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The Honey Jar Incident | Bob Reynolds

Summary: Yelena decides to literally shove Bob into your arms at a farmers market…so the least you could do is say yes to a date, right?

Warnings: MDNI 18++ SEX. some good sex. bit of public sex but like nobody sees obv. nothing toooo rough…lots of kissing and touching. illegal activity.

A/N: this story includes dining and dashing. PLEASE DO NOT ACTUALLY DO THIS. i’m literally a server it’s so fucked but i had this idea and i couldn’t not do it. i think this is my favourite thing ive ever written i hope you all enjoy <3

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The market was already alive by the time Bob and Yelena arrived, the narrow street buzzing with movement and sound.

People drifted from booth to booth at an unhurried pace, paper bags brushing against their legs, the hum of conversation blending with distant music and the occasional bark of a vendor calling out a deal. The air smelled warm and sweet, bread baking somewhere nearby, fruit cut open and exposed to the sun. Yelena slowed slightly as she walked, lifting her drink and turning it in her hand like she expected it to do something unexpected.

“I do not hate it,” she said after another sip. “But it is very… pink.”

Bob glanced at the cup. The foam clung stubbornly to the lid, pale and glossy. “What is it?”

“Strawberry matcha,” she said, clearly still deciding how she felt about that. “I am trying a new thing every morning.”

He nodded, listening, fingers curled around his own cup. Tea. Plain black tea. Enough sugar stirred in that it had taken him an extra few seconds to dissolve it all. He took a sip and let out a quiet breath through his nose, shoulders easing.

“That one’s good?” Yelena asked.

“It tastes the same every time,” he said.

She snorted. “Boring.”

“Reliable.”

That earned him a laugh, sharp and amused, and she bumped her shoulder into his as they continued down the street.

They did not get very far before a little girl suddenly broke away from her mother in front of them, sneakers slapping against the pavement as she ran toward the pair, her backpack bouncing wildly behind her.

“Are you really you?” the girl asked, skidding to a stop in front of Yelena.

Yelena stopped immediately, crouching down so they were eye level, her expression bright and open. “I am really me,” she said. “You run very fast!”

The girl beamed, chest puffing with pride. Her mother hurried over moments later, already apologizing, but Yelena waved it off easily, chatting like she had all the time in the world. Bob stepped slightly aside, giving them space, hands tucked around his cup. Another child waved at him from behind a stroller and he lifted his hand in return, smile small but genuine. He will truly never get used to being so…In the public eye? If you could call it that. He wondered if the hype around him would die down soon.

The sounds of the market pressed in around him as he waited for Yelena. Voices overlapped, laughter rising and falling in waves. Somewhere nearby, something clinked rhythmically against glass. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and let his gaze wander without much intention.

That was when he saw her.

She stood at a small booth draped in linen, rows of honey jars catching the light and glowing amber and gold. An old woman with silver hair braided loosely down her back was speaking animatedly, her hands moving as she talked. The girl across from her leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, fully engaged. Then she laughed. It was not quiet. It was not restrained. It spilled out of her easily, bright and unguarded, carrying over the noise of the market. Someone else added onto the conversation and she laughed again, head tipping back slightly, smile wide and effortless.

Bob stopped every movement without realizing it. His attention stayed fixed on her as she reached for a jar of honey, turning it slowly in her hands, reading the label while the woman continued talking. She nodded along, responding easily, clearly enjoying herself. Bob watched her pull out cash, watched her thank the woman with warmth that felt genuine, watched her step away from the booth still smiling to herself.

“Bob.”

Yelena’s voice reaches him, but it barely lands. It blends into the noise of the market, into the chatter and movement and music, and slips right past him without sticking.

She says his name again, closer this time, stepping back into his space.

“Bob.”

He does not answer. His posture has gone oddly still, shoulders set, cup hanging loosely in his hand as he watches her move away from the honey booth. She pauses at the next stand, glancing down at something laid out on the table, attention caught again so easily. The smile lingers on her face like it has nowhere else to be. Yelena watches him for a moment, head tilting slightly.

“Bob,” she says again, sharper now. When that still does not work, she sighs and adds, “The Hulk is behind you. He is very angry. He is destroying the market!”

That finally gets a reaction. Bob blinks, like someone waking up too quickly, and turns just enough for Yelena to follow the direction of his gaze. She looks past him, down the row of booths, and spots the girl immediately.

“Oh,” Yelena says. Then she straightens a little, eyes narrowing with interest. “Oh!”

Bob realizes too late that he has been caught. He shifts his weight, grip tightening around his cup, shoulders pulling in like he wants to make himself smaller.

“I was not staring,” he says quickly, like he already knows what she’s about to say.

Yelena does not bother pretending to believe him. She steps closer and elbows him firmly in the side.

“If you keep staring like that, you will get arrested,” she says.

“I was just looking,” he insists, staring very hard at a completely different booth now.

“At her,” Yelena says, still looking at the girl, delighted at this situation.

He exhales, long and slow, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I did not mean to.”

“You absolutely did.”

She leans slightly to the side, peering around him again, clearly enjoying herself. “You should go talk to her.”

Bob stiffens instantly. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“She is very hot,” Yelena adds, unhelpfully. “If you do not go, I will. She is very much my type.”

That gets him moving, but not in the direction he hoped. He turns abruptly and starts walking in the opposite way, weaving through the crowd with the clear intention of escaping. Yelena follows immediately, long strides eating up the distance between them. She grabs his sleeve and tugs him to a stop.

“You never like anyone,” she says, lowering her voice just enough to sound serious. “This is suspicious. You can’t let her go!”

“I do not even know her,” Bob says, glancing back over his shoulder despite himself.

“So fix that,” Yelena replies easily.

He hesitates, standing there with the crowd flowing around them, indecision written plainly in the way he keeps shifting his weight.

“What am I supposed to say?” he asks finally. “I cannot just go up to someone. She’ll think i’m a creep!”

“Yes, you can! and no she won’t,” Yelena says. “You say hello. You compliment something. You ask a question. People love questions.”

“I do not,” he mutters.

“That is because you do not let anyone ask you any,” she shoots back. “Now stop panicking.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, hands lifting slightly like he might actually gesture his way out of this, when the crowd shifts.

People move aside. A gap opens, and she is suddenly much closer to Bob and Yelena.

Yelena however, does not notice. She is too busy watching Bob, trying to convince him. When her final try doesn’t work, her hands her hands start to raise, and she makes the decision to shove him forward towards the direction of the girl. Yelena unfortunately does not see how close she is to them or that she has stepped directly into Bob’s path.

Yelena shoves him, and Bob stumbles.

He collides straight into the girl. The impact knocks the breath out of both of them. The small glass jar slips from her hands and shatters against the pavement with a sharp, sticky crack. Honey splashes outward, thick and golden. Bob’s tea sloshes violently, spilling down the front of his shirt as he scrambles for balance. The girl loses her footing and falls backward, landing hard on her ass with a startled curse.

“Oh my god,” Bob blurts, already crouching down. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry.”

“I am so sorry,” Yelena echoes immediately, dropping down beside them.

The people around them react all at once. Someone gasps. Someone else kneels to help, while shaming Bob for being so clumsy. Hands reach in from every direction. Bob grabs one of the girls hands, Yelena the other, and together they pull her carefully back to her feet. She yanks her hands free the moment she is upright, brushing at her clothes, fury written clearly across her face.

“What the hell,” she snaps. “Watch where you’re going!”

Yelena is already fussing over her as everybody around them disperses, hands gentle as she brushes dirt from her back, plucking a leaf out of her hair with surprising care. “Yes, this one is very clumsy,” she says, shooting Bob a look. “Are you hurt?”

Bob stands there, frozen, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on her face like he is afraid to blink. “I really did not mean to knock you over,” he says, words tumbling out too quickly. “It was an accident.”

She looks between them, irritation sharp and immediate. Her gaze drops to the pavement where the honey spreads uselessly across the ground, glass glinting in the sunlight.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters. “I just bought that.” Bob swallows hard.

——

The world tips sideways without warning.

One second you’re walking, half distracted, already scanning the next booth, and the next you’re going down hard. You barely manage to get a curse out before you hit the pavement, the impact jarring straight through your spine. You most definitely were going to be bruised up tomorrow, the back of your things stinging from scraping the ground. Glass shatters next to you, and honey splashes everywhere, thick and golden and completely ruined.

“What the hell,” you shout, palms stinging as you push yourself upright, heart hammering in your chest.

“Oh my god.”

“I am so sorry.”

The voices come at you all at once, overlapping and frantic. People crowd in immediately, shadows blocking out the sunlight for a moment as hands reach toward you from every direction. You’re still blinking, still trying to process what just happened, when someone grabs your hand.

Then another. The grip is steady. Strong. Careful. You’re pulled back to your feet before you can protest, legs wobbling slightly as you find your balance again.

“I am so sorry,” the man in front of you says, breathless. “I really did not mean to knock you over.”

“I am so sorry,” the woman beside him adds immediately, already brushing dirt from your back like she’s on autopilot, fingers quick as she picks leaves out of your hair. “It was an accident.”

Your adrenaline is still spiking. Your heart is racing. You glance down at the pavement and your mood tanks instantly. Your honey is completely shattered. Glass glints uselessly in the sunlight, sticky and unsalvageable.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you snap. “I literally just bought that.”

“I swear it was an accident,” the man says again, words tumbling over each other. “I was pushed and I did not see you and I-“

You open your mouth to really let them have it, but then you finally look at him, and whatever sharp thing you were about to say evaporates. The man that ran into you is tall, much taller than you. He had brown floppy hair that looked incredibly soft falling into his eyes no matter how many times he tries to push it back. A knit sweater that fits him in a way that makes it painfully obvious he’s far more built than he looks at first glance, paired with brown corduroy pants that look intentional, put together. Even soaked in whatever drink he spilled, standing there apologizing like he might actually die of embarrassment, he’s… adorable.

Your words die somewhere in your throat.

You blink, then glance back down at the ground. His drink is ruined too, dark liquid soaking into the pavement beside your honey. The two casualties sit there together, equally tragic. You look back up at him.

“You owe me a new jar of honey,” you say.

The woman beside him snorts, but quickly covers her mouth to hide it.

“Oh my god,” she says, “I was fully prepared for you to yell at us.”

You smirk despite yourself. “I might still.”

She grins wider. “Fair. But actually, this was completely my fault.” She jerks a thumb toward herself. “I shoved him. I was trying to get his attention.”

You glance between them, taking in the way he looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole.

“So,” you say slowly, nodding between them, “are you his girlfriend?”

Her reaction is instant and dramatic.

“What?” she says. “No. Absolutely not.”

She waves her hands like she needs physical distance from the idea.

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing playfully. “You sure? So does that mean you’re single then?” You decide to flirt playfully, because what could it hurt?

“Very sure,” she says, then looks you up and down without shame. “You, however, are much more my type, and I am very much single.”

You laugh, surprised and a little delighted. “Oh?”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Careful,” you say. “You’re making it tempting.”

She beams. “Trust me, I know.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the clumsy man standing there, completely red from the collar of his sweater all the way up his neck, hands fidgeting uselessly at his sides. She notices too and finally snaps herself back into focus.

“Okay,” she says, clapping once. “Enough flirting. Stop panicking.” She elbows him sharply. “You need to fix this.”

“I am trying,” he mutters.

“You are doing terribly,” she replies cheerfully. Then she turns back to you. “He should take you to buy a new jar of honey.”

He blinks. “I should?”

“Yes,” she says. “Right now.”

There’s a beat where he clearly considers arguing. Then he nods. “Yes. Okay. That makes sense. Lead the way?”

You gesture back toward the booth. “After you.”

You walk away from his friend together, and the first thing you notice is how carefully he moves. Not just around you, but for you. He gives you space, a deliberate half step to the side, like he’s afraid of bumping you again. When someone passes too close, he subtly shifts so it’s his shoulder that takes the hit instead of yours. It’s quiet, instinctive, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

He hasn’t said anything yet. His hands hang awkwardly at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like they’re restless. He keeps opening his mouth, closing it again, jaw tightening every time he aborts whatever thought was trying to escape. You catch it. All of it.

“So,” you say first, because you’re getting bored of waiting.

He startles like you caught him doing something illegal. “Sorry. I just-“He stops. Clears his throat. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I’m Bob..”

“Hi Bob. I am ok,” you say easily. “You knocked the wind out of me, but I’ve survived worse.”

He winces hard at that, shoulders tensing like the guilt physically hurts. “I really am sorry.”

“I know,” you say, glancing at him. “You’ve said it like twelve times.”

“I can say it more.”

You laugh, quick and unfiltered, and that somehow makes him even more nervous. He looks at you like he’s trying to figure out if that was a good sign or a bad one. You keep walking, unbothered, letting the silence stretch again. It’s not uncomfortable for you. It’s interesting. You can feel how badly he wants to say something, how every step feels like another chance slipping past him.

“You were going to talk to me,” you say suddenly. He almost trips.

“What? How did you know?”

“You were staring,” you add calmly. “You didn’t exactly hide it, I could feel your eyes on me the whole time.”

His ears turn red instantly. “I wasn’t- I mean, I was, but not in a creepy way.”

“Relax,” you say. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought it was in a creepy way.” That makes him stop walking for half a second before he forces himself to keep moving.

“I had thought about maybe asking you out, but was too chicken,” he admits quietly, like the words taste strange. “Before my friend interfered.”

You glance over at him again. He’s not looking at you now. His gaze is fixed ahead, jaw tight, like he’s annoyed at himself more than anything else.

“So you froze,” you say.

“Yes,” he says, relieved you put it into words. “Exactly.”

You smile. “Cute.”

He looks at you sharply. “It is not.”

“You’re wrong,” you reply. “It is.”

The honey booth comes back into view slowly, the old woman already rearranging jars like she has all the time in the world. You feel him hesitate beside you, like the moment is getting heavier instead of lighter.

She looks up and smiles when she sees you reach her booth once more.

“Back already?” she asks.

You gesture lazily between yourself and him. “Violent collision. He bumped me and I fell, my jar broke.”

Her eyes sweep over him in one long, unapologetic look. “Honey,” she says, “I’d get knocked down by him any day.”

You laugh, loud and easy. He freezes like he’s been hit by a stun gun. His face goes red in stages, spreading up his neck, into his cheeks, all the way to his ears. His hands curl into fists, then relax, then curl again.

“I was going to ask her out,” he blurts suddenly, defensive and breathless. “I just didn’t get the chance.”

That’s when you fully turn toward him.

“Oh,” you say slowly. “So this was intentional?”

“Yes,” he says immediately, then groans. “I mean- the asking. Not the falling. God.”

You grin. “You’re spiraling.”

“I know.”

The old woman chuckles and slides a fresh jar of honey forward. “Then stop thinking and do it, son.”

He stares at the jar like it’s a lifeline. Takes a breath. Then another. His shoulders rise and fall slowly as he steadies himself. He looks at you again, like he’s finally accepting that there’s no rehearsed version of this.

“I saw you laughing,” he says quietly. “And I immediately thought that I wanted to be the reason you kept on laughing.”

Something sharp and warm twists in your chest. He swallows. “So… would you like to go out with me?”

You don’t let the moment hang. “Yes,” you say immediately.

His eyes widen, like he didn’t actually expect success.

“There’s a restaurant nearby,” you add, stepping closer, invading his space without apology. “Tonight. You’re buying. For the honey. Let’s say 8?”

He lets out a breathless laugh. “Yes. Absolutely.”

You take the honey from him, let your fingers brush his on purpose, and you feel the way he stills at the contact.

“Thanks for the honey,” you say, then lean in and kiss his cheek.

He forgets how to breathe, and you melt back into the market like you were never there. One turn between booths, one slip into the flow of bodies, and you’re gone. That laugh he was already so fond of vanishing before him. Your perfume, that smelt like sweet candy, is already fading into the smell of bread and fruit and honey.

He stays exactly where he is. Honey jar paid for, cash still half out. Tea still drying on the front of his sweater. He’s standing too straight, like his body forgot it can move without permission. His cheek is warm where your lips were, and it looks like he’s afraid to touch it in case it makes the whole thing feel less real.

The old woman watches him with a pleased little smile as she rearranges her jars. She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t have to. He finally blinks. Then blinks again, slow, like his brain is rebooting. His gaze stays fixed on the direction you vanished, scanning for a glimpse of you between shoulders, between sun hats, between the hanging bouquets at the flower stand. He doesn’t find you, not really. Just movement and color and the occasional flash of hair that isn’t yours.

A triumphant cheer snaps through the air behind him. Then a familiar voice, far too close.

“I leave you alone for one minute,” Yelena says, breathless with excitement, “and you get yourself a date.”

He flinches, like he forgot Yelena existed.

She’s practically bouncing on her toes, eyes bright, hands already on his arm like she’s checking he’s still solid.

“She said yes,” she says, loud and proud, like she’s announcing it to the entire market. “You did it. You asked. She said yes.”

He opens his mouth, and then closes it. His throat works like he’s trying to find words and none of them cooperate.

“I know,” he manages finally, voice quiet.

Yelena stares at him like she expects him to be screaming too.

“That’s it?” she demands. “I know?”

He swallows. His gaze flicks back toward the crowd again, like he might still catch you.

“I did not think she would say yes,” he admits, and the honesty of it makes him look even more stunned. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

Yelena makes a sound of disgust. “Of course she said yes. Did you see her? She is fearless. She kissed you. She left. Like a criminal.”

He looks at her, dazed. “She kissed my cheek.”

Yelena’s grin turns vicious. “Yes.”

He exhales slowly, almost like he’s trying to calm his body down. “You shoved me.”

“I helped you.”

“You shoved me into her,” he corrects, still quiet, but now there’s a hint of something else under it. A little annoyance. A little disbelief. Like he can’t decide if he wants to thank her or throttle her.

Yelena shrugs, completely unapologetic. “And now you have a date. I am proud of you,” she says, suddenly serious again, grabbing his shoulders and giving him a firm shake like she’s trying to rattle the nerves out of him. “You were like a normal person for once!”

He looks pained. “I was not normal.”

“You were close enough,” she says, then taps his chest where the tea stain is drying. “Except for this. This is pathetic.”

He looks down at his sweater like he’s just now remembering he spilled tea all over himself. “Oh, right.”

Yelena grabs his wrist.

“No,” he says immediately, panicked. “What are you doing?”

“We are leaving,” she says, already dragging him away from the booth. “We are going home. We are changing you. We are picking an outfit.”

“I can pick my own outfit,” he says weakly, stumbling after her.

“No, you cannot,” she replies. “You will wear that sweater again and think it counts as romance.”

“It’s a nice sweater,” he mutters.

“It is a nice sweater,” she agrees. “It is also covered in tea. You are going to look like a sad book boy.”

He tries to pull back, still staring over his shoulder at the crowd as if you might reappear, as if you might suddenly decide to circle back and talk with him again.

Yelena tightens her grip and tugs harder.

“Eyes forward,” she says sharply. “You will see her tonight. Do not ruin this by spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” he lies.

“You are spiraling,” she says, delighted. “It is adorable. But we do not have time.”

He lets himself be dragged, feet reluctant, head still turning every few steps. The market recedes behind them, the noise softening, the smells fading. But his gaze stays stuck on the place you disappeared, like part of him is still standing there with the honey booth and the shattered glass.

Yelena starts listing outfit options like she’s planning a mission.

“No sweaters,” she says. “No corduroy. You need something that says I am calm and I do not get pushed into girls.”

He makes a quiet sound of misery.

“And you need to shave,” she adds.

“I do not need to-“

“Yes you do,” she says. “You are going to look clean. You are going to smell good. And you are going to bring flowers.”

He frowns. “Flowers?”

“Yes.”

“Is that too much?”

Yelena stops walking just long enough to stare at him. “Bob.” He goes still. “You are a sweet man,” she says, like that should be obvious. “She is a woman. She likes sweet.”

His ears go pink again.

Yelena grins. “Now move. We have hours of preparation. I will not let you embarrass me.”

He lets her drag him the rest of the way, still stunned, still quiet, still trying to understand how a morning coffee routine turned into a date. And somewhere back in the market, you’re still out there, honey in hand, smile on your face, already living in his head like you pay rent.

———

Bob stands in front of the mirror while Yelena refuses to let him exist peacefully.

He is dressed. He knows that. The three

different shirts piled up on the floor in front

of him was a clear sign that he was panicking. He couldn’t explain why standing still feels impossible, and Yelena notices immediately. She tugs at the collar of his shirt, smoothing it down, then frowns and does it again like the fabric is personally offending her.

“Stop moving,” she tells him.

“I’m not moving,” Bob replies automatically, even as his shoulders shift and his weight rocks back onto his heels.

Yelena meets his eyes in the mirror. “You are.”

“I’m standing,” he insists.

“You are standing badly.”

She grabs his shoulders and physically squares them, forcing him upright. He freezes for a second, trying very hard to cooperate, but his fingers twitch at his sides and his foot taps once against the floor before he can stop it.

Behind them, Walker lets out a quiet laugh. He’s seated comfortably in a chair near the wall, arms folded, clearly enjoying himself far too much. Bucky leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed, expression neutral, though his eyes flick back and forth with interest as the scene unfolds.

“So,” Walker says, stretching the word out. “You met a mysterious woman at the market, knocked the poor girl over, broke her jar of honey, and now you’re going on a

date?”

Bob glances at the mirror again, then away. “Uh yep, pretty much…”

“You nervous? You have to be, You changed shirts three times,” Walker points out.

Yelena steps back, examining her work critically as she gives Walker a dirty look for adding to Bobs nervousness. Bob is wearing a dark button-down that fits him properly without looking stiff, the sleeves rolled to his forearms in a way that looks intentional but still natural. Dark jeans. Clean shoes that are nicer than his usual but still comfortable. He looks like himself, just… sharpened.

“He looks acceptable,” Yelena decides.

“That’s high praise,” Bucky says dryly.

Walker leans forward. “Alright, describe her. What’s she look like?”

Yelena doesn’t hesitate. “She’s short. Very attractive. Confident in a way that suggests poor life decisions.”

Walker grins. “You sure you aren’t the one taking the market girl out Lena?”

“I did flirt with her,” Yelena says, smirking

up at Bob who was rolling his eyes at the comment. “But Bob saw her first. He gets the girl this time.”

Bob exhales through his nose, hands flexing at his sides. “She has a nice laugh,” he says suddenly.

Walker’s grin widens. “A nice laugh?”

Bob shoots him an annoyed look. “I’m serious.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly. “Go on.”

Bob hesitates, then keeps talking, like once the door is open he can’t quite close it again. “It’s loud. Not fake. She doesn’t stop herself or try to soften it. She laughs like she means it. That’s what drew my attention in the first place, I heard her before i saw her.”

Yelena watches him through the mirror now, quiet, attentive.

“She was laughing with strangers,” Bob continues, warming to it despite himself. “People she didn’t know. Like it was easy. Like she didn’t care if anyone thought she was too much.”

Walker sits back, nodding. “That’s like

the exact opposite of you.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Bob replies, frustration creeping into his voice. “She doesn’t shrink. She takes up space like it belongs to her.”

Bob rubs a hand over the back of his neck, clearly annoyed that this conversation has turned into an interrogation of his feelings. “I thought she was going to yell at us at first,” he adds. “But the she smiled and told me I needed to replace her honey and i just knew I had to at least try and ask her.”

Yelena steps in again, fingers immediately in his hair. She smooths it back carefully, then pauses, studies him, and shakes her head before messing it up again.

“No. That makes you look like you’re about to file paperwork.”

“Yelena quit fussing,” Bob mutters, even as he shifts again.

“What did I say about not moving,” she replies, unbothered.

She moves to the dresser and starts sorting through his cologne with exaggerated seriousness, sniffing one and immediately rejecting it.

“No. That one smells like regret.”

Another spray. Sniff. Then she gags, quite dramatically, before picking up the final one.

Yelena turns and gives Bob a pointed look. “Hold still.”

He nods, immediately flinching when she spritzes it lightly at his wrist and collar.

“I said hold still.”

“I didn’t move!”

“You flinched.”

“That’s not the same.”

She then reaches into a drawer and pulls out a single flower, placing it carefully in his hand. Bob looks down at it, then back up at her.

“A flower?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. “You are a sweet man. Do not argue. I know what’s best.”

Walker stands and claps Bob on the shoulder. “Listen. You’re overthinking it. You show up. You eat. You talk. You laugh. You don’t apologize every thirty seconds.”

“I don’t apologize that much,” Bob says

weakly.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You apologized like ten times just a couple minutes ago.”

Bob sighs.

Yelena steps closer again, straightening his collar one final time, slower now, gentler.

“She already said yes,” she reminds him. “That’s the important part.”

Bob nods, gripping the flower a little tighter. He takes a step toward the door, then hesitates. He makes it two steps before Walker pushes off the chair and moves into his path, casual but deliberate, like he’s blocking a hallway more than a person.

“Hey,” Walker says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial.

Bob pauses, already suspicious. “What.”

Walker doesn’t answer right away. He steps closer and presses something small and unfamiliar into Bob’s palm, curling his fingers around it before Bob can fully register what it is.

Bob looks down.

It takes a second for his brain to catch up.

Then it does.

His eyes widen. His entire body stiffens.

He snaps his hand shut on instinct and looks up at Walker, horrified. “No. No, that’s not- absolutely not!”

Walker grins, unrepentant. “Just in case?”

Bob tries to shove it back at him immediately, thrusting his hand forward like the thing might burn him. “Take it back. I don’t need that. This is dinner.”

Yelena turns sharply at the sound of his voice. “What did you do?”

Walker holds up his hands, innocent. “Being prepared.”

She crosses the room in two strides and smacks Walker square in the chest, hard enough to make a point. “You are making him panic worse!”

“I’m not using this,” Bob says quickly, words tumbling over each other as he gestures

helplessly between the three of them. “I am not even thinking about that. I am going to eat food. I am going to sit in a chair. That’s it.”

Bucky, who has been watching with quiet amusement, finally speaks. “You can still carry it and not use it.”

Bob turns to him, scandalized. “Why would I carry it?”

“Because,” Bucky says calmly, “you’re already panicking, and this is not the thing you want to spiral about later.”

Bob opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again. His grip tightens around the flower in his other hand. He looks down at the small square in his palm like it personally betrayed him.

“I am not using it,” he says again, slower now, more stubborn. “It is staying in my wallet. It will not leave the wallet. This is not that kind of night.”

Walker’s grin widens. “Sure.”

Bob glares at him, then exhales through his nose and reluctantly tucks it away, shoving his wallet back into his pocket like he wants the entire subject buried with it.

Yelena points at Walker. “If he has a panic attack in the elevator, that is on you.”

Bob rubs a hand over his face, then drops it, straightening slightly as if reminding himself why he’s here. He looks at Yelena. She softens immediately, reaching up to smooth his collar one last time, slower now, gentler.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says. “You don’t need that to have a good night.”

He nods, still flustered, but steadier.

“I know,” he says quietly.

He grips the flower tighter, turns back toward the door, and this time he doesn’t stop.

———

The restaurant is closer to the tower than Bob expects. He realizes it halfway there, when the streets start to look familiar to his morning coffee walks with Yelena. The walk that felt long in his head passes too quickly in reality, and suddenly the warm glow of the restaurant is right there in front of him, light spilling through tall windows onto the sidewalk. He slows without meaning to, steps faltering as the sounds of conversation and clinking glasses drift out every time the door opens.

It’s nice. Really nice. White tablecloths, soft lighting, the kind of place where people linger over wine and talk with their hands.

His nerves spike immediately. What if she’s already inside? What if she’s sitting at a table right now, checking her watch, wondering why she agreed to this? What if she doesn’t show up at all? The thought hits harder than he expects, settling heavy in his chest. He stops just short of the entrance, standing there like he’s forgotten what comes next. His fingers tighten around the single flower in his hand, thumb rubbing along the stem until he realizes he’s bending it slightly and forces himself to stop.

He exhales slowly and runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it back, then immediately fussing with it again like it might betray him at any moment. He straightens his shirt, then second-guesses that too, tugging at the hem and then letting it fall. You’re fine, he tells himself, which somehow makes it worse. He glances at the door again, heart thudding. The idea of walking in alone suddenly feels unbearable. He can already picture it, the awkward pause, the host asking if he’s waiting for someone, the inevitable pity when the answer stretches too long.

He’s so caught in the spiral that he doesn’t hear footsteps behind him. A light tap lands on his shoulder. He turns too fast. And there she is. For a moment, his brain simply gives up. She looks even more stunning than she did that morning, which feels unfair considering how impossible that already seemed. She’s dressed for the evening now, something sleek and fitted that walks the line perfectly between elegant and dangerous. The fabric clings in a way that makes it very clear she knows exactly what she’s doing. Black heels ground the look, confident and sharp. Her makeup is darker, sultrier, lipstick rich and distracting enough that Bob forgets how breathing works entirely.

His knees actually feel weak. He just stands there, staring, words completely gone, the flower dangling uselessly in his hand.

She takes one look at his expression and laughs. That laugh. The same one from the market. Loud, warm, unfiltered. It cuts straight through his panic, loosens something tight in his chest, makes the world feel steadier again. His shoulders drop without him realizing it.

“Hi,” she says, clearly amused.

“Hi,” he manages, voice a little rough around the edges.

They stand there for a second, smiling at each other, the city moving around them like they’re the only two people not in a rush. He finally remembers the flower, lifting it like it might be an offering.

“I, um,” he says, then clears his throat. “This is for you.”

Her eyes light up instantly. “A flower?” she says, genuinely delighted. “For me?”

She takes it from him carefully, like it’s something precious, then grins. “This almost makes up for the scrapes on my ass.”

Bob chokes. Not on food. Not on a drink. Just air. He coughs once, then again, one hand flying up to his chest as he desperately tries to recover. She bursts out laughing, completely unrepentant, and the sound only makes him blush harder.

“I’m sorry,” he says once he can breathe again. “I just wasn’t expecting that.”

She smiles at him, pleased. “I like keeping people on their toes.”

There’s a beat where neither of them speaks, the moment stretching comfortably instead of awkwardly. He gestures toward the door, suddenly very aware that they’re still standing on the sidewalk.

“Would you like to go inside?” he asks. “Before I embarrass myself further.”

She hooks her arm loosely through his without hesitation. “Absolutely.”

They step into the restaurant together, the door closing softly behind them, and Bob thinks distantly that whatever happens next, the hardest part might already be over.

The restaurant feels different from the inside. It’s tucked farther back than you expected, your table hidden in a corner booth where the light is low and warm, candles flickering softly between baskets of bread and folded menus. Everything smells incredible. Garlic, butter, fresh pasta. The kind of smell that settles into your skin and makes you relax whether you mean to or not.

You slide into the booth first, and he follows a second later, close enough that you feel the brush of his knee against yours before he pulls back, flustered. The lighting is doing dangerous things to him. Or maybe it’s doing dangerous things to you. Either way, you can see the way his gaze keeps flicking to your face, to your mouth, then quickly away like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“I didn’t realize how close this place was,” he says, glancing toward the front of the restaurant before looking back at you. “It’s… embarrassingly close to where I live.”

You smile. “So I made a strategic choice.”

He laughs, a little breathy, clearly relaxing now that you’re smiling at him like that. “I walk past it all the time. Yelena and I get coffee around the corner every morning.”

“Every morning,” you repeat. “That feels very routine for someone who knocked me over in a farmer’s market.”

He winces playfully. “I swear I’m usually more coordinated.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say. “What kind of coffee order are we talking about.”

“Tea,” he admits. “With too much sugar.”

You light up. “Oh. You’re one of those?”

“One of what?”

“The secretly sweet ones pretending they’re not.”

He laughs again, this time easier. “Yelena says it’s a character flaw.”

“She sounds wise.”

“She is,” he agrees, then pauses. “Terrifying, but wise.”

You lower your menu and rest your chin in your hand. “So what do you do on these coffee walks besides people watching and accidentally planning dates?”

He thinks about it. Actually thinks. You can see it in the way his eyes drift for a second.

“We talk about everything,” he says. “Work. Life. Things that annoy her. Things that scare me.”

“That’s a wide range.”

He smiles at that. “She does most of the talking.”

“Shocking.”

He chuckles, then catches himself watching you again. This time he doesn’t look away immediately.

“What about you,” he asks. “Do you come to places like this often?”

“I like good food,” you say. “And places where people linger. I hate anything that feels rushed.”

His shoulders ease at that, like it’s permission. “Me too.”

The server comes by, and you order. You choose something indulgent, creamy and rich, unapologetic. He hesitates for a moment before ordering something comforting and classic, clearly a creature of habit but not ashamed of it. Red wine ends up on the table after all, poured slowly into wide glasses. Once the server leaves, he exhales.

“I feel like I should admit something,” he says.

You raise a brow. “I’m listening.”

“I was very nervous you weren’t going to show up.”

You grin. “Oh. I absolutely considered it.”

His eyes widen. “You did?”

“Briefly,” you say. “Then I remembered your face when I kissed your cheek.”

He groans softly and drops his head for a second. “Please don’t.”

“I liked watching you turn red,” you tease lightly.

He looks back up at you then, something warmer in his expression now. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been told.”

You smile at the way the candlelight catches the curve of his face, the way his lashes cast shadows under his eyes. He’s looking at you again, but this time really looking, and something about the way his attention settles on you makes your stomach flip.

Your smile softens without you realizing it.

That’s when you notice he’s staring, but at your eyes. Your lips. He’s gone quiet, mid-thought, gaze fixed like he forgot the rest of the world exists. The silence stretches just long enough to be noticeable. You don’t call him out.

Instead, you reach for your purse.

The zipper sounds louder than it should in the quiet booth. He blinks, startled, attention snapping back to you just in time to watch you pull out a small metal flask. His eyes widen and your grin turns wicked. You duck slightly behind your menu, unscrew the lid, and take a quick swig. The burn makes you wince just a little, enough to make him stare like he’s witnessing a crime.

You shake the flask once, amused, and whisper, “I’m not really a wine girl. Want a drink?”

His mouth opens.

Closes.

“I usually don’t,” he starts, then stops himself, glancing at you again. Something in his expression shifts. Curiosity. Nerves. Something braver.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. Okay.”

You slide the flask under the table, your fingers brushing his as he takes it. The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends a small jolt up your arm anyway. You bite back a smile. He copies you, lifting his menu like a shield, taking a quick swig. You watch his face carefully, waiting for a reaction.

Nothing. No wince. No cough. No dramatic gasp.

Your eyes widen. “Oh.”

“What,” he asks, lowering the flask.

“That was incredibly sexy,” you say.

He nearly drops it.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says.

“Exactly,” you reply, grinning. “Terrifying.”

His face goes bright red, and you huff amused as he hands the flask back. The plates arrive like an interruption neither of you asked for.

Steam curls up between you, rich and fragrant. Your pasta is glossy and decadent, ribbons coated in cream and pepper and parmesan. His is darker, heartier, something with red sauce and slow-cooked meat, the kind of dish that smells like it takes its time. The server sets everything down, asks if you need anything else, and you both shake your heads a little too quickly.

As soon as you’re alone again, the space between you feels smaller.

You take your first bite, humming quietly without meaning to. The sound slips out of you, soft and pleased, and his eyes flick to your mouth immediately. You notice. Of course you do. You chew slowly, deliberately, letting your gaze stay on his as you swallow. You wonder what that brain

of his is thinking as he watches your lips move.

“Good?” he asks.

“Really good,” you say. “Yours?”

He nods, but he hasn’t eaten yet. He’s still watching you. You smile into your next bite.

Conversation keeps going, but it’s different now. Slower. Looser. He leans back into the booth, one arm draped along the seat behind you like he hasn’t realized he’s done it. Or maybe he has and he’s choosing not to move. You tell him another story, something ridiculous and only half appropriate, and he laughs, warm and low, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I can’t believe you actually did that,” he says.

“I absolutely did,” you reply. “And I’d do it again.”

He shakes his head, smiling, and finally takes a bite of his food. You watch the way his throat moves when he swallows. The way his lips press together for just a second afterward. You’re mid-bite when you feel his attention sharpen. He stills slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration.

“Hang on,” he says softly. “You’ve got something here.”

Before you can ask what, he’s already leaning in. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, warm and gentle, wiping away a trace of sauce. The contact is brief at first. Then it isn’t. His thumb lingers, barely moving, like he’s forgotten what he meant to do next. The air goes tight, and you don’t break eye contact. Instead, you part your lips, just enough. And without thinking, or maybe because the wine and the night have both gone to your head, you close your mouth around his thumb and suck gently, slow and deliberate, cleaning it.

The reaction is immediate. His breath catches hard, chest rising sharply as his entire body goes still. His eyes go dark, pupils blown wide, jaw tightening like he’s physically holding himself in place. For one suspended second, neither of you moves. His thumb stays right where it is. Your lips linger. Then you release him.

He pulls his hand back slowly, carefully, like sudden movement might shatter something fragile. He rests it on the table, fingers curling in on themselves, knuckles faintly white.

“Oh,” he says, very quietly.

You smile, unapologetic, and take another bite of your pasta like nothing happened.

Conversation resumes. Technically.

You talk about work, about music, about nothing at all. But everything is layered now. Every glance lasts a beat too long. Every brush of your leg against his under the table sends a spark up your spine. He’s closer than before, shoulder angled toward you, voice lower when he speaks like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

At some point, he realizes she’s flirting.

And instead of panicking lol he already has been, he leans into it.

“You do this on purpose,” he says, eyes flicking to your mouth again.

“Do what?”

“Make people nervous.”

You tilt your head. “Is it working?”

He laughs softly. “Yes.”

You clink your wine glasses together again. The red wine is warm in your stomach now, mixing with whatever you’ve been sneaking from the flask. His nerves are gone, replaced with something steadier. Bolder. He’s talking more with his hands, leaning in, making you laugh hard enough that you have to look away once or twice.

“You’re blushing,” he points out at one point.

“So are you,” you shoot back.

He doesn’t deny it. By the time the plates are cleared, the candles have burned lower and the restaurant has quieted around you. The server places the cheque gently at the edge of the table and walks away without comment. You glance at it, and then you look at him. His eyes are already on you, warm and curious and just a little undone.

A very wicked idea takes shape. You smile slowly, say nothing, and let your foot slide just a little closer to his under the table.

And you watch his breath hitch.

Your shoulder presses into his side, soft and deliberate, close enough that he inhales sharply before he can stop himself. You feel it. The way his body reacts instantly, tension snapping tight beneath his calm exterior. You let yourself linger there, cheek close to his, lips just barely brushing the air near his jaw as your heel slides up his calf beneath the table. Slow, teasing, Intentional. His breath stutters yet again.

He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move at all, actually. He’s holding himself together by sheer willpower, eyes fixed on yours, pupils dark, mouth parted just slightly like he forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

Your lips drift closer. Close enough that you feel the heat of him, close enough that your noses brush. Close enough that he could kiss you if he wanted to. Instead, you whisper.

“Let’s run.”

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“Run?” he asks, genuinely confused, voice low and rough. “What do you mean run?”

You laugh quietly, softer this time, leaning back just enough to look at him properly. You give his arm a light, playful smack.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Run.”

You start gathering your things like it’s the most obvious plan in the world. Sliding your bag onto your shoulder, scooting toward the edge of the booth. Bob just watches you, completely lost, mouth opening and closing like his brain is lagging behind your actions.

You stop and look back at him when he doesn’t move.

You roll your eyes, and sigh dramatically. “Listen. I know you’re a fancy Avenger and everything and this could look bad, but also who cares. Gotta live a little. Have some fun.”

Thats what does it. His expression shifts from confusion to outright shock.

“You know I’m a…” He trails off, blinking hard. “How did you know I was a…”

You cut him off with sigh, warm and easy, like it’s not even worth making a thing out of.

“Oh, babe. Of course I knew,” you say. “I just didn’t care.”

You lean closer again, close enough that your lips brush his cheek.

“That’s not all you are,” you continue quietly. “I wanted to get to know you. Not the fancy new Avenger.”

Something breaks open in him at that.

It’s not just that you knew. It’s that you didn’t care, and that you saw him standing there in a market, awkward and quiet and staring at you like you hung the moon, and that was enough. The weight he’s carried without realizing it suddenly lifts, just a little, and it makes his chest ache. You go to stand, but he grabs your arm. The touch is firm but gentle, grounding. You turn back to him, surprised, and he looks steadier now.

“You mean run,” he says slowly, “as in not pay?”

You grin, leaning in to kiss his cheek again as you shrug into your coat. “Yes. Run. Not pay. Dine and freakin dash. This place is way overpriced.”

You whisper it like it’s a secret, excitement buzzing through you. He lets you go, brushing his fingers over his cheek where your lips just were. He exhales a quiet laugh, knowing exactly how bad of an idea this is.

“You really are trouble,” he says.

You wink, standing up to start the show. “Okay, honey, you pay. I’m gonna run to the washroom. The kids are probably waiting up past their bedtime for us. You know how cranky Todd can get.”

You lean down once more, close enough that your breath ghosts his ear. “There’s a back door by the bathrooms. Meet me out there in five minutes.”

You turn to leave, and he stops you again.

This time, it’s different. He takes your hand, lifts it slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss to your knuckles. Soft, deliberate, and absolutely lethal.

“Do hurry back,” he says, voice smooth and low, almost with a bit of an accent? “Every moment away from you is just torture, darling.”

You freeze and your mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. Without another word, you slip away, heart racing, cheeks burning, disappearing toward the bathrooms before you embarrass yourself further. Five minutes later, you slip out the back door unnoticed.

Bob waits longer than he should, nerves spiking again, guilt creeping in as he spots the waiter busy across the room. He pulls cash from his wallet, scribbles a quick note, and leaves it on the bill for the tip before finally making his move. The back door opens and as the cool night air hits his face, he exhales in relief. Then he spots you.

Leaning against the brick wall, jacket open, one knee bent casually as you take a drag from a cigarette. The glow lights your face for a moment before fading.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he calls out.

You yelp, startled, then roll your eyes as you stub it out quickly. “You scared me.”

You jog over and hook your arm through his as if this is all perfectly normal. “I only smoke if I’ve had a few drinks.”

He opens his mouth, clearly about to say something responsible and sensible about how smoking is bad for you, but a door slams open behind you and interrupts you.

“Excuse me!”

You both freeze.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “That’s our waiter.”

Bob’s heart slams into his ribs. “What do we do?”

You stare at each other, panic flaring. “I don’t know,” you hiss. “I’ve literally never done this before.”

The waiter starts moving faster.

“Does your Sentry thing make you run fast,” you ask desperately.

Bob barely has time to answer before you grab his hand.

“Run.”

You don’t give him time to argue before your fingers lace through his and you take off, heels striking the pavement hard as you drag him out of the alley and into the open street. The sound of footsteps behind you spikes your pulse instantly, shoes slapping against concrete, someone shouting your direction. Bob’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears, adrenaline flooding his system faster than his thoughts can catch up. He thinks back to his past, wondering how he ended up in a place like this again. Although this time what he’s doing is much less dangerous, and a lot more fun.

“He’s coming,” you hiss, glancing over your shoulder.

“I can see that,” he pants, already struggling not to laugh from the sheer insanity of it.

You pull him harder, tugging him around a corner just as a door bangs open behind you. The street widens and suddenly there are people everywhere, couples strolling, someone walking a dog, a group laughing loudly on a corner. You slow just a fraction, trying to blend in, chests still heaving, hands still locked together. You don’t let go.

“Okay,” you whisper urgently. “Act normal.”

Bob straightens as best he can while walking, running a hand through his hair, trying to slow his breathing. Then the waiter’s voice cuts through the noise again.

“There they are!”

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

You bolt once more. You cut sharply to the left, pulling Bob with you across the street without waiting for the light. Horns blare instantly. Tires screech. Someone yells something that definitely is not polite. Bob’s grip tightens on your hand as he stumbles, heart leaping into his throat.

“You’re in heels,” he blurts out, half impressed, half terrified.

“I know,” you shout back. “Don’t think about it!”

You make it to the other side by sheer luck, dodging a car far too close for Bob’s liking. The waiter is stuck now, blocked by traffic, shouting something you can’t quite make out, but you don’t slow down. You duck into another alley, then another, weaving through dumpsters and fire escapes, mumbling breathlessly now about losing him because it’s all too much. Bob keeps pace easily, but he stays close, protective without thinking, one arm occasionally coming around you to steer you away from obstacles when the ground dips or the alley narrows.

At one point, you trip slightly. He catches you instantly, arm tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him for half a second before you’re moving again. The contact sends a sharp jolt through both of you, electric and undeniable.

“Sorry,” you gasp.

“Don’t be,” he says, voice low, breathless. “That was… fine.”

You finally slow a few streets over, turning into a darker side alley where the noise of the city dulls to a distant hum. You stop abruptly, pressing a hand to the brick wall, chest rising and falling hard. Bob stumbles to a stop across from you, hands braced on his knees, laughing in pure shock now because he can’t help it. Adrenaline is still roaring through him, limbs tired and one fire, heart racing like he just survived something impossible. You straighten slowly and your eyes meet. The laughter between you fades.

You’re close again. Too close. The air between you feels charged, alive, humming with everything you haven’t said and everything you almost did back at the table. Your breathing starts to slow, but the heat doesn’t fade with it. Bob steps closer without realizing he’s moved, and so do you.

“You’re insane,” he says softly.

You smile, breathless. “You loved it.”

He doesn’t deny it. For a second, he just looks at you, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, hair a mess from running. The city feels far away now. The only sound is your breathing and the faint echo of heavy breathing still trapped in your chest.

Soon he is moving without even thinking. His hands come up to your face, palms warm and sure as he pulls you into him, and the kiss crashes into you with no warning at all. It’s messy and urgent and completely unplanned, mouths colliding like neither of you can afford to hesitate another second. You hit the brick wall behind you with a soft gasp, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs just as his mouth claims yours. The kiss deepens immediately. There’s nothing gentle about it. No testing. No tentative brush of lips. He kisses you like he’s been holding himself back all night and finally lost the ability to pretend otherwise. His grip tightens at your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he leans into you, crowding your space, pressing his body close enough that you feel every solid line of him.

Your hands fist in his shirt without you realizing you’ve moved. He makes a sound against your mouth, low and involuntary, and it sends a shiver straight through you. His mouth moves against yours with hungry intention now, lips firm, demanding, like he needs to feel you there, needs the confirmation that this is actually happening.

You kiss him back just as hard. Your fingers slide up into his hair, tangling there, tugging slightly. He groans softly into your mouth at the sensation, hips rocking forward just a fraction before he catches himself. The restraint in him is palpable, vibrating under his skin, every muscle tense like he’s holding back on instinct alone.

Bob’s hand slides from your jaw to your waist, settling there, anchoring you. He presses closer, forehead dipping toward yours as the kiss breaks for half a second, just long enough for you both to breathe.

He doesn’t pull away far or for long. His lips brush yours again, slower now, deeper, the urgency melting into something heavier, more intentional. You can feel his breath against your mouth, feel the way his chest rises and falls against you, feel how badly he wants this in the way he’s barely restraining himself.

“Jesus,” he breathes, so quietly it’s almost lost between you.

Then he kisses you again, even harder.

Your back presses into the wall as his body cages you in, one arm braced beside your head, the other still tight at your waist. The city feels impossibly far away now, the noise reduced to a dull hum. There is only him. His mouth. His hands. The way your pulse is racing like you’re still running. When he finally pulls back, it’s slow and reluctant, lips brushing yours one last time like he’s memorizing the feel of them. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closed, breath uneven.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Your hearts are still pounding. Your legs feel weak. The air between you feels electric, alive, like one wrong move could tip you both straight over the edge. He opens his eyes, and looks at you. He can’t decide what he’s going to do next. He isn’t even sure what he wants. His mind is clouded with wanting you right here, right now, and wanting to just end the night right here at this perfect kiss. His mind was racing until one small word decided everything for him.

“Bob?” You whispered, worried if maybe you did something wrong. You place your hand gently on his chest and the action grounds his wandering mind.

“I want to be a gentleman,” He instantly snaps out of it to confess. “But I also want you. Right here, right now.”

He searches your eyes and waits for a response, a reaction, anything. His one hand still on your waist and the other tucked under your jaw brushing your skin with his thumb. He expected you to push him away, to call him disgusting for wanting to have sex right out in the open, in a dirty back alley in the middle of the night. But instead, your look of worry turned into a smirk as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down so he’s closer to your eye level. Your lips brush his and he lets out a small whine as he chases a kiss from you, but you move just out of reach.

“So take me. Right here, right now,” you whisper.

Bob didn’t need any more permission. He pulled you flush against him, his breath hot against your neck, body crowding yours against the wall once more. He’s flooded with things he could do with you here. The thought of it being so out in the open almost excited him even more. Slowly, Bob takes his hand and places it on your knee. You try and hide the full body shudder this causes, but Bob of course catches it as his hand starts to slide up your leg, bunching the fabric of your dress higher. His fingers brush the smooth skin of your inner thigh, inching toward your core. You were holding your breath, knowing exactly what Bob would find if he moved any closer.

You drop your head back in embarrassment against the wall as he reaches the heat between your legs and finds nothing but slick, bare folds hidden underneath your panty hose. He pauses, a low moan rumbling in his chest at the realization.

"Did you just forget to wear them, or was this on purpose? Trouble," he mutters, the word rough and laced with hunger, his voice barely above a whisper.

Bob then grabs your hips with both hands, guiding you so that you were now facing the wall instead of him. Gently he pushes you forward so you were just slightly bent over in front of him. He hisses at the sight, and it was taking everything in him not to just get on with everything he wanted to do. But he couldn’t rush this, he needed to take his time. Carefully, he reaches both hands below you, running them over the exposed skin of your ass. He’s careful around the scrapes from your fall this morning, which he honestly thought you were exaggerating about. You shift your weight from one foot to another and sigh, clearly getting annoyed with waiting so long.

Bob decides to finally give you at least something, and without warning rips a large hole into your pantyhose. You gasp loudly, the cool air hitting your now exposed flesh as you grab the wall for support at the sudden rough movement. He wastes no more time, deciding you’ve waited long enough, and his fingers part your pussy lips, sliding through the wetness that's been building since the chase began. You didn’t want to admit how much the adrenaline turns you on.

You're drenched, your arousal coating his digits as he strokes your clit in slow, deliberate circles. He’s moving this way on purpose. He wants to know exactly what makes you practically melt in his hands. He wants to know exactly how to get you to make all those sounds he’s been imagining from the first touch. A sharp gasp escapes you, turning into a needy whimper that echoes off the alley walls. Raw almost pornographic sounds that make your cheeks burn even as they fuel the fire in his gaze.

He presses harder, and decides to test his luck further by carefully dipping two fingers inside you, curling them until he finds that special spot that sends sparks up your spine. His other hand runs up your back, gently pressing down to hold you in place against the wall. Your hips buck backwards involuntarily, another moan spilling out, high and desperate, almost so perfect it sounded fake.

Those noises were driving Bob wild. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide, as he watches your face contort in pleasure. He shakes his head to try and distract himself from the almost painful tightness in his pants. He wants to be inside you, to pull every obscene sound from your throat as many times as he could. His thumb starts to grind against your clit while his fingers pump faster, the wet squelch of your pussy filling the narrow space. You clutch at the wall with one hand, the other reaching back and holding his arm, your nails digging in, body trembling as the orgasm builds fast and fierce from his touch.

But he doesn't let you finish like that. He wants to feel you finish with him. With a swift motion, Bob withdraws his hand, the sudden emptiness immediately making you whine. You go to protest, to beg him to keep going, but you were cut off by him spinning you around so you were facing him again.

Everything was moving so fast. He grabs your thighs, hoisting you up against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. The cool brick scrapes your back through the thin dress and you hiss at the strong, knowing tomorrow there would be even more scratches all up and down your body. But right now you couldn’t care less. You were chasing the high that was taken away from you, truly unable to form much of a thought as you watch him fumble with his belt. You were nervous for what you were about to see. This was all so new, so exciting.

You watch as he frees his thick cock. It's hard and throbbing, the tip already leaking pre-cum as he lines it up with your soaked entrance. He stays there though, not allowing himself to push into you just yet. Bob searches your eyes, looking for any sign or regret or not wanting to do this anymore. But they weren’t there. In fact, you were practically drooling over the thought of him finally being inside you.

He leans forward and kisses your neck. “Are you sure you want this?” Bob can’t help himself. He needs to hear you, needs to know this is okay.

You nod eagerly, not bothering to respond with real words because you were unsure if it would even come out as anything more than a whine or a babble. He starts to push into you, slowly burying himself to the hilt inside you. You try to keep it contained, but it’s almost impossible. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, the stretch burning deliciously, but he clamps his large hand over your mouth before the sound can carry too far. He makes sure to distract you from

the pain by peppering soft kisses across your whole face, comforting you in any way he can.

His palm muffles your moans, pressing firm against your lips as his fingers splay across your cheek. The risk heightens everything. The alley could be full of prying eyes or footsteps at any moment, but that only makes your walls clench around him tighter.

Bob starts off painfully slow as you get used to his size. But it wasn’t long before his pace quickened and he was fucking you pretty hard, his hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm, each plunge driving his cock deep into your core. Your back bounced roughly against the wall, but you felt none of the pain. The brick bites into your skin, but soon all that pain mixes with the pleasure, your body arching to meet his thrusts.

You taste salt on your tongue from where your lips press against his hand, your breaths coming in hot pants through your nose. Desperate to mark him, you turn your head to free yourself from his muzzle. It’s just enough to lean forward and latch onto his neck, sucking hard on the pulse point below his ear. Your teeth graze the skin as you bite down, leaving a blooming hickey, then another lower on his collarbone, your mouth working feverishly while he pounds into you.

His shirt strains under your grip as you claw at it, frustration and lust making you yank hard. Buttons pop free with a sharp ping, scattering into the shadows, exposing the taut muscles of his chest. You drag your lips across the newly bared skin, sucking bruises into his flesh. Dark possessive marks that make him hiss through gritted teeth. His free hand grips your ass, fingers digging in as he angles his hips to hit deeper, the head of his cock slamming against your cervix with every thrust.

Your muffled cries vibrate against his skin as you try to keep them contained by leaving whatever marks you could, but they were growing louder, more frantic as the coil in your belly tightens. The public danger amps up the adrenaline, your pussy fluttering around him, slick and greedy. Bob's breaths turn ragged, his thrusts erratic as he chases his own release, the veins in his neck standing out under your latest hickey. He grinds against your clit with each thrust, pushing you over the edge.

You come with a strangled scream into his neck, your body convulsing, walls milking his cock in pulsing waves. The orgasm rips through you, leaving you shaking, but he doesn't stop fucking you through it until his own climax hits.

With a loud groan, he pushes in deep one last time, his cock twitching as he floods your pussy, spilling inside you until it leaks down your thighs. He holds you there, both of you panting, his hand still over your mouth as the aftershocks fade. Slowly, he lowers you to your feet, but his eyes promise this is far from over.

The night feels quieter after. Not completely empty, just softer. Bob is now tugging his pants back into place, movements careful and a little clumsy like his body hasn’t quite caught up to what just happened. You’re fixing your hair, smoothing your dress back down over your hips, fingers lingering there for a second as you straighten the fabric. Neither of you speaks for the first few minutes after you finish.

The alley smells like rain and brick and something faintly metallic. Your heart is still beating too fast. Bob glances at you once, then again, clearly unsure what to say, and finally steps closer. He reaches out gently, brushing your hair away from your face with his fingers. The touch is soft now, in a way that makes your chest ache. He leans in and presses a small kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

You smile, nod, then lean in and give him a simple kiss on the lips. Slow, sweet. You couldn’t help but wonder where the hell this version of Bob came from. Nothing about your interactions with him today could’ve prepared you for the way he fucked you just a few minutes ago.

“So,” you say lightly, like nothing monumental just happened, “are you gonna take me back to the famous tower now, or do I have to wait for more than sex in a dark, dirty alley?”

He short-circuits instantly. It’s impressive, honestly, how fast he snaps back into flustered Bob like he didn’t just do incredibly illegal things with you under the open sky. His mouth opens, the closes. He clears his throat.

“Of course,” he says quickly, reaching for your hand like it’s instinct. “Of course I’m taking you there.”

You sigh happily and lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder as he guides you out of the alley and toward the quiet glow of the tower in the distance.

———

The common area of the tower is quiet in the way it only ever is late at night. Lights are dimmed low, the city glowing faintly through the tall windows. Yelena is pacing, arms folded tight across her chest, boots thudding softly against the floor as she moves back and forth.

“He is late,” she says for the third time.

Walker doesn’t even look up from where he’s stretched out on the couch, one arm slung over the back like he owns the place. “He’s on a date, Yelena. That’s usually how they work. They probably went for a walk after or something.”

“It has been hours,” she insists. “What if she murdered him?”

Bucky, perched on the armchair nearby, snorts. “Bob is literally bulletproof.”

“That does not mean he is immune to being stabbed by a hot, mysterious woman,” Yelena fires back.

Walker finally looks up, amused. “That’s actually exactly what that means.”

“I am being realistic here!” She pulls out her phone, thumbs already moving. “I am calling him.”

Before she can hit the screen, the elevator behind them dings, and all three of them freeze.

Yelena exhales in relief, shoulders dropping. “Oh good, He’s home. He is fine.”

Then the doors slide open, and Bob steps out first. He is very much not alone. Yelena’s relief lasts exactly half a second before it turns into wide-eyed panic. Bob is smiling, distracted, one hand laced firmly with someone else’s, and he doesn’t notice anything beyond the person beside him. He guides her forward like the rest of the world has simply ceased to exist. Walker reacts on instinct.

“Oh shit,” he mutters, grabbing Yelena by the arm and yanking her down onto the couch. Bucky barely has time to react before Walker hauls him down too, all three of them ducking just as Bob and his date stumble fully into the room. They peek over the back of the couch like idiots.

Bob and the girl are whispering and laughing, shushing each other between kisses like teenagers sneaking in past curfew. They bump into the edge of the coffee table, giggle, and immediately dissolve into another kiss.

Walker squints. “Damn.”

Yelena elbows him hard. “Do not.”

“What,” he whispers back. “I have eyes. She is in fact hot.”

Bucky leans forward slightly, trying to see without being obvious. “How does he not see us?”

Walker snorts quietly. “He’s busy!”

Bob backs into the wall, moaning softly as the girl presses into him, hands already all over his jacket, his hair, his neck. Walker’s eyes widen as they settle on Bob’s neck.

“Is that a hickey?” he whispers. “Oh my god. That is a hickey.”

Yelena covers her mouth, half scandalized, half delighted. “Oh. He really did it. I hope he used that condom you gave him..”

Bucky blinks slowly. “I did not know Bob had that in him.”

Neither did Bob, apparently. Because he suddenly scoops the girl up without warning, her laugh turning into a surprised gasp as she wraps her legs around him. They disappear down the hallway, still kissing, still whispering and shushing each other like they’re committing a crime. A bedroom door closes, and silence follows.

Walker leans back and gags dramatically. “I am going to bed. I have seen enough.”

Yelena stands slowly, smoothing her t shirt, a soft smile tugging at her mouth. “I am very proud of him.”

Bucky rises as well, shaking his head.

They all scatter awkwardly, each pretending they didn’t just witness something deeply personal, doors closing one by one as the tower finally settles back into quiet.

———

The door to Bob’s room closes softly behind you. The tower feels different up here, quieter, removed from everything that just happened outside. The city glows faintly through the windows, distant and blurred, like it belongs to another life entirely. Bob flicks the light on out of habit, then hesitates and dims it again, leaving only the bedside lamp and the city glow to fill the room.

For a moment, you just stand there. He reaches for you without thinking, fingers brushing your hand like he needs the contact to ground himself. His movements are slower now, careful, like he’s suddenly aware of how real this is.

“I, um,” he starts, then stops.

You smile and step closer, smoothing your dress down over your hips, fixing your hair with a quick shake. He watches you the entire time, eyes warm and almost disbelieving, like he still isn’t sure you didn’t disappear somewhere between the elevator and his door. He turns away first, suddenly shy again, and starts undoing his belt. The quiet sound of it feels louder than it should. He pulls his pants down just enough to step out of them, then fumbles briefly before kicking them aside. When he looks back at you, there’s color high on his cheeks.

You slip your shoes off and take your time with the rest. You let your dress slide down your body slowly, catching it just before it hits the floor. You don’t rush. You’re very aware he’s watching. He doesn’t look away.

You pull one of his shirts from where it’s folded on the bed and tug it over your head. It hangs loose on you, soft and familiar already, the fabric brushing your thighs. When you turn back to him, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, shirtless, boxers low on his hips, hands resting uselessly on his knees.

He looks undone. Not frantic. Not hungry. Just… stunned. Like the day caught up to him all at once.

“Quit staring,” you tease gently.

He smiles, small and genuine, and reaches out for you. “Come here.”

You crawl onto the bed and settle beside him. The sheets are cool at first, then warm quickly as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close. You fit against him easily, like this isn’t the first time you’ve done this instead of the first night you’ve met. You talk quietly for a while. You point out things in his room. The neat shelves. The careful way everything has its place. You tease him about it, light and affectionate, and he just laughs softly, brushing his thumb along your arm.

“Your sheets smell nice,” you say, burying your face into his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he replies, pleased in a way that makes your chest feel warm.

He looks peaceful. Blissed out. Like the world finally stopped demanding things from him.

After a moment, he shifts and gently pulls you so you’re sitting in his lap, legs folding around his waist beneath the covers. His hands settle at your hips, steady and warm, thumbs brushing slow circles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You kiss him again. It starts soft. Slow. Unrushed. Nothing like the alley. This one is quieter, deeper, lips lingering like you’re both trying to memorize the feel of it. His hands tighten just a little as the kiss deepens, breath catching against your mouth.

You pull back first. There’s something wicked in your eyes now as you slide lower, hands trailing down his chest. You leave gentle kisses to his skin as you move down, feeling goosebumps grow under your touch.

“What are you doing,” he asks, voice already unsteady as he watches you.

You don’t answer. Instead, you lift the blankets and disappear beneath them.

“I’m returning the favour,” you murmur softly, “for what you did back in the alley.”

Bob exhales sharply, immediately gripping the sheets next to him to ground himself. As you work his boxers off him, his one hand reminds buried in the bed, the other lifting to cover his eyes like he needs a second to prepare.

And the night stretches on, with absolutely no sleep in sight.

———

Bob wakes up carefully. He realizes almost immediately that moving too fast will wake her, and that feels unthinkable. She’s still curled in his bed, half tangled in the sheets, one arm flung over the pillow like she fought sleep and lost. Her hair is everywhere. Her face is soft in a way that makes his chest tighten, like this version of her is something private he wasn’t meant to see yet.

He watches her breathe for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he slips out of bed. The kitchen is quiet when he gets there, still dim with early morning light. He moves on instinct, grabbing bread, the good honey he never uses, butter softening on the counter. Toast feels right. Simple. Comforting. Something that says I noticedwithout him having to say anything out loud.

The toast is now done. It popped up a full minute ago, and he just… stared at it, knife hovering uselessly over the butter, brain somewhere else entirely. He keeps glancing down the hallway like the act of looking might pull her out of sleep sooner, like he can will her into waking up just by missing her hard enough. How does he miss her so much already, and she’s only down the hall?

He exhales, forces himself to move. Butter first. Slow, careful strokes. Edge to edge. Honey next, drizzled deliberately, watching it sink into the warm bread. He uses more than he usually would. He tells himself it’s because she likes honey.

“Okay,” Yelena says from the doorway. “You are being weird.”

Bob nearly drops the knife.

“I’m not,” he says automatically.

She steps fully into the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes sharp and observant. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at him. The plate. The honey. The way his shoulders are slightly hunched like he’s bracing for something. Then her gaze lifts, and she squints. She tries to move his shirt to check him out, but he shoos her away and goes back to his toast.

“Oh,” she says.

Bob immediately reaches up and adjusts his collar, too late. “It’s not-“

“It’s several,” she cuts in. “Several is what it is. Is she a vampire?”

Walker appears behind her, yawning, followed by Bucky. Walker clocks Bob’s neck and stops mid-step.

“Wow,” he says. “You look like you lost a fight with someone enthusiastic.”

Bob groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Can we not do this first thing in the morning?”

Bucky’s eyes stay on Bob’s face instead of his neck. “You’re making breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“For her?”

“Yes.”

Yelena’s mouth curves slightly. “You like her.”

Bob doesn’t answer right away. He sets the plate down on the counter with more care than necessary, then leans back against it, arms folding loosely like he needs something solid behind him. His gaze flicks to the hallway again before he speaks.

“I can’t stop thinking about her,” he admits quietly. “Like… I woke up and she was still there, and I thought maybe I was dreaming. And then she moved and I realized she was real.”

Walker raises his brows. “He’s whipped.”

“I really like her,” Bob says.

Yelena steps closer. “Tell us.”

He hesitates, clearly unsure where to start. “She’s so funny,” he says finally. “She’s lived a life just like me. She takes up space, she’s like the completely opposite of me. She isn’t awkward or scared of anything.”

Walker smirks. “Whiiiiiiped,” he teases as bob continues.

“And she watches,” Bob continues. “Like she’s clocking everything. When I talk, she actually listens. She looks at my mouth when I speak. Not in a polite way.”

He rubs the back of his neck, flustered now that he’s admitting it. He doesn’t want to tell them too many details, but they are his best friends. And it doesn’t help that he knows they will never stop pestering him about it. “And She’s hot,” he adds suddenly, blunt and honest. “Like, distractingly hot. I forgot how to speak multiple times.”

Nobody says anything to him this time.

“And she knows it,” Bob says, half in awe. “But she doesn’t wield it like a weapon. She just… exists. It’s worse.”

Yelena smiles knowingly. “So what happened on your date?”

Bob stiffens. His ears turn red instantly. “We talked.”

Walker waits, noticing the blus creeping up on his friends face. He knows there’s more to it. “And?”

“We drank. She packed a flask filled with tequila..”

“Tequila,” Yelena nods in approval. “That’s a bold choice for a first date. I like it.”

Bob exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself. “We ran from the restaurant. We didn’t pay…”

Bucky blinks, in complete disbelief. “You what?

“The alley,” Bob adds, voice dropping. “Things escalated.”

Yelena, Bucky, and Walker all look between each other with confusion, trying to decipher what the hell Bob could mean. It takes a few minutes, but they finally get there and Yelena’s eyes widen. “You had sex in an alley! In public?!”

Bob nods, mortified. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know I was capable of that.”

Walker grins. “We didn’t know that either. I knew that condom would be useful. And after?”

Bob gestures helplessly toward the hallway. He decides to keep the fact that the condom remains unused to himself. “After was… also not planned.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then. Walker lets out a low whistle. “Jesus. You’re nasty! Who knew it took a mystery girl from the market to let out Reynolds’s freak.”

“Please keep it down,” Bob says quickly. “She’s asleep. I don’t want her to hear me talking like this.”

And almost as if he summoned her, small footsteps shuffle softly down the hall. Everybody and everything stops.

———

You appear in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bob’s shirts, hair a disaster, eyes still heavy with sleep. You pause when you realize you have an audience. It was incredibly clear they were trying to act normal, as if they weren’t just talking about you before you walked in.

“You were absolutely talking about me,” you say, walking up next to Bob like you owned the place.

Bob closes his eyes. Yelena straightens immediately. “Good morning. You look good this morning. It’s nice to see you again.” She tries to hold her laugh to herself, but isn’t able to hide the smile. You wink at her, because of course you had to flirt a little.

Walker smirks. “We-“

Yelena smacks his arm. “No.”

You laugh softly, rubbing at one eye. “Relax. I don’t bite before coffee.”

Bob moves toward you like he’s been waiting for permission, holding the plate out carefully. “I made you toast. Butter and honey.”

You smile at him, warm and sleepy. “For me?”

He nods. You take a bite, eyes closing for a second. “Oh. Yeah. This is really good.”

The look on his face is ridiculous. Like you just gave him a giant gold star. And as you lean against the counter beside him, stealing another bite, Bob thinks with startling clarity that he’s already in trouble with you.

You lean against the counter beside him, still sleepy, still warm, absently having another bite of toast. Honey sticks slightly to your fingers. You lick it off without thinking. Bob watches. He shifts uncomfortably, a flash of exactly what your mouth was doing to him last night crossing his mind. He immediately looks away like he’s been caught doing something criminal.

They all notice, because of course they would, it’s not like you were hiding anything very well. Walker groans in disgust at the sight in front of him. “God it’s bad enough we had to see you guys last night when you came home,” Yelena shoves him lightly, knowing they all agreed to take their watching party to the grave. “Sorry! It’s gross. New horny Bob is gross.”

“So,” you say casually, glancing around the kitchen, trying to do anything to change the subject, “is this the part where you all interrogate me, or does that come after coffee?”

Walker grins. “Oh, we already interrogated him.”

You glance up at Bob, amused. “Oh yeah?”

He clears his throat, ears pink again. “They’re exaggerating.”

“Absolutely not,” Yelena says. “You should have heard him.”

You raise a brow, clearly intrigued. “He talk about me? Did he tell you about the sex in the alleyway?

Bob shifts his weight, suddenly very interested in the countertop, turning the darkest red of shade youve ever seen him. “Not like-“

“He absolutely did,” Walker cuts in. “Very detailed.”

Yelena shoots him a look. “Not that detailed.”

You laugh softly and lean a little closer to Bob, shoulder brushing his arm. “What kind of detailed?”

Bob exhales, defeated. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Oh yes honey, Immensely.”

You take another bite of toast, humming again. Bob swallows.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness.

You tilt your head, studying him openly now. “You don’t look like someone who regrets last night.”

His answer comes too fast. “I don’t.”

The kitchen goes quiet for half a second.

You smile at him, slow and knowing. “Good.”

Yelena clears her throat loudly. “Okay. Enough. This is starting to feel like something I shouldn’t be watching.”

Walker nods. “Agreed. I suddenly need coffee. Far away from this.”

Bucky mutters something about training and makes a quiet exit. One by one, they scatter, leaving the kitchen to settle back into something softer. Something almost private again. You finish the toast and set the plate aside, then turn back to Bob. You step into his space without hesitation, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to look at you.

“You okay,” you ask lightly.

He nods, then pauses. Shakes his head slightly. “I think I’m… catching up.”

“To what.”

He hesitates, searching for the right words. “To the fact that I don’t know how to do this casually.”

You blink. “Do what.”

“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “You. Last night. This morning. I keep thinking it was just fun, and then you walk out wearing my shirt and eating my toast like you’ve been here forever.”

You smile, softer now. “That freak you out?”

“A little,” he admits. “But mostly it just… feels important.”

The word hangs there.

You study him for a moment, then reach up and fix the collar of his shirt, fingers lingering at his chest. “Good,” you say quietly. “Because I don’t really do casual either.”

Something settles in him at that. Clicks into place.

Bob realizes, with startling clarity, that this wasn’t a one-night thing the moment he woke up and checked to see if you were still breathing beside him. That it wasn’t casual when he made toast instead of coffee. That it definitely wasn’t casual when he imagined you leaving and felt a tightness in his chest he didn’t know what to do with. He reaches for your hand without thinking.

And for the first time, he doesn’t feel nervous about it at all.

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