californiagrl @ch0errygrav3s - Tumblr Blog

ɪɴꜰᴇʀɴᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › the world around you could burn to ashes and you wouldn't know a thing while you're wrapped up in bucky's arms, but he can't hold you forever, and you don't know which is worse, the heat of him leaving you or the truth that you miss it.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › songfic, semi slow burn, feelings confession, fwb to lovers, secret relationship, light angst, miscommunication trope, unrequited love (but not really), mutual pining, mentions of alcohol, implied smut, jealous bucky, flirting & sexual tension, kissing, not beta read we die like men. ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 8.2k

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › this has been sitting in my drafts since oct 15th..... i dont want to write anything i should be writing then i remembered this bad baby and hopped straight to work. its also the first entrance to my songfic series! which has ALSO been sitting collecting dust since like november 🤩🤩🤩 im so good at this writing stuff cant you guys tell. somebody take me out back and put me down like an old farm dog i cant do this anymore grandpa.

ꜱᴏɴɢꜰɪᴄ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ › now playing: little white lies - one direction

It was never supposed to be anything.

That’s what you told yourself every time Bucky’s name lit up your phone at odd hours. Every time his door clicked shut behind you, soft and careful like he was afraid someone might hear. Every time he kissed you like it meant something and then pulled away like it didn’t.

Little white lies. The kind you tell yourself because the truth hurts worse.

You and Bucky existed in the margins of each other’s lives—late nights, quiet laughter, hands lingering too long when no one was watching. Friends on paper and something else entirely behind closed doors. No labels, no expectations. Just heat and familiarity and a promise never spoken out loud.

And no one knew.

That was the rule.

You played your part well. In public, you were just acquaintences, friends even. Sometimes you sat too close on the couch, your knees brushing, his arm draped behind you like it belonged there. Sometimes he leaned in to murmur something only you could hear, his breath warm against your ear, his fingers tapping twice against your thigh like a secret code.

Harmless things. Easy to play off. Nothing anyone could call out.

You told yourself you could live like this. That wanting him quietly was better than not having him at all.

So you swallowed the way your chest ached when he left your room without staying the night. You ignored how your heart kicked whenever he smiled at you across the table. You convinced yourself that loving him silently was safer than risking everything.

You tell yourself you’re not trying too hard. But your reflection doesn’t believe you.

The bathroom is warm with steam, the mirror slightly fogged as you lean closer, fixing the tiniest detail that no one but you would ever notice. You smooth your hair once. Twice. Then again, fingers lingering like if you get it just right, everything else might fall into place.

It’s ridiculous. It’s just dinner.

Another one of Tony's hurrahs to 'keep up team morale' he claimed, but you knew the lingering party host in him grew stir crazy and had to be pop out at the seams here and there. Just a little get together to celebrate the passing times and all that.

You don’t usually fuss like this. Most nights you throw on whatever's clean, pull your hair back, call it a day. Bucky’s seen you half-asleep, bare-faced, wrapped in one of his shirts like it belonged to you. He’s traced familiar paths along your skin in the dark, like he already knows every inch.

So this shouldn’t matter.

And yet.

Your gaze drifts to the dress laid out on your bed, red with long sleeves, soft fabric that hugs without trying too hard. You hesitate only a second before picking it up. You remember the first time you wore it, the way Bucky’s eyes had darkened when you walked into the room, the way his voice had gone just a little rough when he said, “That color looks real good on you.”

He never says things like that lightly.

You slip it on slowly, smoothing it down your sides, adjusting the hem. The red feels bold against your skin, like a secret you’re wearing out in the open. You turn once, then twice, checking the fit. It’s flattering but not obvious. Enough to make him look twice, enough to remind him.

As if he needs reminding. You add a little more makeup than usual. Not much, just enough to feel put together, like you’re bracing yourself for something. A soft swipe of color on your lips. A touch of mascara. You pause, then add just a bit more, heart fluttering as you do.

Who are you trying to impress? The answer comes too easily.

You exhale slowly, hands braced on the counter, grounding yourself. This doesn’t mean anything. It can’t. You’re not his girlfriend. You’re not even a secret anyone else knows about. You’re just… there when he wants you. And that’s enough. You’ve made peace with that.

Haven’t you?

You grab your coat, giving yourself one last glance in the mirror catching your eye. For a split second, you let yourself imagine Bucky noticing. His gaze lingering, those lips curving into that small, private smile meant only for you.

Then you shake it off.

You step out into the hall, heart beating just a little faster than it should, already preparing to pretend that the red dress means nothing at all.

"Hey," Bucky greets you as you walked through the threshold, his infamous smirk plastered wide on his face as he stepped in for what might have looked like a friendly hug on the outside, yet held the weight of so much more. "That supposed to be for later?"

You scoff against him, your face neutral throughout the hug, keeping your hands flat against his back and not digging into the edges of his shoulder blades like you know he loves. "Bold of you to assume there is a later, Barnes."

He laughs as he pulls away, smirk still ever present on his face as he pats your arm, all to keep up the acquainted guise. "Not an assumption if I'm right."

"Right about what?" Sam butts in with his charming self, fizzling out any tension that hung in the air.

"About whether or not you'll like this bottle," you smoothly lie, holding the bottle to him, label out so he can read.

Sam's eyebrows raise but not in suspicion, but impressed at the vintage red you were able to grab.

"Damn girl, how'd you manage to get this?"

"I've got friends in high places." you tease with a wink, letting Sam take the bottle and disappear off into the lounge.

"High places, huh?" Bucky echoes out from behind you, closing the gap to lean down to your ear. "You got someone else on the side?"

You stifle the shiver that wants to run down your body at the sound of his voice so close to you, biting at the inside of your cheek to keep calm and not let memories of his voice this close saying other things bombard your mind.

"If I was sleeping with somebody else," you drawl, looking back over your shoulder at him, lashes fluttering with feigned innocence. "What makes you think I'd tell you?"

Before he even gets the chance to quip back you're walking away, hips swaying with a little extra oomph as you meander into the kitchen to help with any last prep, leaving Bucky speechless. You know you're not seeing anyone else, there isn't anyone else on this earthe for you but Bucky. But the look on his face was worth it, worth the tumble that your heart did.

Bucky watches you go, jaw ticking just once before he schools his expression back into something easy, something harmless. Anyone else would’ve missed it. You never do. Though you don't know if it's jealousy or distinterst that made his jaw tick, but it was worth the risk of looking back to see.

He follows a moment later, like nothing rattled him at all.

The kitchen is already crowded, Natasha perched on the counter sipping something suspicious, Steve hovering uselessly with a dish towel, Wanda and Vision quietly debating seasoning. You slide in beside the island, offering to chop, to stir, to do something with your hands before they betray you.

“Careful,” Natasha says lightly, eyes flicking between you and Bucky as he leans against the doorway. “You’re being suspiciously domestic tonight.”

You snort. “I can’t be helpful?”

“You can,” she says, smirking. “You usually just… choose not to.”

Bucky’s gaze meets yours over the rim of her glass. Amused and curious. That familiar spark that makes your stomach flip. He lifts a brow like he’s still waiting on an answer to a question neither of you will say out loud.

You look away first.

Dinner settles into an easy rhythm. Plates clatter, wine is poured, laughter fills the space. You end up seated in the chair to the edge from Bucky, close enough to feel his presence but far enough to keep up the illusion. His knee bumps yours once under the table, deliberate. An apology? A reminder? You’re not sure.

“Hey,” he murmurs when Steve launches into a long-winded story, voice low enough that only you can hear. “You disappearing on me?”

You shrug, eyes still on your plate. “I’m right here.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He nudges your foot again. Gentle, familiar almost. Possessive in a way that shouldn’t mean anything. You tell yourself it doesn’t, yet you let it happen anyway.

Someone cracks a joke, and Bucky leans in to laugh, shoulder brushing yours. For a split second, it feels like old times—late nights, shared glances, secrets pressed between breaths. You catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, his gaze lingering on the red fabric like it’s doing exactly what you hoped it would.

See? you tell yourself. This is real. Whatever this is.

Then Sam speaks.

“So, Buck,” he says around a bite of food, casual as ever. “How’d that date go the other night? The one you ditched movie night for?”

Your fork pauses mid-air. The world doesn’t stop but something inside you does, something traitorous and laced with vemon as it crawls through your ribs to your heart. You don’t look at Bucky. You can’t. You focus on the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, the sudden tightness in your chest. Date. The word loops, sharp and unforgiving.

You didn't know he went on a date. Of course he did.

That was another one of the rules, it never had to be exclusive. If one of us wanted to see other people we could, no questions asked. That's what your whole joke was about earlier, but you never expected it to come to fruition, or so fast either.

You’d agreed to this. No promises, no claims, just stolen time and unspoken rules. Next to you, Bucky stiffens. You feel it even without seeing it, like the air has gone too still.

“It was—” he starts, then exhales. “It was fine.”

Fine.

You swallow hard, forcing a smile when Wanda says something you barely hear. You nod along, laugh when it feels expected, keep your eyes anywhere but on him. You tell yourself not to read into it. Not to let the spiral win.

But your thoughts are already running ahead of you with every memory, replaying every late night, every soft look, every stay a little longer that maybe didn’t mean what you wanted it to. Bucky’s foot finds yours again under the table. Hesitant this time, asking a silent question pressed into the space between you.

You don’t answer, you just let it go.

Sam, unfortunately, is not the kind of person who lets things go.

“Just alright?” he repeats, leaning back in his chair with a grin that screams trouble. “C’mon man, you ditched movie night for it. That’s a big deal. Give us the details.”

You focus very hard on your plate. The sweet potatoes suddenly look fascinating. Absolutely riveting. You could probably write a thesis on them right now if it meant not hearing whatever Bucky was about to say.

Bucky huffs out a small laugh across the table.

“Wilson, you're nosy as hell, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Sam says easily, taking a sip of wine. “And you’re avoiding the question. So spill.”

There’s a beat. Bucky shifts in his chair, metal hand tapping lightly against the table before he finally relents.

“She’s…” he starts, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s nice.”

Your chest tightens.

Sam groans. “Man that is the most boring answer I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m serious,” Bucky says with a half-smile. “She’s nice. Real pretty too.”

Your fork presses a little too hard into your food. Pretty. You don’t know why that word stings the way it does. There are plenty of pretty girls on the planet, plenty for Bucky to see. Plenty other than you.

“Pretty how?” Sam presses immediately.

You wish he would stop talking. You wish someone would drop a plate or start an argument or literally anything else so this conversation would die a quick death.

Bucky chuckles under his breath like he’s thinking about it.

“Just—” he gestures vaguely. “You know. Pretty.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “That tells me nothing.”

“She’s funny too,” Bucky adds after a second. “Got the same kind of humor as me. Smart. Easy to talk to.”

Each word lands heavier than the last.

Pretty. Funny. Easy to talk to. You keep your expression neutral, nodding along like any normal person would while your brain quietly spirals somewhere in the background and slips off into some void. You only wish your body could do the same. That sounds… nice. Really nice.

“Uh oh,” Sam says, grinning wider now. “Barnes caught feelings?”

“Relax,” Bucky mutters.

But Sam isn’t done. “So what? Is it serious?”

And for the first time since the conversation started, you accidentally glance up. Just for a second. Your eyes meet Bucky’s across the table and something flickers there, something unreadable.

Then he shrugs.

“I mean…” he says slowly, leaning back in his chair. “I wouldn’t mind if it was.”

That’s the moment your stomach drops. Not dramatic or loud like it does in the movies, just this quiet, sinking feeling like the floor shifted under your feet. You nod like you heard something funny.

Like this is normal. Like you aren’t suddenly hyper aware of everything around you, of the red dress you wore for him. The one he noticed, the one that apparently didn’t mean anything.

Your glass is empty before you even realize you finished it.

“I gotta—” you say suddenly, standing a little too fast. Your chair scrapes softly against the floor. “I think the wine’s hitting me. I’m gonna—uh—grab some water.”

No one questions it thankfully. Natasha hums something understanding. Sam is already launching into another joke. Steve is distracted trying to cut the turkey.

Bucky watches you though, you can feel it as you walk away. The bathroom door clicks shut behind you and the moment it does, your composure cracks. You grip the edge of the sink, staring at yourself in the mirror.

God.

You look exactly the same. Same hair. Same makeup. Same stupid red dress. Your eyes just look a little shinier now.

“Get it together,” you whisper to yourself.

Because this is ridiculous. You knew the deal. You agreed to the deal. Bucky never promised you anything more than what you already had. And honestly? You’d already told yourself you were okay with that. At least you thought you were.

You squeeze your eyes shut as a tear slips down anyway. It’s quiet crying. The kind where you press your lips together so no one hears anything through the door. A few shaky breaths. A couple tears wiped away quickly with the back of your hand.

It passes faster than you expect.

Embarrassment works wonders like that. After a minute you straighten up, fixing your makeup the best you can. You smooth down the front of your dress, forcing your expression back into something normal.

No one needs to see this. No one needs to know.

You crack the bathroom door open slowly and the sound of laughter spills down the hallway from the dining room. Everyone’s still distracted.

Good.

Really good.

Your heart pounds a little as you quietly grab your coat from the hook near the door. The movement is careful, quiet, practiced like you’ve done this before—even though you haven’t. You pause for just a second, listening.

Bucky’s voice carries faintly from the other room, mixed in with everyone else’s. Your chest squeezes, then you slip out the front door before you can change your mind. The cold night air hits you immediately, sharp and almost grounding to your shaken self.

And just like that—you’re gone.

Your apartment gets very quiet after that night.

Too quiet. At first you tell yourself you just need a day. Maybe two. A little time to reset. To get the stupid ache out of your chest that showed up uninvited and apparently decided to stay.

But then one day turns into three.

You don’t answer texts. You barely check your phone. The red dress gets tossed in the bottom of your laundry basket like it personally offended you. Your hair lives in a messy bun, and your couch slowly becomes your new permanent residence.

The TV plays reruns you’re not actually watching, every now and then your brain decides to replay the dinner.

She’s real pretty.

Funny too.

I wouldn’t mind if it was serious.

You groan and shove your face deeper into the couch pillow.

“Great,” you mumble to absolutely no one. “Love that for me.”

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, you reach for it lazily.

Natasha: You alive?

You stare at the message for a second before typing back.

You: Define alive.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Natasha: That bad huh.

You don’t bother answering. Another message comes through a minute later.

Natasha: I’m coming over.

You sigh.

You: You don’t have to.

Natasha: Too late. I’m bringing ice cream and those stupid 90s movies you like.

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitches.

You: They’re not stupid.

Natasha: They absolutely are.

You toss the phone aside again, dragging a blanket over yourself. The idea of company feels exhausting, but Natasha showing up with sugar and nostalgia is at least… manageable. You probably have an hour before she gets here, which is why the knock on your door twenty minutes later makes you groan.

“Nat,” you call halfheartedly from the couch. “Door’s open.”

The door creaks and boots step inside. Your brain doesn’t register the difference immediately. Natasha moves quietly too. You keep staring at the ceiling until a familiar voice cuts through the room.

“Uh… hey.”

Your stomach drops and you sit up so fast the blanket falls to the floor. Bucky stands just inside the doorway, hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets like there was something obvious in the air that you couldn't see.

Your heart does something annoying and traitorous in your chest.

“Hey,” he says again, softer this time. His eyes flick over you to your messy hair, the blanket, and the half-empty pint of ice cream on the table.

Concern creases his brow. “What’s wrong?”

You blink at him.

“What do you mean,” you say flatly. “Nothing’s wrong. I just… don’t feel good.”

Bucky doesn’t buy it for a second.

“Well,” he says slowly, stepping further inside. “I haven’t seen you in the light of day since Tony’s dinner party.”

You shrug, nonchalant, casual. Like you haven’t been hiding from the world for three days straight.

“Okay?”

His jaw tightens just a little.

“What did you want, Bucky?”

The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t take them back. He pauses. Then he says, like it should be obvious—

“It’s Friday.”

You stare at him, your brain takes a second to catch up. “…Okay?”

Bucky blinks. “You serious right now?”

“About…?”

He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck it Friday?”

Your stomach sinks.

“We always get drunk,” he continues, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “and lay around all day before eventually fucking each other all night?”

Your throat tightens.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

Right. That. The stupid routine you built together that you forgot, or maybe you didn’t forget. Maybe you just hoped it wouldn’t happen this week.

“Right,” you add, forcing a small shrug. “Sorry. I’m not really feeling it.”

Bucky frowns.

“Not feeling it?”

“Yeah.”

You glance past him and force yourself towards the door like the conversation is already over, praying that he'll get the hint.

“Maybe next week.”

The words taste bitter the second they leave your mouth, because in the back of your mind a quiet thought whispers the truth.

There is no next week.

No next Friday. No next anything. Bucky studies your face like he’s trying to figure something out. Like he knows something’s off but can’t quite see the whole picture. He follows you anyway, standing at the threshold of the closed door.

Your chest feels tight again. You can’t do this right now.

“Sorry,” you mumble, already stepping back. “I’m just gonna—”

Before he can respond, you turn around, already heading towards your room. There's a soft beat of silence, then you hear the door shut quietly.

And the moment it does, the tears come back. You barely make it to your bedroom before they start. You crawl into bed, pulling the covers over your head like that might somehow block out the entire situation.

Your pillow quickly becomes a casualty.

“Stupid,” you sniff into the fabric. “So stupid.”

Because of course he showed up. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? To him it’s just Friday. Just the thing you always do. Just you. Nothing more than a quick hit before the weekend, that's all you are. Your tears soak into the pillow, leaving hot little puddles in the fabric. They swing from angry tears, to sad, to tears of ridiculousness then back to sad.

You knew all of this was a possibility going into this, that fateful night you went home with Bucky for the first time. It started so stupidly.

Most things with Bucky did.

It had been months ago, one of those long mission weeks where everyone came back exhausted and wired at the same time. Tony had declared it a “mandatory decompression night,” which really just meant too much alcohol and bad music in the common room.

You remember sitting on the arm of the couch, laughing at something Sam said while swirling cheap whiskey around in your glass.

Bucky had been across the room at first, quiet and observing, that was kind of his thing. But eventually he wandered over, dropping onto the couch beside you with that loose, relaxed posture he only had when the mission was over and everyone made it back alive.

“Wilson telling lies again?” he asked, nudging your knee with his.

“Shocking,” you said dryly. “I know.”

He huffed a laugh.

And then he stayed.

That was the thing about Bucky. When he decided to exist in your space, he did it fully. His knee pressed against yours. His arm stretched across the back of the couch behind you. His shoulder occasionally bumped yours when he laughed.

None of it felt forced, none of it really felt new either. You’d always gotten along. But that night there was something… different.

Maybe it was the alcohol.

Maybe it was the way his voice dropped lower when the room got louder. The way his eyes lingered on your mouth for half a second too long. The way your conversations drifted away from everyone else until it felt like the two of you were in your own little bubble in the middle of the chaos.

At some point everyone started leaving.

One by one. Steve disappeared first. Then Wanda and Vision. Sam loudly announced he was stealing the last of the pizza before vanishing down the hall.

Eventually it was just you and Bucky. You hadn’t even noticed until the music ended and the room fell quiet. You remember glancing around and laughing.

“Wow,” you said. “We outlasted everyone.”

Bucky leaned back into the couch, watching you with a lazy sort of amusement.

“Guess we did.”

There was a pause, comfortable and easy as he looked at you, you still remember the way those steel blue eyes bore into yours.

Then he said, “You wanna go somewhere quieter?”

You should’ve asked what he meant, but you didn’t, you just nodded.

His room had smelled like soap and something distinctly him. You remember standing awkwardly near the door while he grabbed two beers from the mini fridge.

“You can sit,” he said, tossing you one.

“I know,” you muttered, sitting anyway.

You talked for a while. About nothing. About everything. Old stories, dumb jokes, the weirdest mission injuries you’d seen. The conversation flowed like it always did between you, and then there was a moment. You still don’t know exactly when it happened. One second you were laughing at something he said, the next he was looking at you differently.

Not like a teammate, not like a friend, something heavier. Quieter. You still remember the way your stomach flipped.

“You ever notice,” he said slowly, making a vague gesture to your face, “you do this thing when you laugh?”

Your eyebrows lifted. “What thing?”

“You scrunch your nose.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is,” he insisted, grinning. “You just did it.”

You rolled your eyes, but when you looked back at him he was closer. A lot closer. Neither of you had moved, not that you noticed anyway. Your breath caught a little.

“Bucky,” you started.

And then he kissed you. Just like that. No big dramatic buildup, no speeches. Just his hand coming up to your jaw and his mouth on yours like he’d been thinking about it all night. You froze for half a second, then you kissed him back.

Because of course you did. It was messy and a little clumsy and very much fueled by whiskey and months of tension neither of you realized had been building. When you finally pulled apart you were both breathing a little harder.

“Well,” you said weakly.

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed.

You stared at each other for a second, then you both started laughing.

“What does this mean?” you asked.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”

You considered that, then shrugged. “Do we have to figure it out right now?”

Bucky studied you for a moment. Then a slow smile spread across his face.

“Not if you don’t want to.”

You didn’t, so you didn’t. That night turned into another, and another and eventually the two of you had a conversation about it—half joking, half serious.

“No strings,” you said.

“No drama,” Bucky added.

“Just friends,” you clarified.

“With benefits,” he finished.

You both shook on it like idiots.

You roll onto your back in bed now, staring at the ceiling, because the second memory is worse. The one where everything changed.

It had been a random Tuesday, nothing special, life changing events tend to happen on the most blandest of days. Thinking back on it now you wonder if it was the universe setting you up for failure, or maybe that was just your doing.

You’d both had a long day and ended up tangled together in his bed afterwards, the room dim except for the soft light from the lamp on his nightstand. You were half-asleep, Bucky was tracing lazy patterns on your arm. Neither of you were talking, just existing in each others warmth.

Then, out of nowhere, he murmured—

“You can stay if you want.”

You blinked up at him.

“What?”

“Tonight,” he said quietly. “You don’t gotta go back to your place.”

That had never been part of the deal. Usually you left, or he did. It kept things simple. But the way he said it… so soft, almost shy. Your chest did something weird.

“Okay,” you said.

You fell asleep tucked against his side, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped loosely around you. At some point in the night you woke up, Bucky was still asleep, his hair was messy, his face relaxed in a way you almost never saw when he was awake.

One of his hands was resting on your waist like it belonged there. Like you belonged there. And that’s when it hit you. Not dramatically, not all at once. Just a quiet, sinking realization settling somewhere deep in your chest.

Oh.

Oh no.

Because the warmth in your chest wasn’t just physical anymore. It wasn’t just attraction or convenience or comfort. It was something else, something bigger and something terrifying. You were falling for him.

And the worst part? You knew immediately you’d never say a word about it, because the arrangement worked, because he was happy. Because having some version of Bucky was better than losing him completely.

So you did what you’ve been doing ever since. You kept the secret, you swallowed the truth, and you told yourself a thousand little white lies that it didn’t hurt as much as it actually did.

The knock comes again about forty minutes later.

You’re still in bed.

Your eyes are puffy, your pillow’s damp, and at some point you kicked the blanket halfway across the room because crying makes you weirdly warm. For a second you think maybe if you just stay quiet whoever it is will leave.

Then the knock comes again, more deliberate this time.

“Open the door,” Natasha calls from the other side.

You groan into the mattress. Of course it’s her. You drag yourself up eventually, shuffle across the apartment, and crack the door open looking like an absolute disaster.

Natasha takes one look at you and sighs.

“Wow,” she says dryly as she steps inside holding a grocery bag. “You look terrible.”

“Good to see you too.”

She shuts the door behind her and holds up the bag.

“I brought ice cream.”

That almost makes you cry again.

You both settle on the couch a few minutes later, a big tub of chocolate chip cookie dough between you and two spoons. One of those stupid 90s rom-coms is playing quietly in the background, but neither of you are really watching it.

Natasha glances at you sideways.

“Alright,” she says. “Start talking.”

You try to play dumb.

“About what?”

She doesn’t even look at you when she scoops another bite of ice cream.

“You disappearing after dinner. Ignoring everyone for days. Why I saw Barnes down the block looking like someone shot his dog.”

Your spoon pauses mid-air.

“…He looked like that?”

Natasha slowly turns her head and raises an eyebrow.

“Why was Barnes at your apartment?”

You hesitate, this is the part where you could lie, where you usually do. You consider it for about two seconds. Then everything just… spills.

“Because we’ve been sleeping together for months.”

Natasha blinks once, then she goes back to eating her ice cream like you just told her the weather.

“Okay.”

You stare at her. “Okay?”

She shrugs. “I assumed.”

Your jaw drops. “You assumed?”

“You two have the sexual tension of a badly written soap opera,” she says calmly. “Continue.”

So you do.

You tell her everything. How it started that night after that one team party. The whole friends with benefits conversation. The stupid no strings agreement you both thought was such a great idea at the time.

You tell her about Fridays.

“Fuck it Friday,” you mumble into your spoon.

Natasha snorts.

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

You explain the routine. The drinking. The laziness. The eventually hooking up like it’s just another thing on the schedule. Then you tell her the worst part. How somewhere along the way you caught feelings, real ones, the kind you absolutely were not supposed to develop.

“And then at dinner,” you say miserably, “Sam asks about his stupid date and Bucky starts talking about how pretty she is and how funny she is and how he wouldn’t mind if it got serious and I just—”

Your voice cracks a little.

Natasha sets her spoon down. “And you realized you were never part of that picture.”

You nod miserably. “Exactly.”

The room goes quiet for a minute. Natasha leans back into the couch, thinking, then she suddenly stands up and starts towards your bedroom.

You blink at her.

“Where are you going?”

“To fix this.”

“How—”

“You’re going out tonight.”

You stare at her like she’s insane. “I’m doing what now?”

She grabs her coat, a smirk a little too devious on her face but you don't question it. “You need a rebound.”

“A rebound?”

“Yes. Someone hot. Preferably dumb.”

You gape at her. “That’s your advice?”

“It will get you out of the Barnes spiral,” she says simply, grabbing her phone from the pocket and sending out a quick text. “You’re stuck in a rut. We fix the rut.”

You hesitate, part of you wants to say no. But another part of you is so tired of laying around crying about a man who technically never did anything wrong.

“…Fine,” you mutter.

Natasha smiles. “Good. Get dressed.”

An hour later you’re slightly tipsy in a crowded bar. Natasha sits beside you looking completely unfazed by the loud music and flashing lights while you nurse your third drink.

“You’re staring at the floor,” she says.

“I’m thinking.”

“Stop thinking.”

You sigh and look up. The bar is full of people laughing, dancing, flirting. Normal people doing normal things. It feels weirdly foreign, then a guy approaches.

Tall. Dark hair. Nice smile.

“Hey,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You glance at Natasha, she’s already watching you like a hawk. Go on, her expression says.

You sigh internally. “Sure.”

The guy introduces himself. He’s funny enough, charming in that easy bar-flirting way. You end up laughing more than you expected, the alcohol loosening the knot that’s been sitting in your chest all week.

He leans closer as the conversation goes on.

“You’ve got a really nice laugh,” he says.

You smile. “Thanks.”

Natasha watches from the side looking smug, the the guy brushes your arm lightly and you don’t pull away. Maybe Natasha’s right, maybe this is exactly what you need. Something new, something uncomplicated.

You’re just starting to relax when suddenly a hand grabs your wrist, firm and familiar.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Your stomach drops before you even turn around. Bucky. He looks pissed, like actually pissed. His jaw is tight, eyes sharp as they flick between you and the guy standing way too close.

“Bucky—”

“C’mon,” he cuts in, already pulling you off the barstool.

“Hey man,” the guy protests.

Bucky sends a look at him that is muderous enough in it and of itself, let alone the way his fist clenched at his side, no doubt ready to knock the daylights out of the poor man. Instead he drags you through the crowd toward the exit, his grip unrelenting until you both burst out into the cold night air.

You yank your wrist free. “What the hell was that?!” you snap.

Bucky turns on you immediately. “What the hell were you doing in there?”

“Flirting?” Your eyebrows shoot up. "What were you doing?"

He looks furious. “You don’t even know that guy.”

“And?”

Bucky stares at you for a second, chest rising and falling like he’s trying to get a handle on himself, then his mouth tilts into something sharp.

“Thought you weren’t feeling up to it,” he says, voice edged with something that almost sounds like a taunt.

Your eyes narrow immediately. “Oh piss off, Barnes.”

The second the name leaves your mouth you see it land. He straightens a little, expression hardening.

“Oh, I’m Barnes again?” he scoffs. “What is with you lately? You ditch Fuck It Friday, you don’t talk to me, you don’t talk to anybody, then you suddenly pop back up in a bar like nothing’s wrong.”

Your chest tightens but you shove it down.

“Nothing is wrong,” you snap. "I told you that."

Bucky gives you a look that says he absolutely does not believe that.

“Right.”

You cross your arms.

“Besides,” you add, tone turning colder, “what do you care? Thought you had some new girl to keep your pants busy.”

That one lands. Bucky’s expression shifts, confusion flickering across his face before something clicks behind his eyes. You see the exact moment the pieces fall together.

His eyebrows shoot up. “…You’re jealous.”

You feel your face heat instantly.

“That’s unbelievable,” he continues, almost laughing now.

Your jaw drops.

“You’re one to talk!” you fire back. “I know you didn’t drag me outside to question my social life. I saw the way you were evil-eyeing that guy.”

“I was not—”

“Oh please,” you cut him off. “You looked like you wanted to throw him through the window.”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated.

“That’s not why I—”

“Why then?” you challenge.

He hesitates just long enough for you to barrel ahead.

“Only because I saw the way he was looking at you,” he says finally.

You blink. “...What?”

“He was practically drooling.”

You stare at him.

Then you laugh. It’s not a happy laugh.

“Oh really?” you say, stepping closer. “And how is that?”

Bucky frowns, clearly confused by the direction this is going.

“Are you mad that he might think I’m pretty?” you continue, the words spilling out faster now. “That we might have the same sense of humor?”

Bucky’s face tightens.

“Is that it?” you press. “You're mad he might actually like me?”

The streetlight above you buzzes faintly. Cars pass somewhere down the block. The music from the bar thumps behind the closed door. But neither of you move, Bucky’s eyes are locked on yours now.

Something unreadable in them.

“You’re twisting this,” he says slowly.

“No,” you shoot back. “I’m repeating exactly what you said.”

He blinks.

“What?”

“At dinner,” you say, voice shaking now despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You remember that part? When Sam asked about your date and you went on about how pretty she was and how funny she was and how you wouldn’t mind if it got serious?”

Bucky goes still, like really still.

“And now suddenly you’re out here acting like you care who I talk to?” you continue, a bitter laugh slipping out. “That’s rich, Barnes. Really rich.”

For a moment he just stares at you, processing, then his expression shifts from confusion… to realization.

“…That’s why you disappeared,” he says quietly.

You look away. “Don’t.”

“That’s why you haven’t talked to me all week,” he continues, stepping closer.

“Bucky—”

“You thought—”

“Stop,” you snap, finally looking back at him.

Your eyes are shiny now and you hate it.

“You went on a date,” you say bluntly. “You said you wouldn’t mind if it got serious. What exactly did you think I was supposed to do with that information?”

Bucky opens his mouth and closes it. There's something behind his eyes you haven't seen before, something soft yet fiery. His gaze drops to the floor before he speaks up.

"I was evil-eyeing that guy," he starts, his voice low and careful, "Because of the way he was looking at you."

"Yeah we established that Barnes, he was drooling and I was swooning for it." You reiterate, oozing sarcasm.

"He was looking at you," his eyes snap up to you, "Like he could have you, like you could be anybody else's."

Your brows furrowed, your once pleasent buzz now turning into a sour thud at the base of your skull. "Barnes what are you talking ab—"

"It's you," he interuppts, his voice so soft it's a wonder you heard it over your own. "It was you."

"What was me?"

"The date. I was talking about you."

You stare at him, because none of that made sense. Not even a little bit.

“I—” you start, pointing vaguely between the two of you like the words might just appear if you gesture hard enough. “But you said— that she was— and the date— what?”

You sound ridiculous. You know you do. But your brain is trying to catch up and it’s failing miserably.

Bucky rubs a hand down his face. “You’re killing me right now,” he mutters under his breath.

“What does that mean?” you demand. “You literally said—”

“There never was anybody else, baby,” he cuts in.

The word slips out so naturally he doesn’t even seem to notice it, but you do and your brain stalls for a second.

“…What?”

Bucky sighs, stepping closer, like he’s trying to approach a very confused stray animal.

“It’s always been you,” he says.

You blink at him, now your mouth opens and closes. Because… what?

“You said you went on a date,” you insist weakly.

“I did, technically.”

“…With someone.”

“Yes.”

You stare. “Who, Bucky?”

He gives you a look, the kind of look that’s half exasperation, half disbelief.

“You.”

Silence ensues, actual, full silence. The kind where your brain just makes the windows shutdown noise.

“I—” you stutter. “But— we didn’t—”

“You remember that record shop downtown?” he asks.

Your brain scrambles through the memory. It was a couple weeks ago, the little vintage place with the neon sign. That evening you dragged him there because they had a stack of old vinyl you wanted to dig through.

You’d spent two hours there arguing about music and laughing and grabbing a drink afterward.

“…Yeah,” you say slowly.

Bucky spreads his hands. “That.”

You stare at him. “That… was a date?”

He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “Well, not technically. But when I told Wilson I was bailing on movie night for it he kept pressing to know why, so I said I had a date.”

Your brain reboots again. “You said she was pretty.”

“You were wearing that yellow sweater,” he says immediately. “The one with the sleeves that are too long.”

Your stomach flips. “You said she was funny.”

“You spent twenty minutes roasting my music taste.”

“I was right.”

“You were rude,” he counters, but there’s a small smile tugging at his mouth now.

You shake your head, still lost. “And the serious part?”

Bucky’s smile fades a little, his shoulders drop like he’s finally giving up on dancing around it.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That part.”

You swallow. Because suddenly this conversation feels a lot bigger than the stupid misunderstanding that started it.

“You said you wouldn’t mind if it got serious,” you repeat softly.

Bucky lets out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

“Why?” Your chest tightens.

He looks at you like the answer should’ve been obvious the whole time, but then again… maybe it never was. Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing once across the sidewalk before turning back to you.

“Because somewhere along the way,” he says, voice rougher now, “this thing we started doing stopped feeling casual to me.”

You go very still.

“At first it was easy,” he continues. “Just two friends blowing off steam. No pressure, no expectations. We didn’t have to think about it too hard.”

He gestures between you both.

“But then I wanted you to stay longer.”

Your throat tightens.

“You’d fall asleep on my couch,” he says. “Or we’d end up talking for hours before anything even happened.”

His eyes flick to yours. “And I started noticing stuff.”

“Like what?” you whisper.

“Like how you steal my hoodies and pretend you don’t,” he says. “Or how you hum when you’re cooking. Or the way you scrunch your nose when you laugh.”

Your stomach flips at the last one.

“And one day it just… hit me,” he continues.

“What did?”

“That I was looking forward to Fridays way too much.”

Your heart pounds harder in your chest.

“Not just because of the sex,” he adds quickly. “But because it meant I got to see you.”

You stare at him.

“Which is when I realized,” he says quietly, “I might’ve screwed up our whole deal.”

Your voice barely works when you ask. “Why?”

Bucky huffs a soft laugh. “Because the whole point of the deal was no feelings.”

Your chest aches.

“And I definitely caught some.”

The words land heavy between you.

“So yeah,” he says, meeting your eyes again. “When Sam asked about the date… I wasn’t lying.”

Your breath catches.

“I wouldn’t mind if it got serious,” he repeats softly.

His voice drops a little. “With you.”

The street suddenly feels very quiet around you. Cars pass somewhere in the distance. The bar door opens and closes behind you with muffled music spilling out, but right now it’s just the two of you.

Bucky takes one small step closer. “And then you disappeared,” he says.

Guilt flickers in your chest.

“I thought maybe I scared you off.”

Your eyes widen. “You think you scared me off?”

“You literally vanished.”

“I thought you were dating someone else!”

“I thought you figured out I liked you and bailed!”

You both stop and blink, then Bucky lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head.

“We are two of the dumbest people alive.”

A small, shaky laugh escapes you too. “Yeah,” you admit quietly.

For a moment neither of you move, then Bucky looks at you again, a little more serious this time.

“So,” he says carefully.

“Yeah?”

“You gonna tell me why you were jealous?”

Your heart stutters and you glance down at the sidewalk. “…I think you already know.”

“Maybe,” he says softly. “But I wanna hear you say it.”

You hesitate, then finally sigh. “Because I like you, idiot.”

Bucky grins immediately.

“Yeah,” he says, clearly pleased with himself. “I figured.”

For a second after you say it, neither of you move.

You can still feel the adrenaline buzzing in your chest from the argument, your heart beating a little too fast, your fingers cold from standing outside in the night air. Bucky’s standing close now, closer than he was a minute ago and suddenly you’re very aware of the way the streetlight catches in his hair, the way his jacket smells faintly like leather and soap.

And the way he’s looking at you, like he’s been waiting for that answer for a long time.

“You figured, huh?” you mutter, crossing your arms even though the fight has mostly drained out of you.

He shrugs, that familiar crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Well… you did run out of a party and hide for three days because you thought I liked someone else.”

You groan and drop your head back. “Oh my god.”

“Just saying.”

“You are never allowed to bring that up again,” you say, pointing a finger at him.

Bucky’s smile softens, his eyes warm now instead of frustrated. “Noted.”

There’s a quiet moment between you after that. Not awkward, just full, almost. Like everything that was tangled between you finally loosened. You look at him again and your chest does that annoying tight thing.

“Wait,” you say suddenly. “If you liked me this whole time… why didn’t you say anything?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “Same reason you didn’t.”

You tilt your head. “Which is?”

“I didn’t wanna screw up what we had,” he says simply.

Your shoulders drop a little at that, because yeah. That’s exactly it.

“You mean the very healthy and emotionally stable arrangement where we drink every Friday and pretend we don’t have feelings?”

Bucky snorts. “Hey, it worked for a while.”

You glance at him sideways. “Did it?”

He pauses. “…Okay, maybe not.”

You both laugh quietly, the tension melting away piece by piece, then Bucky steps a little closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough that the space between you feels… different. Charged with something warm and heavy.

“You know,” he says, voice lowering, “when I walked in that bar tonight…”

You lift a brow. “Yeah?”

“I saw you laughing with that guy,” he continues, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back up. “And for a second I thought maybe I waited too long.”

Your stomach flips.

“I didn’t like that feeling.”

“Yeah?” you murmur.

“Yeah.”

The air between you grows warmer despite the cold outside. Your heart is doing that stupid racing thing again, the one that usually happens right before Bucky kisses you. Except this time… it feels different, less like a habit, and more like a choice. Bucky studies your face for a moment, like he’s still making sure you’re really here and not about to disappear again.

Then his voice drops just a little softer.

“You know what the funniest part of this whole thing is?”

“What?”

He smirks faintly. “We’ve been dancing around this for months.”

Your lips twitch. “Dancing?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Pretending we didn’t know what the other one wanted.”

Your pulse jumps when his fingers lightly hook around your wrist, pulling you one step closer, you let him.

“You wanna know something?” he says quietly.

“What?”

His thumb brushes over the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate.

“I know you want it.”

Your breath catches. His eyes meet yours, steady and knowing.

“I know you feel it too.”

Your heart is pounding now.

“Bucky—”

He leans in just slightly, close enough that you can feel his breath.

“Let’s stop pretending,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, “that you don’t know what I don’t know what you came to do.”

The words settle between you, heavy with meaning, for a split second neither of you moves. Then you grab the front of his jacket and pull him down, the kiss hits harder than any of the ones before it.

Not rushed. Not messy like that first night months ago, just certain.

Bucky makes a quiet sound of surprise before his hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer like he’s been wanting to do that for weeks. Your fingers curl into his jacket as his mouth moves against yours, warm and familiar but somehow new at the same time.

It feels different now that everything’s out in the open, no more pretending, no more rules. Just you and him. When you finally pull back for air, your forehead rests against his.

Bucky’s breathing a little heavier, his hands still steady at your waist.

“Well,” he mutters softly.

You raise a brow. “Well what?”

He smirks.

“Guess we’re gonna have to rename Fridays.”