” she asked, leaning her arms casually on the table.

He set the glass down, his fingers lingering on the rim as he answered. “A few years. Helps keep me busy.”

She tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity. “Do you supply the rest of the workshops and stores too?”

Bucky let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Not really, just a few. Don’t think anyone’s lining up to hire a guy like me.”

Her brows knit together. “I don’t know about that. You’re dependable, skilled... and clearly a good neighbor.”

Her words caught him off guard, and he looked down, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Just doing what needs to be done,” he mumbled.

“More than that,” she pressed, a hint of teasing in her tone now to lighten the moment. “If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn’t believe how fast you fixed those tiles.”

Bucky shook his head, his lips twitching into that barely-there smile again. “It’s just a roof.”

“To you, maybe,” she said lightly. “To me, it’s one less thing to worry about. And I really appreciate it.”

Her sincerity left him quiet for a moment, his fingers tightening briefly around the glass. He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes. “You’re welcome,” he said finally, with a low voice.

Another pause lingered between them, she smiled, leaning back slightly in her chair. “Well, if you ever need more jam -or a roof to fix- you know where to find me.”

He chuckled softly, the sound surprising even himself. “Guess I’ll keep that in mind.”

Their gazes held for just a beat too long before he stood, his hand already reaching for the toolbox. “I should get going.”

“Of course,” she said, standing as well, though she didn’t move to rush him out. “Thanks again, Bucky.”

As Bucky made his way toward the door, his gaze swept briefly over the living room, pausing on the open laptop resting on the coffee table. His steps slowed, curiosity flickering across his features. “What’s that you’re working on?” he asked, tilting his head toward the screen.

She followed his gaze and let out a soft, sheepish laugh. “Oh, just... proofreading a manuscript.”

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. “What kind of manuscript?”

Her lips parted as if she might dodge the question, but his steady, inquisitive look made it clear he wasn’t letting this one go. “It’s, uh... a romance,” she admitted, her voice almost shy.

His brow lifted a little higher. “About?”

She hesitated, fidgeting slightly under his gaze. “It’s... okay, it’s one of those super cheesy historical romances. You know, with a rugged Highlander and a maid who’s swept up in some dramatic, forbidden love affair.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, her cheeks warming as she spoke.

Bucky’s expression shifted. First skeptical, then mildly amused, and finally landing somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. “And that sells?”

“It’s a very popular topic,” She nodded, already cringing inwardly. “It’s... well, it’s got a lot of dramatic tension, flowery descriptions, and... other stuff.”

“Like what?” he asked, genuinely curious, his head tilting slightly as he leaned against the doorframe.

She bit the inside of her cheek, debating how much detail to share. “You know... dramatic misunderstandings, passionate declarations, epic sword fights... and, uh...” She trailed off, waving her hand vaguely. “Other... things.”

“Other things,” he repeated, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You mean... the spicy stuff?”

Her cheeks flamed, and she groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Yes, okay? That stuff. Happy now?”

He chuckled making her peek at him from behind her fingers. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d spend their day reading about shirtless Highlanders sweeping maids off their feet.”

“I don’t spend my day reading it,” she shot back, lowering her hands to glare at him, though her expression was more embarrassed than angry. “I’m proofreading. There’s a difference.”

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “So you’re not secretly daydreaming about a plaid-wearing, hero coming to whisk you away?”

“Absolutely not,” she replied firmly, though the faint crack in her voice betrayed her mortification.

He smirked, finally stepping back from the doorframe. “Good to know.”

She crossed her arms, watching him as he moved toward his toolbox. “Not that you’re one to judge,” she called after him. “You seem to know an awful lot about what goes on in those books for someone who’s never read one.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He turned back, his gaze narrowing slightly, though there was still a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I have a sister,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

Her mouth opened, then shut, caught off guard. “Touché,” she murmured, conceding the point. Still, she couldn’t let it rest. “But honestly, this one is so bad, I don’t get how the editors went along with it.”

His curiosity piqued, and Bucky tilted his head. “And why’s that?”

“It’s just... so cheesy,” she said, her voice dipping with exaggerated drama. “Way too fluffy, the guy won’t stop talking about his feelings, and he’s clingy in a way that makes me cringe.” She shuddered a little for effect.

Bucky raised a brow, his thumb absently tapping against the handle of the toolbox. “So... that makes it bad for the genre? Or is that your personal taste talking?”

She blinked, thrown off by the question. “I-what?”

“I mean,” he continued, leaning casually against the doorframe, “aren’t romance novels supposed to be... you know, emotional? Feelings and all that? Or is it just not your thing?”

She frowned, his thoughtful tone making her pause. “I guess... it’s not the emotions that bother me,” she admitted, her arms crossing loosely. “It’s the way it’s written. This guy is just so... over the top. He’s constantly swooning over her, saying how she’s his whole world, his sun and stars... it’s too much. Like, tone it down, man.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, and he gave a small, thoughtful nod as if chewing over her words. “So, you’re more into the... brooding types?”

Her face warmed slightly at the observation, but she shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Maybe. I like characters who... don’t lay it all out at once. You know, someone with a little mystery.”

A long silence stretched between them, his gaze lingering on her as if trying to read between the lines. “Sounds like it’d be tough to figure out what they’re thinking.” He observed.

She raised a brow at that, tilting her head. “Sometimes actions speak louder than words, you know.”

Bucky seemed to consider that, his fingers flexing lightly around the handle of his toolbox. He nodded once, then glanced toward the door. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your... highlander drama.” He shifted his weight, toolbox in hand, and turned toward the door. But as he stepped through, he hesitated, glancing back. “Hey,” he said, his tone quieter now, almost hesitant. “If, uh... if you ever need something else, just let me know.”

She smiled “I will. The same goes for you, thanks again.”

He nodded, a small, almost shy tilt of his head, before stepping fully out the door. She stood there for a moment, staring after him as the faint crunch of his boots faded down the path. The quiet of her house enveloped her as she closed the door, replaying snippets of their conversation.

She had barely made it back to the couch when her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a text from Sam:

Hey, I’m grilling tonight. You should come by. No excuses.

A smile tugged at her lips. The idea of stepping out, getting off her screen, and being around people sounded better than staying cooped up with plaids and cringy lairds. She quickly texted back her agreement.

The gathering was small, just a handful of locals chatting around the glow of the garden lights and the firepit, the scent of burning wood mingling with spiced cider in the air.

She wasn’t expecting to see Bucky there, given he wasn’t the social type but there he was, standing slightly apart from the crowd, his hands shoved into his pockets as he listened to a conversation between Sam and another neighbor.

She hesitated, her pulse quickening at the sight of him. Sam spotted her, waving her over. “Hey, glad you made it! C’mon, grab a drink.”

She made her way to the table laden with snacks and drinks, feeling Bucky’s gaze on her as she poured herself some cider. When she turned, he was standing just a few steps away, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight.

“Hey,” she said, her voice a touch breathless. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

His lips quirked in a half-smile. “Sam can be... persuasive.”

She laughed softly “Yeah, he’s good at that.”

They stood there in companionable silence for a moment, and then, as someone started strumming a guitar on the other side of the yard, Bucky glanced at her, his blue eyes glinting with something she couldn’t quite place.

“Walk with me?” he asked, with a low but steady voice.

Surprised, she nodded, and they left the noise and light of the gathering behind, stepping into the quiet shadows of the trees that bordered Sam’s property.

As they walked, the only sounds were the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant chords of the guitar. Finally, he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began with a cautious tone like he was testing the waters. “About what you said earlier. About liking... brooding characters.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”

His gaze stayed forward, but his hands fidgeted at his sides. “Got me wondering if you really meant that. Or if you were just... making conversation.” The vulnerability in his voice sent a wave of warmth through her.

“I wasn’t just making conversation,” she admitted softly.

He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. The firelight was distant now, casting only the faintest glow, but she could still see the intensity in his expression. “Good,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Because I don’t want to keep wondering.”

Before she could respond, he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers, tentative but deliberate. And when she didn’t pull away, he leaned in, his breath warm against her skin as his lips captured hers in a kiss that was both hesitant and deeply certain, as if he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than he dared to admit.

She melted into him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. That small gesture gave him all the permission he needed. Tilting his head, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, a gentle yet deliberate request. She parted her lips for him, granting entrance, and he deepened the kiss with a low, quiet sigh that sent warmth spiraling through her.

His hand slid to the curve of her lower back, pulling her closer, while the other found its way to her nape. His fingers tangled gently in her hair as he cradled her. Their kiss broke slowly, reluctantly, his lips brushing hers one last time as if he couldn’t quite let go. Bucky lingered close, his breath warm against her cheek, his nose skimming along her jaw before dipping to her neck. He pressed his face there, inhaling deeply, and his quiet, teasing voice sent a shiver down her spine.

“This too clingy for you?”

A soft laugh escaped her, though it dissolved into a breathy sigh as she tilted her head, exposing more of her neck to him. “Shut up,” she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair, keeping him close. Whatever witty retort she might have had melted into nothing as he pressed a lingering kiss to her pulse point.

Bucky’s lips lingered against her neck for a moment longer before he pulled back just enough to look at her. His fingers at her nape flexed, and then his gaze dropped briefly to her lips. Her heart stuttered as he closed the distance again, this time more demanding. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was deeper and hungrier. Gone was the tentative sweetness, this was need, raw and unrestrained. His hand slid from her lower back to her hip, splaying wide, pulling her flush against him as if he needed to eliminate even the smallest gap between them.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, throaty sound from him that sent a thrill through her. She arched into him instinctively, and his hand slid down to the hem of her dress, his fingers brushing her bare thigh. His touch was deliberate, teasing, but his restraint was evident. Her hands left his hair, sliding down to his chest, the soft flannel brushing her palms before she gripped the fabric and tugged him closer. He responded instantly, groaning softly into her mouth as the hand on her nape angled her tighter against his lips.

When they finally broke apart, their breaths mingling in the charged silence, he pressed his forehead to hers. Neither of them moved to step away, the distant chatter and laughter around the grill fading into the background. The weight of unspoken need between them was palpable.

“We should...” she started, her voice catching slightly. Then, more firmly, “We should go somewhere.”

His head lifted slightly, blue eyes dark as he searched hers for a beat before a slow smile tugged at his lips, agreeing with a low voice.

Without another word, he took her hand, intertwining their fingers briefly before leading her away. They drifted toward the edge of the yard with casual ease, their steps slow enough to avoid suspicion but quick enough to betray their shared urgency. Once they’d slipped into the cover of the trees bordering Sam’s property, she turned to him, their bodies close in the dim light of the evening. “Your truck or...?”

Bucky’s brows shot up at the suggestion, and for a moment, the idea tempted him, briefly, wildly. Considering the insistent ache in his jeans, the thought held undeniable appeal. But then, reason settled over him like a cool breeze. Not like this. Not tonight.

His lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, and he leaned in just enough that his voice sent a shiver through her. “Your place,” he murmured, low and deliberate.

The shift in his tone left her breathless, her pulse hammering against her skin as her cheeks warmed. She nodded wordlessly, her hand tightening slightly around his as they moved with quiet purpose. The path back to her house felt electric, each step charged with anticipation.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Bucky turned sharply, cornering her against the solid wood. His hands framed her face as his lips captured hers again, more demanding this time, his body pressing into hers with a heat that left no room for misinterpretation. She gasped softly into the kiss, the feel of his hardon against her stomach sending a jolt of desire through her.

Her fingers tangled in his long hair, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat. The sound vibrated between them, primal and electrifying. He broke the kiss just enough to murmur, his voice gravelly, “Where’s the bedroom?”

She pointed vaguely down the hall, her breath hitching. Before she could blink, his strong hands were gripping her waist, and he effortlessly threw her over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

A surprised squeal left her lips, and she braced herself against his back, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. His hand splayed firmly over her rear to steady her, his voice teasing but thick with intent. “Easy there,” he said, the words curling with a hint of amusement.

He strode purposely through the hallway, and when they reached the bedroom, he set her down on the bed with surprising care, though his gaze was anything but gentle. He stood over her for a moment, taking her in, the way her hair fell wild around her face, her lips swollen from his kisses, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.

His tongue flicked over his bottom lip as his eyes darkened. “Damn,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with hunger, “you’re a sight.”

She shifted slightly under his intense stare, a flicker of shyness creeping in her despite her arousal. The way he looked at her, so unapologetically hungry, made her feel exposed. His lips quirked slightly as if sensing her hesitation, and he leaned down, his hand coming to rest against her jaw.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less intent.

She nodded, her breath hitching as his thumb brushed along her cheek. “Yeah,” she whispered.

“Good,” he replied, his lips curving into a faint smile before he kissed her again. This time, it was slower, deeper, his tongue sweeping against hers in a way that left her clinging to him, her earlier shyness melting into the heat of his touch.

Her fingers found his shirt, tugging at the hem, and he pulled back just enough to strip it off, tossing it aside without ceremony. The scars on his chest and arm caught the dim light, but the confidence in his gaze never wavered as he leaned back in, his hands sliding down her sides with deliberate, teasing slowness.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as her eyes roamed over him, the sheer breadth of his chest and the powerful arms flexing with restrained strength. He was a bear of a man, solid and unrelenting, and she loved every bit of it.

“You know,” he began, his voice low and rough, his fingers deftly popping open the buttons of her dress one by one. “I love seeing you in these dresses and skirts.” His lips quirked into a wicked grin, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “Makes it so damn easy to get under them. Have my way with you.”

Her cheeks burned at his words, a mixture of arousal and shyness bubbling to the surface. “Bucky...” she breathed, but her protest was feeble at best, especially as he continued his slow, deliberate assault, parting the fabric of her dress to expose more of her skin.

“That one you wore at the festival,” he went on, his tone darkening with heat as he leaned closer, his lips grazing her collarbone. “That vintage-looking thing? Sweetheart, it drove me crazy.”

She gasped softly as his hands slid over her hips, his thumbs tracing patterns against her bare skin. “Crazy how?” she managed to ask, her voice trembling under the weight of his attention.

He let out a low, throaty chuckle, his lips trailing down to the swell of her breasts. “Crazy enough to want to bend you over the booth table,” he murmured, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin, “and fuck you right there. Pies, jam… didn’t care. Would’ve made a mess of it all just to get my hands on you.”

A desperate whimper slipped past her lips as heat pooled low in her belly. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging slightly.

He growled softly at the sensation, pressing her back against the bed. His hands gripped the fabric of her dress and tugged it down her arms, exposing her fully to his gaze. “But we’ve got all the time we want now,” he said, his voice rough, his lips curving into a predatory smile. “And I plan to take my damn time.”

Her pussy clenched with anticipation as her mind whirled, trying to reconcile the quiet, awkward man she’d come to know with this unabashedly vocal, commanding version of him. It was as though he’d been holding back all this time, and now, the dam had finally burst.

Her bra followed the dress, and his sharp intake of breath sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. His thumb traced the curve of her breast, slow and deliberate, before he leaned in, his lips hovering just above her skin.

“Y’know,” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, “all I could think about this afternoon was pouring that lemonade on these.” His lips ghosted over her nipple, his breath warm. “Then drinking it straight off you.”

Her gaze widened, a sudden wave of shyness overtaking her. She let out a nervous laugh, pressing her hands over her face to shield herself.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said firmly, his hand catching her wrists and gently tugging them away. His eyes burned with an intensity that made her stomach flip. “You were the one who instigated our little escape from Sam’s party, remember?”

His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t help the way her body arched toward him as his lips finally claimed the peak of her breast, his tongue swirling in deliberate, maddening strokes. Any remaining hesitation evaporated as he pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel just how much he wanted her.

“You don’t get to act shy now,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly against her skin. “Not after everything you’ve been driving me crazy with.”

Her voice came out barely above a whisper, trembling as she stammered, “I... I didn’t do anything...”

Bucky pulled back just enough to meet her wide-eyed gaze, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Oh, you didn’t?” he drawled, his tone laced with teasing disbelief. His hand slid down her side, his calloused fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “That little dress at the festival? the lemonade with that neckline? The way you bit your lower lip every time we spoke? Sweetheart, you’ve been doing everything.”

Her cheeks burned, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. Instead, he leaned in closer, his nose brushing the curve of her jaw as he whispered, “And I’ve been trying real hard to keep my hands to myself... but now? Now, I’m done trying.”

Her breath caught, and before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, claiming her in a kiss that left no room for doubt. His hands roamed her body with purpose, pulling her flush against him, his erection pressing firmly against her pussy.

Her fingers found their way into his hair again, tugging gently at the strands as he groaned into her mouth, the sound reverberating through her. “You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough and filled with longing. “All I’ve been thinking about is this... you... for weeks.” He kissed her again, slower and deeper this time, as if savoring the moment.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he rasped when they parted for air, his forehead resting against hers. “But you’re about to find out.”

He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her body, his lips lingering on every inch of skin as if committing her to memory. When he reached the waistband of her drenched panties, he paused, his hands gripping her thighs firmly to keep her in place. Pressing his face against the soaked fabric, he inhaled deeply, a guttural groan rumbling from his chest.

“God, you smell so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger. His thumbs hooked into the sides of the delicate lace, slowly pulling it down her legs as he kept his eyes locked on hers. The intensity in his gaze made her pulse thunder in her ears. “You’ve been driving me insane,” he confessed, his lips brushing against her inner thigh as he tossed the damp fabric aside. “Every time I saw you in those little dresses... I thought about this. About getting under that hemline and taste you.”

Her body quivered at his words, her fingers tangling in the sheets beneath her as anticipation coiled tight in her core. “Bucky...” she breathed, her voice a plea.

“Patience,” he said again, his voice low and teasing, but there was no mistaking the edge of hunger in it. His hands spread her thighs further apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he held her open. His breath ghosted over her pussy, warm and tantalizing, making her gasp and clutch the sheets. “I want to take my time with you.”

And then his mouth was on her. His tongue dragged through her slick folds with slow, deliberate strokes, before barely retreating with a sinful hum. “Fuck,” he groaned, “You taste even better than I imagined.” He paused only long enough to meet her eyes, his own dark and full of promise. “And I’ve been imagining this for a long time.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he spread her pussy lips with his thumbs, baring her fully to him. His mouth latched onto her clit, his tongue swirling in lazy circles before he nursed it with intent. The sharp jolt of pleasure ripped a cry from her lips, her hips thrusting against his mouth involuntarily.

“Bucky! oh, God!” she gasped, her voice trembling as he kept at it, alternating between sucking and flicking her sensitive nub with maddening precision. His growl vibrated against her, the sound and sensation drawing another moan from deep within her chest.

“Stay still,” he commanded, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. The rumble of his voice sent shivers down her spine. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Two thick fingers joined the assault, sliding slowly into her wet heat, stretching her as they pressed in until they were knuckle-deep. She gasped, her walls clenching around him as he paused for a moment, letting her adjust before starting a maddening rhythm.

His mouth stayed on her clit, tongue flicking and circling in tandem with the slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers. The combination was overwhelming, a perfectly orchestrated symphony of pleasure that had her crying out his name, her thighs trembling as she struggled to keep still.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he murmured against her, his voice filled with awe and lust. His fingers curled inside her, finding that sweet spot that made her hips jerk off the bed. “Right there, huh? That’s it.”

Her breathing turned ragged, her hands gripping his hair tightly as her body climbed higher and higher toward release. He didn’t let up, his tongue and fingers working her with relentless precision, coaxing her closer to the edge with every stroke.

The orgasm tore through her like an electric shock, sharp and all-consuming. Her body clenched tight, her muscles locking for a heartbeat before releasing uncontrollable spasms. Her walls clenched around his fingers, her back arching off the bed as a sharp cry tore from her lips. He growled with satisfaction, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he rode her through her climax, his mouth pressing soft, soothing kisses to her inner thigh as she shuddered beneath him.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, pulling his fingers free slowly and bringing them to his lips to taste. His darkened gaze met hers, his tongue flicking out to clean the slick from his fingers. “You’re fucking perfect.”

She barely had time to catch her breath before Bucky stood, towering over her, his eyes dark with intent. With a sharp tug, he kicked off his work boots, the thud of them hitting the floor making her jump slightly. Then came the metallic clink of his belt, the sound sending a thrill straight through her.

Her gaze was locked on him as he unzipped his jeans, the low rasp of the zipper making her stomach tighten. He tugged them down along with his underwear in one swift motion, revealing himself in all his glory. He was all broad shoulders and thick muscle. His broad chest and left arm were marred by scars that only added to the raw magnetism he exuded. And then there was his cock. Thick, hard, and so utterly intimidating that she bit her lip at the sight.

“Like what you see?” he asked, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

She nodded, unable to form words as her cheeks flushed.

“Good,” he said, his hand wrapping around his shaft, stroking lazily as he took a step closer. “Because you’re going to feel all of me.”

Bucky climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between her parted thighs. His hands gripped her waist, firm but careful, as though he might crush her if he wasn’t mindful of his strength. His cock rested heavy and hard against her slick folds, the head teasing her entrance as he rocked his hips slowly, coating himself.

“So wet,” he murmured, his voice a husky growl that sent a shiver down her spine. She moaned softly, her thighs trembling as the thick head of his cock pressed against her opening, the stretch beginning even before he was inside. He moved slowly, agonizingly so, letting her body adjust to his size inch by inch. Her walls fluttered around him as he filled her, her slick heat clenching tightly as he pushed deeper. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as her breath hitched. “Oh my God, Bucky... you’re so-”

“Big?” he finished for her, his tone edged with dark amusement as he paused, fully sheathed inside her. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he rumbled, “That’s it, sweetheart.”

Her head fell back against the pillow as she panted, her body stretched to its limit, the delicious pressure bordering on too much. But as her hips shifted slightly, the friction sent a bolt of pleasure through her that made her moan his name.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding to her rear to tilt her hips upward. He withdrew slowly, almost to the tip, before thrusting back in with deliberate care. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured, his gaze locked on her face as he started to move in earnest.

His pace began slow and steady, each thrust measured, but it wasn’t long before his control began to slip. His grip on her tightened as he quickened, the powerful thrusts rocking her body against the mattress. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, the wet slap of his cock driving deep into her pussy mingling with her moans and his guttural groans.

“Hold on to me,” he ordered, his voice rough with lust. Before she could process his words, he hooked an arm under her ass and lifted her effortlessly, sitting crisscrossed with her perched in his lap.

Her arms flew around his neck, clinging to him as the new angle made him hit even deeper. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements as he thrust up into her, the force of his cock driving her wild. Her head fell forward, her forehead resting against his as she whimpered, overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure building inside her.

“Look at me,” he demanded. Her hazy eyes met his as he tilted her hips slightly forward, the firm muscles just above his shaft slapping her clit with every thrust.

She cried out, her nails raking down his back as the coil inside her tightened, ready to snap. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

He groaned, his cock swelling even harder inside her as he chased her climax. “I’ve got you,” he promised, his thrusts growing rougher, deeper. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

Her orgasm hit her hard, her pussy clamping down on his cock as she cried out his name, her body trembling violently in his arms, and he growled in satisfaction.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he ground out, his movements growing erratic as her spasming walls pushed him closer to the edge. “You’re mine, doll. Mine.”

With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside her, his cock pulsing as he spilled into her with a guttural moan. He held her tightly, pressing his forehead to her shoulder as they both panted, their bodies trembling from the intensity of their encounter.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the room filled only with the sound of their heavy breathing. Then, with utter gentleness, Bucky eased her back onto the bed, his body following hers as he stayed buried inside her. He braced himself on his forearms, keeping his weight off her but staying close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers.

A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced down at her, the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. “So,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “better than the breathtaking Highlander?”

Her breath hitched before she burst into laughter, making his smirk widen. “Oh, so much better,” she stated, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a quick, playful kiss. “I find the curt and gloomy lumberjack character more appealing.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering just slightly. “Curt and gloomy, huh?”

She nodded, her voice turning softer. “Mysterious. Rugged. A little broody. Kind. Thoughtful. Handsome.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the weight of her words. A faint flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks, and he glanced away, suddenly looking very much like the socially awkward man she’d come to adore.

“Didn’t know I was signing up for flattery,” he muttered under his breath, his ears reddening as he busied himself with brushing away a strand of hair hanging on his face.

She laughed and cupped his cheek, gently forcing him to meet her gaze. “Just telling the truth,” She said softly, her thumb brushing over his stubbed skin.

He swallowed hard, the blush deepening as his lips twitched into a shy, crooked smile. “Still not used to it,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a murmur.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep saying it until you are,” she replied with a grin, pulling him down for another kiss before he could argue.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

[slayingfiction]

Words to use instead of ‘said’

**Using the word ‘said’ is absolutely not a bad choice, and in fact, you will want to use it for at least 40% of all your dialogue tags. Using other words can be great, especially for description and showing emotion, but used in excess can take away or distract from the story.

Neutral: acknowledged, added, affirmed, agreed, announced, answered, appealed, articulated, attested, began, bemused, boasted, called, chimed in, claimed, clarified, commented, conceded, confided, confirmed, contended, continued, corrected, decided, declared, deflected, demurred, disclosed, disputed, emphasized, explained, expressed, finished, gloated, greeted, hinted, imitated, imparted, implied, informed, interjected, insinuated, insisted, instructed, lectured, maintained, mouthed, mused, noted, observed, offered, put forth, reassured, recited, remarked, repeated, requested, replied, revealed, shared, spoke up, stated, suggested, uttered, voiced, volunteered, vowed, went on

Persuasive: advised, appealed, asserted, assured, begged, cajoled, claimed, convinced, directed, encouraged, implored, insisted, pleaded, pressed, probed, prodded, prompted, stressed, suggested, urged

Continuously: babbled, chattered, jabbered, rambled, rattled on

Quietly: admitted, breathed, confessed, croaked, crooned, grumbled, hissed, mumbled, murmured, muttered, purred, sighed, whispered

Loudly: bellowed, blurted, boomed, cried, hollered, howled, piped, roared, screamed, screeched, shouted, shrieked, squawked, thundered, wailed, yelled, yelped

Happily/Lovingly: admired, beamed, cackled, cheered, chirped, comforted, consoled, cooed, empathized, flirted, gushed, hummed, invited, praised, proclaimed, professed, reassured, soothed, squealed, whooped

Humour: bantered, chuckled, giggled, guffawed, jested, joked, joshed

Sad: bawled, begged, bemoaned, blubbered, grieved, lamented, mewled, mourned, pleaded, sniffled, sniveled, sobbed, wailed, wept, whimpered

Frustrated: argued, bickered, chastised, complained, exasperated, groaned, huffed, protested, whinged

Anger: accused, bristled, criticized, condemned, cursed, demanded, denounced, erupted, fumed, growled, lied, nagged, ordered, provoked, raged, ranted remonstrated, retorted, scoffed, scolded, scowled, seethed, shot, snapped, snarled, sneered, spat, stormed, swore, taunted, threatened, warned

Disgust: cringed, gagged, groused, griped, grunted, mocked, rasped, sniffed, snorted

Fear: cautioned, faltered, fretted, gasped, quaked, quavered, shuddered, stammered, stuttered, trembled, warned, whimpered, whined

Excited: beamed, cheered, cried out, crowed, exclaimed, gushed, rejoiced, sang, trumpeted

Surprised: blurted, exclaimed, gasped, marveled, sputtered, yelped

Provoked: bragged, dared, gibed, goaded, insulted, jeered, lied, mimicked, nagged, pestered, provoked, quipped, ribbed, ridiculed, sassed, teased

Uncertainty/Questionned: asked, challenged, coaxed, concluded, countered, debated, doubted, entreated, guessed, hesitated, hinted, implored, inquired, objected, persuaded, petitioned, pleaded, pondered, pressed, probed, proposed, queried, questioned, quizzed, reasoned, reiterated, reported, requested, speculated, supposed, surmised, testified, theorized, verified, wondered

This is by no means a full list, but should be more than enough to get you started!

Any more words you favor? Add them in the comments!

Happy Writing :)

[xenosaurus]

I turn 30 next month so here’s what I learned in my 20s:

—don’t work for startups, they’re always one ‘innovative idea’ away adding ‘sell your kidneys on the black market’ to your job description.

—keeping a collection of basic OTC medicine on you will save your life one day. I recommend Advil, Imodium, and TUMS.

—those little single-use glasses cleaning wipes are 1000% worth the money

—overly self-depreciating jokes just make people uncomfortable, wean yourself off of them

—you can buy dehydrated mini marshmallows in bulk online and they’re a godsend for hot cocoa

—people don’t care if you have fidget toys on your desk they just want to play with them

—try to go to bed BEFORE the existential ennui kicks in

[thelittleblackfox]

Also drink water and eat a plant

[liz-squids]

This is all GREAT. I turned 40 last week, so permit me to add what I learned in my 30s:

keep on not working for startups

sometimes there comes a point where the thing (fandom, hobby, friendship, romantic relationship) you loved no longer brings you joy. And that's okay. Try to mourn the loss, take joy in the memories, and don't burn any bridges in case ten years go by and you find yourself back in that fandom/hobby/relationship again

it turns out that (ugh) moderate regular exercise is (spit) good for you. The sooner you make it part of your life, the easier it'll be

related: if you throw yourself into a new exercise regime too hard and too fast, without stopping to rest or consider whether a particular move is good for you ... well, shoulder injuries are painful and consults with orthopedic surgeons are expensive

knees are bastards too

don't even get me started on ankles

there may come a time when your digestive system is too fragile for ibuprofin. I'm sorry

one day you're gonna wake up and realise you no longer give any fucks about some things that used to bother you

on the other hand, you might be alarmed to realise what you still give a fuck about

never get down on the floor without an exit strategy for getting back up

[covington-shenanigans]

I turn 50 this year. what I have learned in my 40s:

"loving yourself" is less of a feeling and more of an action. you can start doing it any time and it will make your life better and better as you go on

this will happen incrementally - be patient

along those lines, if you haven't started making an active effort to quit shit-talking yourself, suck it up and do it

no, shut up. do it. "but it's haaaaard!" don't care. do it.

whether you like it or not, you are mortal and you need to go to the doctor for an annual checkup

stretch regularly - your future self will thank you

at some point you will encounter people much younger than you arguing passionately and incorrectly about history you personally remember and experienced

this will be infuriating and annoying

otoh, most other things just... will not matter to you as much

at some point you will shift from wanting to go out to being like "eh" and deciding to stay in. this is okay.

you will have absolutely no idea what The Youth are talking about and you will not care

but if you keep your mind open to new ideas you'll never be irrelevant

your company still doesn't love you - don't give them more than they pay you for

get a fucking hobby, especially a hobby that involves physically creating/handling something and/or moving your body in physical space. it will do you more good than you can imagine

[atlinmerrick]

Just turned 60 and let me say:

Find joy, every kind, it's always worth it

I'm talking that massive, never-ending Discord chat with your bestie? The one that makes you giggle through the day? It's not a "waste of time," it's what time was made for

If that's fanfic for your favorite characters who never even met on screen celebrate that!

If that's building a tiny fleet of snake villagers for your snake town and they just cover your mantel hell yes!

If that's collecting pillows and making a fort of them every weekend I'll be right over

Feeling and sharing joy is the whole point

[cricketcat9]

This is too tempting…, so, I’m 74, and: don’t fund startups

Please keep stretching and exercise enough NOT to need an elaborate strategy to get up from the floor. IT MAY SAVE YOUR LIFE

Say bye to your employer as early as you possibly can, unless you really love your job. You won’t be sorry.

Keep doing the annual checkups 🙏🏼

Enjoy that fucking hobby you’ve acquired in your 50, or find something new. Do try new things & adventures.

[glittersokka]

TODAY IS THE ONLY DAY YOU CAN REBLOG THIS

[beardedchrisevans]

[slut4supersoldiers]

Is Chris Evans Steve Rogers or is Steve Rogers Chris Evans?

[casbean]

good

[gunsandfireandshit]

“Fellas, is it gay to be a good father?”

[flower-lesbienne]

Shout out to Harry Hill

[yip-yip]

[ingek73]

I think Piers is somewhat of a national laughing stock by now

[afishtrap]

if I don’t reblog a good burn on piers morgan, assume I’m dead

[behindnightmaresanddreams]

The logic of “Brands will only hop on the train if they can prove it’s profitable” makes it so much funnier when they clown on this fool. “Yeah we crunched the numbers and we found it to be profitable to call this clown out in public. Jacob hit the post button.”

[smileyzs]

“We all crunched the numbers and fucking no one likes you man”- McDonald’s, tgi Fridays, pizza hut, and greggs

[sauntering-down]

i had three fic ideas.  wrote one.  i still have three fic ideas.  this is not how math is supposed to work.

[seasnailglass]

can this post please back up it’s too close to home

[alexseanchai]

I had five ideas, I wrote two, now I have seven

[bisexualbaker]

Listen. They’re called “plot bunnies” for a reason, and it’s not just because they hop around all over your brain demanding attention.

[redsixwing]

🎶99 fanfic ideas on my blog

99 fanfic ideas~

Take one down, pass it around

137 fanfic ideas on my blog🎶

[sevdrag]

this post walked into my house and kicked in my ribs

[neil-gaiman]

For anyone who ever asked me where ideas come from. They creep in and breed when you’re making something else.

[misskathgifs]

a comedian™

[criesinliess]

━APRIL 2023; susan's recs

FATE: THE WINX SAGA

━━RIVEN

i’m jealous of the way @imkylotrash

hold my girl @↑

call me back @randomimaginesforrandompeople

scared to death @↑

little sister @↑

one-on-one @novawrts

HARRY POTTER

━━GEORGE WEASLEY

it takes two @ickle-ronniekins

━━ DRACO MALFOY

just friends — masterlist @bwbatta

━━FRED WEASLEY

selfish @george-fabian-weasley

━━OLIVER WOOD

blind to it @heloisedaphnebrightmore

MARAUDERS ERA

━━SIRIUS BLACK

all your fault @heloisedaphnebrightmore

absurd ideas @↑

crimes of jealousy @↑

gentle seduction @↑

cause i don't want you like a best friend @evermoreal

━━JAMES POTTER

five times james wanted to kiss you and the one time he did @moonlitmeeks

hey, james! @heloisedaphnebrightmore

LOCKWOOD & CO

━━ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

knight in shining armour @givemea-dam-break

the poltergeist @↑

jealousy @↑

how to dance @↑

hidden by the new stars @↑

stunning @vi-trying-to-survive

you can hear it in the silence @tangledinlove

just another love song @↑

pretty boy @maraschinomerry

GRISHAVERSE

━━KAZ BREKKER

he just sounds like that @amsgrey

of antidotes @honeyfict

dense @↑

love language @genyakosstyk

dive into the waves below @↑

of kings @yelenasbraid

everything @theowritesstuff

deathly fever @webslinger-holland

another dream @↑

take it slow @amsgrey

━━NIKOLAI LANTSOV

yours no more @theowritesstuff

wanting was enough @genyakosstyk

OUTER BANKS

━━RAFE CAMERON

dating john b's sister @a-aexotic

midsummers @butgilinsky

blueberry pancakes @↑

tension @↑

and isn't it just so pretty to think? @folkloreslovechild

heartbroke bitch; guess you really did it this time; kiss for kiss, heart for heart; a crack in the glass @fandomxpreferences

dirty litte secret @↑

passenger princess @sunraies

cupcakes and rainstorms @↑

fair play @laiiaaa

dancing with our hands tied @forevermoreharrington

━━JJ MAYBANK

hot for a pogue @butgilinsky

the last year @↑

the part where you kiss me @laiiaaa

THE BEAR

━━CARMY BERZATTO

sink in @nymphlamp

TOP GUN: MAVERICK

━━BRADLEY 'ROOSTER' BRADSHAW

delirium @kyber-crystal

head in the clouds @↑

MARVEL

━━BUCKY BARNES

the last first kiss @witchywithwhiskey

almost believing @intrepidacious

insomnia @↑

first date, last night @↑

not even a little @↑

heal me, baby @↑

━━STEVE ROGERS

moving on @intrepidacious

━━LOKI LAUFEYSON

clouded judgement @heloisedaphnebrightmore

silly misgardian @↑

SCHOOL SPIRITS

━━WALLY CLARK

hopes and fears @general-fanfiction

i want to help @anthemabby

STRANGER THINGS

━━STEVE HARRINGTON

love her too @divine17

[bwbatta]

Thank you so much for the recommendation!! Also some other fantastic fics on here!

[bwbatta]

hey! I was wondering if you were ever going to finish your Sirius series I think its called the one where he realizes he loves you thats based of Monica and chandler from friends? I love it sm and I just randomly remembered It today and saw it was still incomplete. Anyways I hope you're having a wonderful day <3

Hello hello! I am absolutely planning on finishing the series but alas life has got in the way the last several months 🙃 believe me I always come back to reading it over so I can get excited about it again and start writing but then I have no time and get distracted and writers block which is shit lol

If anyone can give me any excuses to get out of work for 3 weeks to write to my hearts content let me know 😌

[mostlyinthemorning]

I kind of suck at tagging, so I made this infographic to help make it easier.

[ryebreadgf]

how did you learn to write well?

well first you have to be a very sad child

[bwbatta]

Hey! I see you’re primarily a HP blog but is there any chance you could make Bucky Barnes dividers for fics? If not that’s okay!

Bucky Barnes dividers

Absolutely!! I had so much fun making these! 

I’ve seen a lot of symbols for Bucky as dividers but not so many figures sooo I decided to create some of his most iconic looks!! 

Requests for other designs are open! Just send me an ask! 💜

Hope you like them!! 

[buckybarnessunflower]

I'm so in love with these. I'm using them for my masterlist !

[bwbatta]

So glad you like them!! Feel free to use them for anything if you credit me!! 💜

[bwbatta]

Hey! I see you’re primarily a HP blog but is there any chance you could make Bucky Barnes dividers for fics? If not that’s okay!

Bucky Barnes dividers

Absolutely!! I had so much fun making these! 

I’ve seen a lot of symbols for Bucky as dividers but not so many figures sooo I decided to create some of his most iconic looks!! 

Requests for other designs are open! Just send me an ask! 💜

Hope you like them!!