Cursedheartsclub Navigation Page and Snippets List
DC
Clark Kent
to whom it may concern; 18+, mdni
You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.
in the silence; 18+; mdni
In the quiet spaces between friendship and something more, you fall for Clark Kent the way snow falls—softly, steadily, all at once.
You promised; 18+ mdni
When Kara Zor-El crash-landed into your life at fifteen, everything changed. She was bold, brilliant, and desperate for something real—and you were it. Her anchor. Her safe person. You’re also the girl who she made promise not to fall in love with him. But you did. You fell for Clark Kent with the kind of love that lingers quietly for years. A love built on late-night walks, inside jokes, and aching silences. A love you buried every time he dated someone else, every time you reminded yourself he wasn’t yours to want. Until one naughty picture. One snowstorm. One bed, and one kiss that cracked everything open. Now, nothing feels simple—not your loyalty to Kara, not the years of secrets, not the impossible way Clark looks at you like you hung every star in his sky. You were never supposed to fall in love. But what happens when the one thing you swore not to do becomes the only thing you’ve ever wanted?
Oral History: 18+, mdni
Clark Kent is sweet. Respectful. Barely swears. Which is why you cannot stop thinking about what his ex drunkenly told Jimmy Olsen at trivia night: that Clark, apparently, is an oral god. You try to ignore it. You spiral. You investigate. For journalism. Obviously.
Of Gods and Ghosts: 18+, mdni
You were never meant to matter. Not to Lex Luthor, who weaponized your past and turned you into his most invisible asset. Not to Metropolis, who doesn’t know your name. Not even to yourself, not really—not after everything you’ve done to survive behind LuthorCorp’s glass doors and closed fists. But then Superman shows up. And Clark Kent won’t stop asking questions. You were supposed to bait him. Break him. Deliver his downfall. Instead, you hesitated. And now you’re spiraling. Because Superman wasn’t supposed to look at you like that. And Clark—Clark wasn’t supposed to matter. You didn’t mean to fall for both of them. Now Lex knows you’ve slipped the leash. He wants you dead. Clark wants you safe. And all you want is to make it out alive long enough to choose who you are—before someone else chooses for you. When everything burns, who do you save? And who do you become?
My Friend, Superman: 18+, mdni
You’ve spent months falling for two men: Clark Kent and Superman. One soft but distant, the other larger-than-life and burning. But when a rooftop secret finally breaks, the truth hits harder than any fall—because they’re the same man, and he’s been in love with you from the start. Now everything you thought you knew is in flames. And when he kisses you? The world never lands the same.
The Best Friend Experiment: 18+, mdni
You’ve been Clark Kent’s best friend for years. You’ve patched him up after patrols, covered for him in the newsroom, and loved him in every way except the one that terrifies you most. But after one too many failed dating app matches and the gnawing ache of inexperience, you ask him to do the unthinkable: take your virginity. At first he refuses, horrified at the thought of hurting you, of crossing a line he’s spent years building. But when you threaten to give yourself to someone else, his protective streak wins out. What begins as “lessons” in intimacy slowly unravels the boundary between friendship and something deeper. Lesson by lesson, touch by touch, you both edge closer. Interrupted moments, quiet nights of worship and tenderness, the no-kissing rule that becomes the last fragile shield between you. Until one night, that rule shatters, and with it, every illusion that this was ever just practice.
Dick Grayson
Congratulations on Your New Improvements: 18+, mdni
You knew Dick Grayson when you were kids, back when he was Robin and you were the journalist’s daughter sneaking after stories you weren’t supposed to. He was awkward, gangly, more earnest than smooth, and you had a crush anyway. Then you left Gotham, and life moved on. Years later, you’re back in the city with a press badge of your own, chasing leads and running headfirst into trouble. Except this time, it’s not Robin who finds you, It’s Nightwing. Taller. Broader. Unfairly charming.
Jason Todd
Three Steps Forward: 18+, mdni
You grew up with Jason Todd, through alleys, stolen meals, and whispered dreams of “someday.” Then he died, and your world collapsed. Years later, Gotham gives you back a ghost in a red helmet. He’s older, scarred, harder. He swears he can’t give you love, only rules: no strings, no lights, no kissing outside of sex. You take him anyway, because he’s Jason, and he’s always been yours. But rules are meant to break. And when they do, Jason has to face the truth. Companion Piece: Two Steps Back
Under the Red Hood: 18+, mdni
You and the Red Hood are an unlikely vigilante duo, bound together by barbed banter, dangerous chemistry, and the secret he refuses to let you see beneath the mask. But weeks of tension and teasing can only stretch so far before something finally breaks.
MARVEL
Loki Laufeyson
and still, I chose you : 18+ MDNI
You were Earth’s finest diplomat—sharp, composed, loyal to the cause of peace. When war threatened the realms, the Council asked the unthinkable: marry one of Asgard’s princes to solidify the alliance. Thor is everything a ruler should be—honorable, loyal, safe. Loki is none of those things. And yet, he sees you. He undoes you. Duty demands you choose the golden son. But desire, ache, and love—the dangerous kind—pull you toward the prince raised in shadow.
Bob Reynolds:
things we don’t say (john/bob/reader): 18+, MDNI, threesome w John
You’ve done this before. A few too many times to call it an accident—but no one’s saying it out loud. You know exactly how to ruin each other. And exactly how to put each other back together.
Joaquin Torres:
almost wasn't: friends to lovers, 18+, mdni
You and Joaquin have been best friends since the Air Force—shoulders pressed side by side through deployments, shitty rations, late-night confessions, and every almost that never became something more. You’ve seen him fall in and out of love. He’s seen you pretend you don’t need more than friendship. You date other people. You go on double dates. But every time, you end up right back next to each other—too close, too familiar, too full of everything you won’t say. Until one night, everything breaks open. And it turns out, the only thing worse than wanting him all this time… is realizing he’s always wanted you too.
John Walker
things we don’t say (john/bob/reader): 18+, MDNI, threesome w Bob
You’ve done this before. A few too many times to call it an accident—but no one’s saying it out loud. You know exactly how to ruin each other. And exactly how to put each other back together.
off record : 18+, MDNI
You weren’t supposed to fall for John Walker. Not when he was a disaster of a man, all snark and contradictions and casually cruel denials. Not when he made your chest ache with how close he let you get—only to remind you it “wasn’t a thing.” Not when you knew better. But still, you stayed. And so did he.
only you: 18+, MDNI (john x babysitter reader)
John Walker wasn’t looking for more. Not after everything. Not after the shield, the war, the wreckage. But then you showed up—hired by Val to watch his toddler son, and somehow, without meaning to, you made yourself at home. You, with your snarky comebacks and soft hands. With your coffee mugs and folded laundry and the way Elijah lights up when he sees you. You were supposed to be temporary. But now you’re in his bed. In his life. And in his heart.
breakaway save: 18+, MDNI, (hockey AU)
John Walker’s trying to be better. New Avengers. New therapist. New hobby: rec league hockey with a bunch of ex-military guys who don’t ask too many questions. He didn’t expect you—sarcastic, steady, and not scared of the mess he is. But you keep showing up. And slowly, he starts to believe he deserves that. This isn’t about being perfect. It’s about trying. And falling. And choosing love anyway.
mrs. walker, if you're nasty: 18+, MDNI, (Fake Marriage AU)
You never meant to fake marry your ex-fuckbuddy-turned-field-partner. But when the mission called for a believable couple, John Walker—with his old wedding ring still in a drawer and tension still in his jaw—was the only option Val had for you. What starts as pretend hand-holding and shared hotel beds spirals into jealousy, bathtub confessions, and one unhinged night that breaks every rule you agreed on.
mine to catch: 18+, MDNI
You love when he chases you. You love it more when he catches you. Out in the trees, John Walker ties you down, spanks you until you can’t think, and fucks you so full you forget your own name. But when it’s over, when your body’s trembling and your voice is gone—he’s the one who puts you back together. He always does. Because that’s the thing about John—he breaks what’s his, but he never lets it go.
fine line: 18+, MDNI
You moved into your new apartment for peace and quiet. What you got instead was a shared wall—and a nightly soundtrack—courtesy of your ridiculously hot, insufferably smug neighbor, John Walker. He’s loud. He’s rude. He’s apparently allergic to emotional intimacy. And worst of all? You can’t stop fantasizing about him. What starts as passive-aggressive note wars and 2AM arguments slowly shifts—through snowstorms, soup deliveries, shared beds, and the occasional wall sexting—into something that feels dangerously close to love. There’s a fine line between hate and want. You’re about to find out what’s on the other side.
Bucky Barnes:
the kiss hypothesis: 18+, MDNI
One kiss to get it out of your system. He doesn't even have to know.
his girl (part 1), (part 2): 18+, MDNI
Before the war, before Hydra, before the ice—Bucky Barnes called you his girl. You grew up together in Brooklyn, never official, but everyone knew. When he left for war, he promised to marry you. You never got to answer. Then you were gone. No body, no explanation—just a ring on his dog tags and a name he never stopped whispering. Bucky survived everything but losing you. Decades later, a mission uncovers what Hydra meant to keep buried.
bound to burn: 18+, MDNI
You’ve never kissed Bucky Barnes—never even touched. Now you’re in his lap at a club in Romania, panties pushed to the side, grinding on his thigh while a voyeuristic arms dealer watches from the shadows. The mission said do whatever it takes—so you do. You moan for him. You beg for him. You come on his fingers in a mirrored room with someone else on the other side of the glass. And the worst part? None of it feels fake. Not his voice in your ear. Not his mouth between your legs. Not the way he says, “Eyes on me, doll.” And when it’s all over? You still ache for him. And he’s still carrying your panties in his pocket.
Spellbound: 18+, MDNI, Sex Pollen Trope
You took the hit meant for Bucky—magic that curls under your skin like a fever, an ache that won’t ease no matter how many times you break. And the only thing that eases the fire is him. But Bucky doesn’t know that. You try to hide it. You try to fight it. But one late-night phone call changes everything. You come to the sound of his voice. He hears it. And he comes running.
Chemistry, Probably: 18+,MDNI
You’re a new recruit with an active imagination and a fat crush. He’s a former assassin with dreamy eyes, a metal arm, and more patience than you deserve. What starts as flirtation spirals into late-night texting, movie nights, and a slow-burn so intense it’s practically a war crime.
into the shadows (Bucky Shame Room AU)
After Bob becomes the Void, the Thunderbolts are forced into a fractured psychic realm made of shame and memory. You and Bucky end up trapped in each other’s worst moments—his time as the Winter Soldier, your secret grief over a friend he unknowingly killed. As the loops force truths into the light, so does everything you’ve been avoiding between you. What started as revenge turned into something deeper. And in the wreckage of everything, love might finally have a place to land.
where the quiet lives: 18+, MDNI
You were supposed to be on your honeymoon. Instead, you’re crashing at Bucky Barnes’s lake house—with his grumpy cat and no idea who you are without the man who asked you to give it all up. You went to the lake to forget your ex. You didn’t expect to fall for the man who owns the house.
Mi Cielo and the Winter Soldier: 18+, MDNI
They were partners in the field long before they were anything else—tangled in months of soft glances, unsaid things, and the kind of quiet tension that felt like gravity. After a shared mission in the mountains, everything shifts: one night of silence, one shared blanket, and one watch shift too close to ignore. Back at the Tower, the space between them only gets tighter—rendezvous in hallways, training flirtations, and one chaos agent named Joaquin Torres who rage-baits Bucky with reckless devotion and zero awareness.
page turner: 18+ MDNI
When you fall behind on your Avengers book club reading, Natasha suggests Bucky help keep you on track. You didn’t realize the book was basically porn. He definitely didn’t mind. Now you’re reading the filthiest scenes out loud with his hands on your thighs—and he’s not pretending it’s just about finishing the book.
becoming mrs. barnes // the barnes conspiracy (Secret Wife AU)
Before the secrets. Before the team starts snooping. Before anyone found a second dog tag with the wrong last name— There was this. A slow, quiet love story between the ex-assassin and the woman who saw him clearly. Sam and Joaquin know. They’ve practically staged a security detail. But the New Avengers—Bucky’s new team of misfits and second-chancers? They have no idea he goes home to a wife. And soon… a baby.
asset protocol (winter solider!Bucky x Scientist! Reader)
You are a biomedical engineer under Hydra’s control, tasked with maintaining the Winter Soldier’s titanium prosthetic. One day, a man touches you—and the Soldier reacts with chilling precision, maiming him. It isn’t protection. It’s possession
refraction (winter soldier!Bucky x reader x Bucky Barnes) verse
When an interdimensional rift tears open mid-mission, you and Bucky Barnes are pulled into a brutalist pocket reality—a decaying world with no sky, no time, and one impossible constant: him. The Winter Soldier lives here. An alternate Bucky who was never freed. Still weaponized. Still watching. And somehow—obsessed with you. As you and your Bucky search for a way out, the Soldier follows—not to kill, but to learn. He mimics. He lingers. Because in all his fractured code, you are the anomaly.
eyes wide shut: 18+, MDNI (winter soldier!bucky x reader); refraction verse
companion piece to refraction. The Winter Soldier broke. Silent. Still. Useless. HYDRA refused to let go—so they reached into the multiverse and found you. Your laugh. Your voice. Your body. All of it fed to him in loops. Not as comfort—but as bait. They taught him to crave you like a weapon. Now he waits. Not for orders. For you.
probably always (Bucky Barnes x Reader)
Bucky doesn’t believe in fate. You don’t believe in safe love. But somewhere between quiet coffee, post-mission silences, and a kiss that feels like peace—not passion—you start to believe in him. (Inspired by watching the Materialists. a romance with light angst)
class dismissed: 18+, MDNI (Uncle-to-the-Wilson-boys!Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Reader)
Because falling for your favorite student’s “uncle winter soldier” was never part of the lesson plan. (Romance comedy)
research purposes: 18+, MDNI (Virgin!Bucky Barnes x Experienced! Reader)
What starts as “sex ed” with your shy, curious best friend turns into something neither of you can deny. He wants to learn. You want to teach. But somewhere between the videos, the moans, and the way he says your name—it’s not just research anymore.
the secretary clause: 18+, MDNI (congressman barnes x reader)
You built the wall. Bucky Barnes just waited on the other side. Your boss. Your best friend. The man who got engaged for politics—not love—then started crossing every line you swore not to. He barely mentions the engagement. But he did write a new clause—one that quietly banned staff relationships the second you started trying to date someone else.
say it: 18+, MDNI (bucky barnes x reader)
You were always so careful with him. Always asked before you touched. Always pulled back when he got too still. But Bucky never pulled away. Not from you. Then you saw Sharon Carter touch him. Now your hands are on his thighs, your mouth is at his throat, and you’re making him say he wants you. (He does. He always has.)
about time: 18+, MDNI
Bucky Barnes never looked at you twice. Too cold. Too distant. Too focused on the mission. You were too much, he said—too loud, too close, too everything. So you stopped trying. Then you woke up in 1943. And he was there—James Buchanan Barnes, all charm and swagger and soft smiles, looking at you like you hung the stars. Flirting like it was breathing. Touching like he already knew your body. Calling you his girl. You told yourself it wasn’t real. That you couldn’t stay. But seven days in the past can ruin a person. Especially when the present is waiting. And when you come back? He remembers. All of it.
CAN ANYONE HELP ME!!! i was reading a dick grayson fic / oneshot and i closed the app and now i cant find it😭
i thought it was called "when did you get hot" based on the sabrina song, and it was like y/n was a reporter who was childhood friends with dick, and just moved back to gotham. i think the author said it was their first time writing for dick but i could be wrong. if anyone has any leads please reach out i literally just started reading and it seemed soooo good im so upset😭😭😭😭
a compilation of some of my favorite dick grayson fics 𑁤
↪︎ jason todd ver! ↪︎tim drake vers!
⋆.𐙚 ̊ frat party fiasco - beer pong turns into strip pong, and things get way out of hand when you end up in the upstairs bathroom with the president, dick grayson. this scandal is far from over, and honestly…the bathroom may never recover. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @vanillanite
↪︎ more fratboy!dick grayson
𑁤 kappa party - feeling left out at a college costume party, you meet a guy dressed as Nightwing. His costume is so authentic you felt drawn by him, not knowing he’s Dick Grayson himself. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @rskdoll
𑁤 possessive - possessive frat boy dick grayson getting increasingly more deranged about how he lays his claim on you as the semester wears on. / @uc1wa
𑁤 I got your number - dick grayson always had a chronic case of golden boy-ism for which there was no cure. everyone ever literally loved him, his floor a graveyard of bras left behind by various hookups - until he met you that is. and to his complete and utter dismay, his condition has evolved into something far worse - far more embarrassing. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture
𑁤 lowk a male manipulator - fratboy!dick, a man of many… talents. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @killakalx
⋆.𐙚 ̊ crave - the locals in the village had long told that the count and his family who were living in the dark castle on the hill are vampires. so you only had yourself to blame for not heeding their warning. / @cherryite
↪︎ more vampire!dick grayson
𑁤 the teeth you know - the war between the humans and the vampires has lasted for a year now. when you fled gotham, you thought that would be the last time you'd see the vampire king and the love of your life, dick grayson. You were wrong. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @sanguineterrain
𑁤 tear me open - your vampire boyfriend is feeling a bit… peckish. It’s not his fault his girlfriend is lying there looking delicious! 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture
𑁤 bite me (pretty please) - your best friend dick grayson is a vampire & being the stubborn individual he is he refuses to feed from you... well until now! / @nocturnellee
ghostface!dick grayson
𑁤 scream for me - the mask was his secret. but you were always his obsession. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @iydiamartinx
𑁤 just like the movies ft. wally west - when the adrenaline after fighting crime gets too much, you offer yourself up to your boyfriends for some stress relief 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @froggibus
⋆.𐙚 ̊ cherry red - you weren’t sure when dick had become part of your getting ready routine — but somehow, you couldn’t imagine it without him anymore. / @fromrory
⋆.𐙚 ̊ bite me! - having dated you for two years and known you since childhood, Dick was already used to you being somewhat obsessed with biting him. / @snorinqfawn
⋆.𐙚 ̊ scary? my god you’re divine - the vessel of enchantress is now part of the team, the league thought it was better like that, better having her on their side than against them and someone has to teach her how to control the witch. they all know who you are, or what you are, but robin is the only one who doesn't see you as a monster, he sees through you in that persistent way of his and you can't ignore him even though you want to. / @njghtiee
⋆.𐙚 ̊ bsf!dick grayson - bsf!dick grayson and his wonderful obsession with you. / @slvthrs
↪︎ bonus! more bsf!dick grayson 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @killakalx
↪︎ bonus! lowk similar dynamic 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @killakalx
⋆.𐙚 ̊ coming back to - in which, dick grayson can't stand the idea of being your ex any longer. dick grayson x ex-gf!reader 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @pluvoia
⋆.𐙚 ̊ n’ for dessert, I’ll suck ur teeth! - making out with dick grayson is like a partynextdoor song — slow, intoxicating, soaked in rhythm and heat. / @navyhaze
⋆.𐙚 ̊ ignorance is bliss - you know your boyfriend, dick is mad, purposely ignoring him isn't always the best idea... especially when your boyfriend loves to take his frustration out sexually... and you knew you were in for a long night when you came home after ignoring him all day... 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @murdock-slvt
⋆.𐙚 ̊ optimization needed - when dick grayson finds out he's not eating you out in the way he thinks you deserve, he wants to change that. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @cloudscars
↪︎ pt2! dick grayson is a munch 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @cloudscars
⋆.𐙚 ̊ sweetheart - maybe sometimes sweetheart does depend on dick too much 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @blondekisses
⋆.𐙚 ̊ nintendhoe ft.wally west - when dick & wally have a little… competition 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture
⋆.𐙚 ̊ help out a good friend - dick grayson is your good friend (not best, but good friend), and what kind of good friend would he be if he let you be so sexually frustrated because of your loser boyfriend? 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @murdock-slvt
⋆.𐙚 ̊ camboy!dick grayson - whose notorious for being a walking sex appeal; his pretty face fanned with long, girly lashes, paired with his toned body that would make even greek gods feel ashamed. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @navyhaze
↪︎ bonus! more camboy!dick grayson • pt2! 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture
↪︎ double whammy! more camboy!dick grayson 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @celestigasm
⋆.𐙚 ̊ risky temptations - you knew you should have left more space when tailing nightwing. while he might have been in his civies, that didn’t make him any less aware, which is why you’re not tied up 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @softhandz
⋆.𐙚 ̊ jealous roommate - you are Dick’s roommate and have been asked to go on a date with a guy. What you didn’t expect was for him to show up at the restaurant unannounced. / @kizubow
↪︎ bonus! more jealous!dick grayson / @noodlie-reads
⋆.𐙚 ̊ one of the girls - when you and your girlfriend go to a strip club things get heated 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @loonatears
⋆.𐙚 I could stare at your back all day - aka when you and your ex had a messy breakup… / @cheymidnights
↪︎ part 2!
⋆.𐙚 accidents happen - technically, you couldn't be blamed for thinking dick wouldn't get just a tad angry at you for touching his escrima sticks, right? I mean, you'd just been curious, you waved them around a little and now - 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @flashroid
⋆.𐙚 I need a minute - hockey just became your favourite sport after #10 Dick Grayson would not stop flirting with you the whole time. / @pookalicious-hq
⋆.𐙚 congratulations on your new improvements - You knew Dick Grayson when you were kids, back when he was Robin and you were the journalist’s daughter sneaking after stories you weren’t supposed to. He was awkward, gangly, more earnest than smooth, and you had a crush anyway. Then you left Gotham, and life moved on. Years later, you’re back in the city with a press badge of your own, chasing leads and running headfirst into trouble. Except this time, it’s not Robin who finds you, It’s Nightwing. Taller. Broader. Unfairly charming. / @cursedheartsclub
⋆.𐙚 round whatever - Dick Grayson is a chronic head tilter. It's especially bad when you're underneath him, naked and sweaty from the way he's worked you up and over the edge so many times. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @compersion
⋆.𐙚 summer roommate - you’d never met him before he moved in. your friend mentioned her brother needed a place to crash, swore he was chill, quiet, harmless. harmless was a lie. / @celestigasm
⋆.𐙚 ̊ academic rivals series! - you and dick grayson started as rivals, the kind everyone whispered about in class. top students, top of your year, neck and neck in every assignment. you couldn’t stand him: the perfect smile, the natural ease, the way he never seemed to struggle. and he found your sharp retorts and stubbornness endlessly entertaining. when a teacher paired you together for a major research project, it was war. he teased, you rolled your eyes. he smiled through everything, you matched him with pure determination. but somewhere between late-night notes and quiet library corners, things began to shift. / @njghtiee
⋆.𐙚 ̊ deprivation - in which, dick grayson has got a new-found ego; so of course, you decide to fuck it out of him. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @pluvoia
⋆.𐙚 ̊ worth the risk - Being the Police Chief’s daughter means every cop in the precinct treats you like you’re made of glass—except Officer Dick Grayson. He’s smart, charming, infuriatingly handsome…and completely off-limits. / @angiegotham
⋆.𐙚 ̊ when fan fiction comes to life - dick finds your dirty little fanfic and brings it to life 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @celestigasm
⋆.𐙚 ̊ already? - “i’m close.” “already?” — ft. dick grayson, aka 'nightwing' 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @kkai-zen
⋆.𐙚 ̊ chemicals hit like a drug - aka dick takes matters into his own hands 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @mostly-imagines
⋆.𐙚 ̊ date crasher - dick grayson swears he’s not in love with you. he just happens to find an unreasonable amount of joy in ruining your dates. purely for entertainment, of course. / @kthologue
⋆.𐙚 ̊ lightning strikes twice - The data indicating the average person experiences 3.4 attacks annually is misleading. You- who seem to find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time several times a month- represents a significant deviation from the norm and should not be counted in the dataset. Or; in which Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point. / @silverlullabies
as you can tell a lotttt of this is just pure smut but I mean, god forbid a girl creates a list while she’s ovulating :3 fanfics aside nightwing is such an amazing character I love him so much ༯
a/n: Part two of my long exploration of John's cannon character arc following the Thunderbolts and his road to redemption.
I will warn that this will probably not be everyones cup of tea. please read t/w below.
t/w: porn with plot, found family, strangers to co-parents to lovers, hurt/comfort, unprotected sex, fem reader, breeding kink, hair pulling, drinking, biting, dirty talk, listened to friends by sombr while writing this lol, piv sex, dry humping (pry it from my cold dead hands)
Morning starts the way it always does now, with a thump, then a squeak, then the unmistakable patter of socked feet barreling down the hallway.
“Mamaaaa!” The bedroom door slams open with the authority of someone much larger than two and a half years old. Mara launches herself onto your bed like a tiny, determined torpedo wearing mismatched socks and superhero pajamas. Always mismatched. Always superheroes. Today, she’s got one Captain America sock and one Spider-Man sock.
She climbs onto your stomach, curls bouncing into your face, her little hands patting your cheeks as if checking you’re real. “Up,” she commands, nose scrunched. “Mama. Up.”
You groan into your pillow. “I am up. Technically.”
She leans down until her forehead is pressed against yours, her favorite way of demanding your full attention. “C’ereal,” she whispers, like it’s a sacred word. And that’s how every morning begins: cereal, mismatched socks, and Mara as the pint-sized general of your household.
You carry her to the kitchen, her arms wrapped around your neck, her cheek smushed against your shoulder. She smells like baby shampoo and sleep. She hums tunelessly. You can feel her eyelashes flutter against your skin.
It’s impossible to not kiss her temple.
The kitchen is a battlefield of toddlerhood, plastic bowls in bright colors, sippy cups half-filled with apple juice, stickers on the fridge, tiny shoes scattered like traps for unsuspecting adult feet. Mara wiggles out of your arms and toddles straight to the cabinet, pulling out three cereal boxes and dropping them dramatically onto the floor.
“Choose!” she declares.
You choose the one least likely to make Sam call you for a lecture about sugar content.
As you pour, Mara digs her spoon in early, flinging half the cereal onto the floor. Your dog, Princess, that Sam made you adopt for “emotional stability,” (though you suspect he just wanted an excuse to dog-sit), practically vibrates with glee as he eats her casualties.
You sip your lukewarm coffee and watch her, her curls, her soft skin, her nose shaped exactly like yours. And her eyes. God, her eyes. Clear blue. Bright. Curious. The same shade that used to look at you over the rim of a coffee mug or across the pillow at dawn.
Every day since she was born, you’ve trained yourself not to think it. Not to see him in her face. Not to ache at it. But you do. Always.
She tilts her head at you, cereal stuck to her cheek. “Mama sad?”
You blink hard, pulling yourself back into the room. You wipe her cheek gently. “No, baby. Mama’s just thinking.”
She accepts that, nodding sagely before dumping more cereal onto the floor for the dog.
-
You didn’t raise Mara alone. Sam became Uncle Sammy the moment he held her, crying harder than she did. He checks on you weekly, drops off groceries, and insists on installing childproof locks you did not ask for.
Joaquin is her favorite jungle gym. He claims it’s because “kids love cool people,” and not because he lets her climb on his shoulders and attaches glitter stickers to his flight gear like badges of honor.
Bucky pretends he doesn’t like kids. Lies. Lies everywhere. He taught Mara how to braid his hair using ridiculous patience, and once wore rainbow clips for an entire day because she requested “pretty.” He grumbled through all of it, but you caught him smiling at his reflection more than once.
They all adore her. She adores them. And you… you’ve learned to build a life around the family you have, not the one you lost.
-
You still work missions. Still train. Still run ops. You’ve become exceptional at calibrating your schedule around toddler naps and your own emotional avoidance of the New Avengers.
Avoiding John’s team became an art form. You swap shifts without being asked. Schedule patrols on opposite rotations. Politely skip debriefs when you know he’ll be present.
You’ve become skilled at dodging ghosts.
Even ones with the same eyes you see at home.
-
Every now and then, when Mara falls asleep in her car seat, or when you’re folding her tiny clothes, or when you’re alone in your apartment after she’s gone to bed, you find yourself pausing. Just… pausing. To breathe. To ache. To remember.
Sometimes, without meaning to, you check mission reports. Just to see if his name appears. Just to confirm he’s safe. Alive. Functional. And the oddest twist of the knife?
He’s better now. The news mentions him positively. There are photos of him at community events. Mentions of therapy. Stories of him co-parenting with Olivia in steady, stable rhythms. He looks calmer. Healthier. Like someone rebuilding. Someone healing. Someone who learned how to be better after losing everything that mattered.
And every time you see his name, your breath catches, not in longing exactly, and not in bitterness, but something tangled between the two. Something that says: I’m happy for you. I’m hurt you couldn’t be happy with me. We could’ve been this. We could’ve had more. You could’ve known her.
Mara climbs into your lap then, little fingers tugging your shirt, and everything inside you softens. You kiss the top of her head.
You whisper, “I chose the right life. Even if I had to learn it the hard way.”
But at night, when the world is quiet and she’s curled against you, breathing softly… you still wonder what it will do to your heart, when he finally sees her, really sees her, because you know it’s silly to think it’ll never happen, and recognizes himself in her eyes.
-
Winter has a way of softening the world, muffling its edges, whitening its harshness, making even the city feel gentle for a moment. It was the first snowfall of the season, light flakes drifting from a sky the color of pewter. The downtown winter market was alive with heat lamps, twinkle lights, the smell of cinnamon and roasting chestnuts.
Mara was bundled in a puffy lilac coat, two tiny fluffy pom-poms bouncing from the hood, her curls tucked beneath a knit hat Joaquin had crocheted himself (badly, unevenly, and with great pride). She was stomping through the snow-dusted pavement with the single-minded purpose of a toddler on a mission.
“Mama! Mama look!” She pointed at a stand selling balloons shaped like reindeer. “Red one! Red one! Pleeease!”
You smiled, tired, warm, helpless to resist. “Hot chocolate first, okay? Then balloon.”
She considered this. “’Kay. Choc’ate first. Bawooooon second.” She held up two gloved fingers to emphasize the order.
You laughed. “Deal.”
You stepped into the line for the cocoa stand, adjusting Mara on your hip as she leaned her cheek against your shoulder. The heat lamps overhead glowed soft gold, and your breath fogged in the cold air. Mara hummed some tune she’d learned from Sam, off-key and perfect.
You didn’t notice him right away. Not at first. Not when he walked past the edge of the crowd. Not when he slowed. Not when he turned. But you heard him before you saw him.
You heard that voice, the familiar rasp, deepened, softened, steadied by two years you didn’t get to witness. “…[Name]?”
Your entire body stilled. It felt like the air froze, like every sound around you muffled under the weight of your pulse.
You turned. And there he was.
John F. Walker.
Older. Broad-shouldered in a winter coat. Hair a little longer. Jaw dusted with stubble. Eyes softer, still blue, still intense, but softened with something earned the hard way: peace, or the beginnings of it.
He really did look healthier, you thought traitorously. Calmer. Realigned.
But when he saw you, the breath left him. And when he saw the child in your arms, the world dropped out from under him. His entire body stopped mid-step. His face drained of color. His eyes locked on Mara with a force that nearly buckled your knees.
He didn’t speak at first. He simply looked. At her curls. At her square jaw. At her button nose that mirrored yours. And then at her eyes. Her bright, unmistakable blue eyes. The exact shade of his.
It hit him like a blow.
You saw it. The revelation. The realization. The devastation. The wonder. The grief. The love he never realized he’d been missing.
His voice cracked when he finally managed, “She… she has my…”
“I know,” you murmured.
He swallowed hard. His throat bobbed once, twice. He dragged his gaze up to your face. “She’s…” His voice broke again. He cleared his throat, tried again, quieter. “She’s… what? Two? Two and a half?”
Your heart thudded painfully. You could lie, but you couldn’t. Not now. Not with her little head resting trustingly on your shoulder.
“She turned two in August,” you said softly.
He closed his eyes like the wind had been knocked out of him. “Jesus,” he whispered. Not angry. Not loud. Just destroyed.
Mara tugged your coat suddenly, peering over your shoulder at him. “Mama? Who’s big guy?”
John froze. Absolutely froze. His breath caught so visibly you felt it from six feet away. His hand curled into a fist at his side, not in anger, but to hide the tremor running through it. Big guy. His daughter’s voice. His daughter’s face. His daughter’s existence.
You shifted Mara to your hip and gave her a gentle smile. “Just someone Mama used to know, baby.”
He flinched. Actually flinched. The hurt in his eyes shone like fresh glass. “Can we…” he swallowed hard, “Can we talk? Please?”
You hesitated. Because shock was cold and sharp and terrifying. Because your heart was beating too fast. Because he had once broken you clean through. But Mara wriggled down and ran toward a bench covered in light snow.
“Snow chair!” she yelled.
You exhaled shakily. “Fine.”
He nodded, grateful, unsteady.
You moved toward the bench, sitting on its edge while Mara climbed up beside you and began scraping snow into her mittens with deep concentration. John stopped a few feet away, careful not to crowd you. He looked at Mara like she was sunlight. Like she was a miracle he wasn’t allowed to touch. Like his world had shifted on its axis and he was just now learning to breathe the new air.
Finally, voice hoarse, he said, “You were pregnant when we split.” It wasn’t a question.
“No,” you whispered. “I didn’t know yet. I found out a week later.”
He brought a hand to his mouth, staring at the ground. “God.”
You stared ahead. “I was hurt. I was confused. I thought you didn’t want me. That you didn’t want… anything.”
He flinched again. “I was in a bad place. The worst place. I pushed you away because I thought I was protecting you.”
“I know that now,” you said quietly. “But back then? You said you didn’t want it anymore. And then I found out I was pregnant and I…” You swallowed the memory. “I didn’t know how to tell you without breaking myself open.”
He nodded slowly, breathing hard through his nose. “I was a mess. I won’t pretend otherwise. But you should have told me.”
“I know.”
“She’s my daughter,” he whispered, voice cracking.
“I know.”
He blinked hard, tears gathering but not falling. Therapy had taught him restraint, not numbness. “Does she…” He struggled. “Does she know anything about me?”
Your throat tightened. “She knows she has uncles who love her. She knows she’s loved. That’s all.”
He nodded once, sharp, like it hurt but made sense. “I’m not angry,” he said after a long moment. “I mean…I’m hurt. God, I’m hurting. But I’m not… angry.” He wiped his face with the heel of his hand. “I just want…” His voice faltered. “Can I meet her? Properly? Not as a stranger who scares her. As… as her father.”
You stared at him. At the man he had become. He was not the man who broke you. Not anymore. He was older. Steadier. Quieter. Sadder. Better.
And yet… this was not simple. Not clean. Not something you could agree to in five minutes beside a bench. “I need time,” you whispered. “I need to talk to Sam. And Joaquin. And…just think.”
He nodded immediately. “Of course. Of course. Take all the time you need.”
You breathed out slowly. “I’ll text you.”
He blinked. “You still have my number?”
“No,” you said. “I deleted it.”
A soft, pained laugh escaped him. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
You pulled out your phone. He pulled out his. You traded numbers like strangers at a bus stop, like the past two years hadn’t built a life inside your home and inside your heart. When you stood to leave, Mara reached for your hand.
John’s chest caved inward at the sight. As you walked away, he called softly, “Hey.”
You turned.
He looked at Mara, then at you. Eyes shining. Voice rough. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For her. For raising her. For keeping her safe.”
You swallowed hard. “Mara,” you called. “Say bye-bye.”
Mara waved a mittened hand toward him, shouting, “Bye big guy!”
John pressed a fist to his mouth. His eyes squeezed shut. He didn’t break. But he bent. And you felt it in every place you had ever loved him.
-
It starts simply. Quietly. A cautious choice on your part, neutral ground, clear exits, nothing enclosed or overwhelming. A park in mid-spring, early enough in the morning that the playground is mostly empty. Dew still clings to the slides. The swings sway slightly in the cool breeze. Budding leaves catch the pale sunlight.
You tighten your hold on Mara’s hand as you walk up the path. She hops beside you with quick, birdlike energy, her boots thumping the wooden bridge that leads to the play area. She’s talking about sparrows this week, sparrows and pigeons and the “big blue jay that yelled at me yesterday.” Everything these days is about birds, and you do your best to nod along even though your stomach is a nervous knot and your pulse won’t settle.
You see him before he sees you this time.
John stands near the bench across from the swings. He’s dressed simply, hoodie, dark jeans, hands clasped loosely in front of him. His posture is straight but not stiff, like he’s deliberately tamping down every instinct to square his shoulders or take up space. His expression is neutral in the way someone looks when they’re rehearsing calm.
When he finally turns and catches sight of you, he visibly stops himself from reacting too strongly. He inhales once through his nose, slow and steady, then releases the breath just as slowly. You recognize the grounding technique; you’ve done them yourself. He even rubs his thumb once over the side of his palm, a small, practiced motion, like he’s reminding himself not to panic.
He offers you a small, steady nod. You return it. Then he looks down at Mara. His entire expression changes. Softens. Opens.
Without hesitation, he lowers himself onto one knee, settling into the mulch like it doesn’t bother him. Kneeling makes him much smaller, less imposing, more approachable. You realize immediately that he did it for her. So he wouldn’t tower over her. So he’d seem safe.
Mara stops a few feet away from him. Her curls bounce as she tilts her head, big eyes flicking between you and the large man kneeling patiently in the dirt.
“Hi, sweetheart,” John says, his voice low and careful. “I’m John.”
Mara clings to your leg, staring at him with wide-eyed curiosity. She’s shy around unfamiliar faces, especially big ones, and John is…well, John. Broad shouldered. Tall even when kneeling. But he doesn’t push. He doesn’t reach out. He simply waits, hands loosely braced on his knee, gaze gentle.
You crouch down beside her. “It’s okay,” you whisper, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “He’s… a friend.” You almost choke on the word. But you say it anyway.
John’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at that, not angry, not offended, just a quick shadow of emotion, but he gives the smallest nod, accepting it.
Mara takes half a step forward. Then another. Slow, deliberate, cautious. Like she’s approaching a large, gentle animal she isn’t sure will let her pet it. Then her foot catches on the edge of her own shoe, and she pitches forward with a startled gasp.
John’s body tenses. His hands twitch upward instinctively, but he doesn’t grab her. He waits, checking your face, waiting for you to give permission. That alone almost breaks you in half.
You nod once. He reacts instantly, steadying her with one large hand around her small elbow. His touch is careful, barely there, supporting without gripping.
Mara blinks up at him. And then, for reasons you’ll never understand, she steps closer and leans lightly into his side. Not for comfort, not for reassurance, just… trust. A quiet, instinctive kind of trust she’s only ever given to people she feels safe around.
John goes absolutely still. His breath catches, faint but audible. His eyes shine with something raw and immediate, like someone has taken a fist to the center of his chest. He lifts a hand slowly, so slowly you almost don’t notice, and lets it hover just above her back, scared to touch her without permission.
“Hi, baby girl,” he whispers. The words break out of him like something he’s been holding back for years.
Your throat tightens.
Something inside him is opening, cracking, reshaping itself right in front of you. You recognize the look on his face, because you wore it the moment someone placed Mara in your arms for the first time.
That stunned, trembling, overwhelming realization: This is mine. I belong to her. She belongs to me.
And standing a few steps away, watching the two of them together for the first time in the cool, quiet morning, you feel something inside your chest ache so deeply it almost buckles your knees.
-
A few visits later, the two of you end up sitting across from each other at a weathered wooden picnic table in the middle of the park. The sun is warm but the shade is cool, and condensation drips in slow trails down the sides of your iced coffee cups. Mara is a few yards away with a bucket of chalk, drawing lopsided circles on the pavement while humming loudly to herself.
John sits with his forearms braced on the table, fingers around his cup, turning it without drinking. He looks relaxed at first glance, broad shoulders loose, face calm, but when you really look at him, you can see the tension wound tight beneath the surface. His jaw works every few seconds. His fingers twitch. He keeps glancing at Mara like he can’t believe she’s real.
You’re the one who breaks the silence. “What… what do you want her to call you?”
His head snaps up slightly, like he hadn’t expected the question. His gaze drops back to the table almost immediately. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, thumb stroking along the sweating plastic. “That depends on what you’re comfortable with.”
You shake your head. “John, this isn’t about me.”
He lifts his eyes. There’s something raw in them, something unsure. “It is,” he says gently. “At least a little.”
You swallow. The truth feels heavy in your throat. “She’s your daughter. That’s not ever going to change.”
He stills completely. No twitch. No shifting. No fidgeting. Just stillness. His shoulders tremble faintly, a tiny, barely noticeable ripple of emotion running through him. He doesn’t look away, but his eyes flicker like he’s trying to hold back too much at once.
“I don’t expect her to call me anything yet,” he says softly. “I don’t want to confuse her. Or push her into something she’s not ready for.”
You nod because that’s fair. And considerate. And so different from the John you knew years ago that it nearly knocks the breath out of you. You both sip your iced coffees, letting the quiet settle around you. It’s not tense. It’s heavy in a different way, full of things neither of you knows how to say yet.
-
It happens on an ordinary weekday afternoon, the sort of day that feels unremarkable until something inside it changes everything.
You’re at John’s place for a short visit, nothing formal, just an hour carved into the early evening so he can spend time with Mara while Eli is at his mom’s house. The living room is warm and bright, sunlight spilling across the rug where she’s sprawled out with her markers and two open coloring books. The air smells faintly of the vanilla candle John lit when you arrived, something soft and comforting that immediately made your shoulders relax.
Mara is lying on her belly, feet kicked up behind her, coloring with the kind of reckless enthusiasm that should frankly terrify any carpet owner. She hums a little tune under her breath, a sound you recognize from the cartoon she’s obsessed with, and half the marker ends up on her hands, her sleeves, and the floor.
You sit on the couch, your legs tucked under you, watching her. From across the room, John is going through a small stack of picture books on the coffee table, deciding which ones he wants to read to her before the visit ends. He’s pretending to focus on the books, but you’ve caught him glancing at Mara more times than you can count.
She’s halfway through a scribbled rainbow when she suddenly gasps like she’s discovered a new planet.
“Mama! Look!” She pops up too fast, little legs wobbling, and runs toward you at full speed. She holds the paper so high above her head that she nearly whacks you in the nose with it. You laugh and gently guide the drawing downward before accepting it.
“Oh, wow,” you say, genuinely impressed by the chaos of color. “You made a rainbow!”
Mara beams at the praise, bouncing on her toes. Then she freezes, still smiling, still excited, but something flickers across her face, a thought, a connection.
Her head swivels toward John. She looks at him. You’d given her the talk a few visits ago about who he was and how she could call him whatever she wanted to. She’d yet to call him anything other than John John or Big Guy. But, there it is, that bright, unfiltered smile that could power an entire city. The one she only gives to people she feels safe with.
She thrusts the drawing toward him with both hands. “Daddy, look!” The word lands like a physical force.
John stops breathing. His mouth opens but nothing comes out. His eyes widen first, then soften, then fill so quickly it’s like emotion has overtaken him faster than his body can keep up. His chest rises in one sharp, stumbling inhale. He brings a fist instinctively to his mouth, pressing it there like he needs to hold everything inside, every feeling, every tear, every sound, so it doesn’t slip out and overwhelm the room.
“Daddy,” Mara repeats, impatient, waving her drawing slightly.
John swallows hard. The movement is visible even from where you sit. He looks like someone trying not to drown. He lowers himself slowly, so slowly it looks like it physically hurts him not to just grab her and pull her into his arms. He settles onto his knees, meeting her at her height. His hands shake once before he steadies them on his thighs.
When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. “Can I… see it, sweetheart?”
And Mara, delighted, takes three steps forward and, instead of offering the drawing, she throws herself at him. Her arms go around his neck. Her cheek smooshes into his shoulder. She hugs him with her whole little body.
John goes absolutely still. For a second, he is frozen in the enormity of the moment. Then his arms rise, slow, reverent, careful, and he wraps them around her tiny frame like she is something sacred. Something fragile. Something he’s terrified he might break if he holds too tight.
His eyes close. His forehead drops to her curls. A soft, choked breath escapes him.
You can feel your own heart thundering. You fold your arms around yourself, because suddenly your chest feels too open, too vulnerable, too unprotected. It hurts, the sight of him holding her, the sound of her happy little sigh, the realization that this is what she missed for two years, what he missed, what you denied him because you were so broken you could barely breathe.
Your eyes burn so sharply you have to look away for a moment, staring at the windowsill, the books, anything that isn’t the two of them. When you look back, John’s face is buried in his daughter’s curls. His shoulders are trembling. His hands cradle her like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He’s breathing like a man who has just run miles, or like a man who has finally reached the place he has been chasing for years.
And in that living room, in the soft afternoon light, you understand: This moment was always going to break you open.
But it was never going to break you alone.
-
It happens about a week after the living room moment, after Mara ran into John’s arms, called him “Daddy,” and rewrote the shape of your little family with one innocent word. Everything has been different since then. Softer around the edges. More intentional. John seems calmer now, more confident in his place in Mara’s life. She asks for him often.
And today, John asks for something bigger. “Eli and Olivia want to meet her,” he had said over the phone. His voice was hesitant but hopeful. “Only if you’re comfortable.”
You had taken a breath. Thought about it. And agreed.
The playground is neutral ground, open, familiar, low-pressure. You arrive early, holding Mara’s hand as she toddles over the mulch, her curls stuffed under a knit hat and her boots squeaking with every step.
You spot Eli before he sees you. He’s five and a half now, taller, sturdier, full of that little-kid confidence where everything is exciting. He looks more like his father now than he did when he was Mara’s age. And he’s still beautiful. His front tooth is missing, leaving a gap that only makes his grin wider.
The second he notices you, he lights up. He races across the playground in flashing superhero sneakers, skidding to a stop so abruptly he nearly topples over.
“Hi!” he blurts, already breathless. “I’m Eli!”
Before you can respond, the questions start pouring out like an unbroken stream.
“Dad said this is my sister. Is she really my sister? Can I show her the climbing thing? She’s kinda small. Does she like dinosaurs? Like the ones you and me used to play with? You also used to read me books, right? I think I remember that. You did the voices. You were really good at the voices.”
Your heart stutters. He remembers you. Not in sharp details, he was too young for that, but in feelings. Warmth. Playfulness. Comfort.
You clear your throat. “Yeah, I… yeah. Hi, Eli.”
Mara presses herself against your leg, peeking around your coat like a cautious kitten. Her small hand clings to your jeans. She studies him with big eyes, unsure of the whirlwind that has just arrived in front of her.
John jogs up behind Eli, a little winded, a hand landing gently on his son’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy, slow down. Give her a minute. She’s shy.”
Eli stops. Thinks about this. Then nods very seriously, like he’s just been given his first mission briefing. “Oh. Okay. I can do that.” He looks down at Mara again, softer this time. “I get shy sometimes too.”
He doesn’t reach for her. Doesn’t crowd her. He simply crouches down, lowering himself to her height. And the gesture hits you, how familiar it is. How much like John it looks. That same instinct to make himself small, safer, easier to approach.
“Hi, Mara,” Eli says gently. “I’m Eli. Do you… wanna play with me?”
Mara lifts her face, studying him the way toddlers do, openly, curiously, without filter. Her gaze moves from his sneakers to his sweatshirt (a cartoon dinosaur wearing sunglasses), to his missing tooth. She steps forward and places her little hand in his. Just like that.
Eli beams so brightly he could replace the sun. “Okay! Come on! I’ll show you the best slide!”
They take off in an instant, two little bodies moving with the same unsteady enthusiasm, Mara half-running to keep up, Eli slowing down just enough for her to catch him. For the next hour, the world shrinks to their laughter. They build a crooked fort from jackets and a picnic blanket. Eli invents rules on the spot, half of them contradictory, all of them delivered with complete authority. Mara repeats the rules back to him, sometimes getting the words wrong, which makes him giggle.
They share animal crackers. They argue about whether the slide is too hot (“No it’s not!” “Yes it is!”). Eli teaches her how to climb the low rock wall, his hands hovering protectively near her waist like he’s seen his parents do a hundred times for him.
You sit on a bench beside John. Neither of you speaks for a while. John watches them with an expression that doesn’t belong to the man he used to be, stricken and softened all at once. His shoulders are relaxed. His jaw unclenched. He looks… lighter than you’ve ever seen him. Happier.
“That’s… that’s my kids,” he says under his breath, like he’s afraid saying it too loud will break the moment.
You swallow past a knot in your throat. “They’re good together.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, voice thick. “They really are.”
When the playdate winds down, the four of you walk toward the parking lot. A sleek SUV pulls in, and Olivia steps out. She’s as you remember: tall, graceful, warm skin glowing in the late afternoon light, calm eyes that miss nothing. She gives you a small, polite smile. It’s cautious but not cold.
“Hi,” she says, her tone warm but measured. “I’m Olivia.”
“Hi,” you reply. You match her energy instinctively.
Eli bolts into her open arms, talking so quickly she can barely keep up. “Mara’s my sister! She’s real small but super strong! She climbed the rocks! And we made a fort but Daddy kept sitting on the blanket and messing it up.”
Olivia laughs softly, smoothing his curls back as she listens. Then she looks up at John with an expression dipped in quiet affection and years of understanding.
“He’s been trying,” she says to you, gently, sincerely. “He’s really been working on himself.”
Your chest tightens. You nod. “Yeah. I know.”
She steps forward and reaches out, taking your hand briefly. It’s a quick touch, warm, steady, surprising. “Good luck,” she says under her breath.
It shouldn’t hit you the way it does. But it does. Your eyes sting suddenly, and you have to blink a few times to steady yourself. “Thank you,” you manage.
Olivia leads Eli to the car. Before he climbs in, he turns around and waves so hard his whole body wiggles. “Bye-bye baby sister!”
Mara waves with both hands, nearly losing balance, shouting that she is not a baby.
John exhales next to you, slow, deep, and full of something fragile. And as the car pulls away, something inside you shifts. A door you thought you’d locked two years ago nudges open again. Not wide, not recklessly, but undeniably.
A future you never let yourself imagine no longer feels impossible. And the family beside you, messy, complicated, born of heartbreak but built on effort, suddenly feels real. Solid.
Maybe even yours.
-
It’s strange how naturally the rhythm forms. It doesn’t happen with intention or planning; it just… happens. Before long, the two of you are moving through the same small rituals every week, as if you’ve been doing this for years instead of months.
Drop-offs at his place turn into quick conversations. He always steps out of the doorway to take Mara’s coat from your hands, brushing your fingers by accident (or maybe not by accident, but you don’t let yourself linger on that). Pickups lead to him showing you her newest artwork, his voice soft with pride as he holds up a messy page of marker swirls she insists is a “big dinosaur.”
You find yourselves standing too close on his porch without meaning to. Discussing bedtime routines on nights she had trouble settling. Leaning against his kitchen counter while he packs her snacks for the next day, both of you reaching for her tiny boots at the same time and pulling back with a shared breath of awkward laughter.
Those moments feel dangerous. More dangerous than any mission you’ve ever been on. Because danger, at least in the field, has rules. Procedures. Protocols. But this, these small domestic collisions, don’t obey any rules you know.
Sometimes his hand touches your shoulder without him thinking about it. Warm. Steady. Familiar in ways that shouldn’t make your breath catch after everything that happened. Sometimes you laugh at the same moment, about something small Mara said, and you look at each other a little too long. A little too knowingly. The way you used to.
Your conversations linger too. On good days, on easy days, they stretch out in the quiet of his kitchen while Mara builds a tower of blocks in the living room.
“Thinking preschool in the fall,” he mentions one evening as he rinses out her sippy cup.
You hum thoughtfully. “Somewhere structured. She does better when she knows what’s coming.”
He nods. “Yeah. You’re right.” No defensiveness. No guilt-fueled irritation. Just straightforward agreement. Partnership.
Once, when he sees you rubbing your temples, he brews you tea without asking, setting the mug in front of you like it’s second nature. Another night, while he helps Mara into her pajamas, you tidy up the living room automatically, folding blankets, stacking picture books. The rhythm is almost domestic. Almost intimate. Too familiar.
You argue sometimes. It’s impossible not to. You disagree about sugar limits, about nap schedules, about the right way to handle her toddler meltdowns. But the arguments are different now. Softer. Shorter. No sharp edges meant to wound. You apologize when you need to. He listens. He adjusts. You adjust. It’s almost startling, how mature it feels, how adult.
Sometimes it’s shockingly easy between you. Effortless. That ease scares you more than the fights ever did. Because in the quiet moments, when he lifts Mara into his arms and she tugs at the collar of his shirt while babbling stories to him; when he reads to her in a dozen silly character voices until she giggles so hard she snorts; when he looks up and meets your eyes with a soft, steady expression that says thank you for letting me be here, your heart remembers.
It remembers everything you had with him. Everything you lost. Everything you still want.
And the wanting terrifies you. You’re terrified of opening that door again, scared of what will break inside you if things fall apart a second time. But you’re just as scared of how right this feels, of how natural it is for the three of you to exist like this, as if you never should have been separated in the first place.
It’s slow, the shift. Subtle. Like a new season rolling in inch by inch until one morning you realize the air has changed and you never noticed exactly when it happened. Co-parenting becomes routine. Routine becomes familiar. Familiar becomes warm.
And warmth, between you and John Walker, has always been dangerous.
You both know it. Neither of you stop it. You skirt the edges. Pretend it’s nothing. Pretend your pulse doesn’t pick up when he moves too close, or when his voice drops low and gentle as he talks to Mara. But it does.
God, it does.
-
It starts with a simple message while you’re away on a mission. John is keeping Mara and Princess, the dog, at his place while you’re gone. It’s not his first overnight alone with Mara, but it is his first with both kids and a dog.
JOHN:
Did Mara tell you she’s part dragon now? She keeps trying to breathe fire at the dog.
You laugh silently in bed, pillow clutched under your cheek.
YOU:
She’s two. You encouraged her somehow.
JOHN:
I said it was “cool.” I didn’t expect her to go full Game of Thrones.
YOU:
You should’ve known better. That’s on you.
There’s a pause.
JOHN:
She told me she wants to grow up big and strong like you.
Your breath hitches. You stare at the screen too long before typing:
YOU:
She adores you, you know.
Another pause. Your phone buzzes.
JOHN:
I adore her too.
…And her mom.
You freeze. Your heart pulses painfully. You type and delete four different jokes before settling on a safe one.
YOU:
Careful, Walker. Sounds like flirting.
JOHN:
If I were flirting, you’d know.
You don’t sleep for a long time after that.
-
There’s something obscene about how domestic it becomes. Sunday brunch hand-offs: Mara running between your legs in tiny sneakers, Eli proudly showing her his Lego creations, John standing at the stove flipping pancakes like some sort of suburban fever dream.
You stand beside him, sipping coffee. He glances at you over the rim of his mug.
There’s a softness there that wasn’t there the first time you loved him. A steadiness. An ease. A warmth you feel in your chest for hours afterward.
“You’re staring,” you murmur.
“I know,” he says quietly, and he doesn’t look away.
You’re the one who breaks the moment, clearing your throat, brushing imaginary crumbs from the counter, pretending you didn’t feel your heart lean toward him like a magnet.
-
It starts because both Olivia and John are unavailable at the same time for once. She’s stuck late at work, he’s finishing a mission debrief hours past schedule. You’d offered, without thinking too hard about it, to watch Eli at John’s place. It was practical. Easy. Familiar. And Mara was thrilled; she adores Eli almost as much as Eli adores having a little sister to show off to.
Now the three of you are settled in John’s living room. A kids’ movie plays quietly on the TV, casting soft, colorful light across the room. Mara is curled up against Eli, half draped over his lap, drooling slightly on his shirt. Eli doesn’t seem to notice. His eyelids droop, opening only when something loud happens on screen.
You sit at the far end of the couch, legs tucked under you, exhaustion creeping into your bones in a way that feels warm and heavy. It’s been a long day. A long week. A long… everything.
John finally gets home midway through the movie, showered and changed into soft clothes, hair still damp. When he sees the kids asleep in the pile of blankets, he relaxes instantly, his shoulders dropping. He thanks you, quietly, sincerely, and then settles on the floor in front of the couch, leaning back against the cushions near your knee.
You both pretend it’s because he doesn’t want to disturb the kids. That it’s convenient. That it’s normal.
It isn’t. It feels like something else entirely.
For a while you watch the movie, stealing glances at him when you think he isn’t looking. He stares at the kids with a softness he never had before, something warm and protective and steady. It stirs something deep in you that you’ve been trying hard not to acknowledge.
Your head aches. Your body feels too heavy. You lean back against the couch cushions just for a moment, eyes drifting shut. Just a moment.
When you blink awake again, everything is different. The movie is over. The room is quiet. The lights are dimmed. And you’re not just lying against the couch anymore. You’re leaning against John.
Your cheek is resting on his shoulder, your arm loosely draped across his chest, the blanket you don’t remember being covered with tucked securely around you both. His hand is on your forearm, warm and steady, like it settled there without him realizing.
You jerk slightly in surprise, and he tenses under you, not pulling away but freezing, unsure.
You lift your head slowly. His face is only inches from yours, illuminated faintly by the TV’s screensaver glow. His expression is soft, unguarded in a way you haven’t seen in years. It’s the look he used to give you early in the mornings, half-awake and full of feeling.
His hand rises toward your face, hesitating midair as if he’d been brushing hair away from your cheek when you started to stir.
Your voice comes out rough. “Did I… fall asleep?”
His hand lowers a little, but not all the way. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You did.”
You swallow, acutely aware of how close you still are. “You, um… covered me?”
He nods, eyes flicking briefly to your lips before he forces them back to your eyes. “You looked cold.”
The room feels too warm suddenly.
You want to thank him. You want to lean into him again. You want to stay here, wrapped in his arms, in the safety of the life you used to have and the life you’re slowly rebuilding.
You want so many things your heart isn’t ready to admit.
You look down at your hands, then back at him. “You could’ve woken me.”
His smile is small, crooked at the edge. There’s something sad in it. Something honest. “Didn’t want to,” he says softly. The words hit you harder than they should.
You sit up too quickly, disentangling yourself from the warmth of him. The sudden distance feels cold. “I should get the kids to bed,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel.
He nods, clearing his throat, shifting back onto the coffee table like he needs to physically create space between you before he does something reckless.
The moment cracks, thin, brittle, breaking apart before you can decide whether you wanted to hold onto it. You gather Mara into your arms. John gently lifts Eli, the boy’s head dropping to his shoulder with complete trust.
Neither of you speak as you carry the kids down the hallway. But you feel the echo of that moment the whole way. And he does too.
You don’t have to look back to know it.
-
Mara has been teetering on the edge of a meltdown all afternoon, like a storm cloud you can see but can’t outrun. By the time you’re in John’s living room, it finally breaks.
She wants her “green stompy guy.” Not the blue one. Not the purple one. Not the identical-but-slightly-different teal one John bought as a backup weeks ago. The green one.
She drops to the floor and wails, full toddler devastation, the kind that vibrates from the bottom of her tiny soul.
You crouch beside her, trying to soothe, trying to breathe, trying not to let your own frayed nerves snap. But today has been long. Work was chaos. The drive here was tense. You’re exhausted, and your patience is stretched thin enough to see light through it.
“Mara,” you say gently, though your voice wobbles, “we’ll find the green one, okay? You have to let me look.”
But she screams louder, kicking her feet, tiny fists balled up. The noise burrows straight into your ribs. You close your eyes for half a second, just to get your bearings, but instead something tightens in your chest. Your throat burns. You’re suddenly too aware of how little sleep you’ve had, how hard you’ve been trying, how much you’ve been holding together these past few months.
You feel it, the edge of tears. The urge to snap. The thin, dangerous line of overwhelm. Before you can say something you’ll regret, a warm hand settles very lightly on your back.
“Hey,” John murmurs, voice low and steady. “Take a second.”
You open your eyes and realize he’s kneeling beside you now. Close. Closer than he needs to be. His presence is grounding in a way that almost undoes you. His hand rubs a slow circle between your shoulder blades, firm and gentle.
“I’ve got her,” he says softly. “You breathe. I’ll handle this.” There’s no judgment in his tone. No criticism. Just calm. Support. The steadiness of a man who spent years learning how to pull himself back from cliffs like this.
You swallow hard and nod, stepping back, letting him take over. Mara reaches for the floor, still sobbing, but John picks her up with practiced ease, holding her facing outward, away from him, so she can still see the “stompy guy” mission unfolding but doesn’t feel trapped.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he soothes. “Daddy’s got you. We’re gonna find him, okay? I promise.” She hiccups miserably. John bounces her gently on his hip. “Where’d you last see green stompy guy?” he asks in a conspiratorial whisper. “Because I know he likes to hide under things. He thinks he’s sneaky.”
Mara’s cries stutter. “Sneaky,” she repeats, sniffling.
“There we go,” he murmurs, kissing the top of her head. “C’mon. Let’s find him.”
He looks over at you then, checking in, making sure you’re okay, not just her. His expression softens when he sees the lingering strain in your face.
“You’re doing great,” he says quietly. “I know it’s hard. You’re not alone.”
You don’t know why that sentence hits so deeply. Maybe because you’ve spent two years convincing yourself you were alone. Maybe because hearing it from him again feels too much like the life you lost.
You clear your throat and nod again, unable to speak.
Together, the two of you start searching the living room. Mara watches from John’s arms as if you’re on a high-stakes rescue mission. It’s you who spots the green dinosaur first, half tucked under the couch, its tail sticking out.
You drop to your knees at the same moment John does, both of you reaching under the couch to grab it. Your hands collide. Not gently. Not by accident.
His fingers brush against yours, then slide along the side of your hand as you both instinctively adjust your grip. The contact is warm, too warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that makes your breath catch.
You don’t pull away. He doesn’t either.
Your eyes lift at the same time.
You’re close. Too close. His face inches from yours. His knees brushing yours. Mara’s sniffles fading into the background as the air between you tightens. He looks at you like he did years ago, before everything broke, eyes dark, hopeful, aching. He sucks in a quiet breath, his lips parting just enough to hint at a thought he doesn’t say.
You’re aware of everything. The warmth of his hand against yours, the solid line of his thigh beside your knee, the faint tremble of his exhale, the way his gaze drops to your mouth for a split second before returning to your eyes.
Your heart thuds painfully hard. You feel it everywhere. In your ribs, your throat, your fingertips pressed against his.
For a suspended moment, neither of you moves. You could close that tiny distance, lean in, press your forehead to his, feel him the way you used to.
He could kiss you. He wants to. You can see it in the way his breath hitches, the way his lips soften, the way his whole body shifts almost imperceptibly toward you.
Then he jerks back. Too fast. Too sharp. Like the moment scared him as much as it scared you. He stands up abruptly, nearly knocking into the coffee table. “I, uh…coffee?” he blurts, voice cracking slightly. “I should… I’ll make coffee. Or lunch.”
You blink up at him, pulse still thrumming. “Sure. Right. Coffee sounds good.”
He nods too many times and turns quickly toward the kitchen.
You both clasp your hands behind your backs at the same moment, trying to hide how unsteady they feel, how electric the contact was.
He reaches the doorway and pauses. Not looking back, just standing there, breathing. And then he does it. He flexes his hand. Slowly. Purposefully.
As if reliving the feeling of your skin against his. As if he didn’t want the contact to end. As if his fingers still remember you.
Your stomach flips.
He clears his throat, forcing himself forward. “Coffee,” he repeats, like it’s a safe word.
You swallow. “Coffee.”
You both pretend you didn’t almost kiss on the living room floor, next to a green plush dinosaur. But the moment hangs there, heavy and impossible to ignore. And nothing feels the same afterward.
-
It’s late when John drops Eli off at your apartment. Mara’s already asleep in her room, her nightlight glowing softly under the crack in the door. Eli shuffles in sleepily, rubbing his eyes and leaning into your side when you help him out of his coat. You guide him to the couch with a blanket, promising he can stay until his mom picks him up in the morning.
When you turn back toward the front door, John is standing there. Not leaving. Not stepping inside.
Just… lingering. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders tight. That familiar hesitation hovering between you, quiet, tense, unspoken. It’s become a pattern these past few months, the way neither of you walks away right away, the way you hover in each other’s gravity without naming it.
You lean against the doorframe. “You okay?”
He nods. Or tries to. His gaze drops to the floor. “I’m still in therapy,” he says finally, voice low.
The admission takes you by surprise. He’s mentioned therapy before, but never like this, never without prompting, never so plainly.
“I’m glad,” you say quietly.
He shifts his weight, then nods again. “It’s… helped. More than I expected.” You don’t push. You just wait. He takes a slow breath, steadying himself like he’s about to lift something heavy. “I was angry back then,” he says. “At the world. At myself. I felt like everything I’d worked for, everything I thought I was…it all fell apart at once.”
You stay quiet. He keeps going. His voice roughens at the edges.
“I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know how to talk about it. I thought…God, I thought pushing you away was the only way to keep you safe. From me. From who I was turning into.” He shakes his head, eyes pinched shut. “I told myself you were better off without me. And all I did was hurt you. And Eli. And myself.”
The room is still. The kind of still that sits right between pain and relief.
You swallow. “John…”
But he isn’t finished. “I never stopped caring about you,” he says softly. “Not for a second. Not even when I acted like I didn’t. I didn’t expect you to forgive me. I’m not asking you to. I just… needed you to know I’m trying. Really trying. I want to be someone Mara can be proud of. And someone you never have to shield her from.”
Your throat tightens. Not with anger. Not anymore. With something gentler. Sadder. Truer. You step out of the doorway, moving a little closer.
“I wasn’t perfect either,” you say. “I shut down. I got scared. I kept things from you because I didn’t think you wanted me anymore. I didn’t think you wanted a family with me. And I should’ve told you about Mara. I should’ve given you that choice.”
He looks up sharply then, eyes bright, jaw tight. “I hurt you,” he says. “I made you believe you couldn’t trust me. That’s on me. Not you.”
You shake your head. “We were both drowning. Just in different directions.”
A long silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable. Not hostile. Just… honest.
He exhales slowly, shoulders lowering like he’s letting go of something he’s held onto for too long. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For all of it. For the way I ended things. For making you feel alone. For missing everything.”
“And I’m sorry too,” you say. “For shutting you out. For being scared of you instead of talking to you. For not telling you about Mara. For not letting you show up sooner.”
You both stand there for a long moment, close enough to touch but careful not to. You watch each other in that quiet, shifting way that happens when two people finally say the things they should’ve said years ago.
It’s not clean. It’s not a magic fix. But it’s real. A small start.
His expression softens in a way you haven’t seen since before everything broke. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
You nod, feeling something inside you loosen. “Thank you too.”
He steps back a little, rubbing his palm against his thigh, grounding himself. “I’m not perfect,” he says, voice steady. “But I’m better. I can be better. For her. For Eli.” His eyes meet yours. “For you. If you ever… needed that.”
Your heart stumbles. You inhale too sharply. The air thickens.
His gaze flickers to your mouth, then away, then back, just a tiny pull. The kind of moment that used to end in a kiss without either of you thinking about it.
But now? Now things are more fragile. More complicated.
You take a small step back, not far, just enough to breathe. “We’ll figure it out,” you say. “Slowly.”
He nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Slowly.”
You walk him to the door. He pauses there, one hand on the frame, the other hanging uselessly at his side like he has to stop himself from reaching for you.
“Goodnight,” he says.
“Goodnight, John.”
He holds your gaze for another second. Two. His eyes warm. Quiet. Full. Then he leaves.
You close the door behind him, press your back against it, and let out the breath you’d been holding. Something new is in motion now. Something carefully rebuilt. Something fragile and hopeful and terrifying. Forgiveness. Not complete. Not simple. But real.
And it feels like the ground shifting beneath your feet.
-
The radiator clicks twice, groans, and gives up completely around nine at night. You don’t realize it’s dead until Mara toddles over from her toy corner rubbing her arms, cheeks pink from cold.
“Mama, brrrr,” she says, the word broken into two syllables, buh-rurrr, her lower lip trembling in that dramatic toddler way that’s half real, half performance.
You’re wearing two sweaters yourself, trying not to panic as you place your hand near the heater. Nothing. No warmth. No hum. Just cold metal.
“Great,” you mutter under your breath. “Perfect.”
Your landlord still hasn’t returned your calls about the rattle the unit made earlier. The temperature in the apartment is dropping fast, and the weather app on your phone keeps blinking red warnings about the incoming snowstorm. It’s the kind that shuts down roads and buries cars. The worst possible night to lose heat.
You layer Mara in a thermal shirt, a sweater, then another sweater. Socks under thicker socks. A blanket over her shoulders. She still shivers, small and miserable.
“Mama, cold,” she whines.
“I know, baby,” you say, pulling her into your lap. “I know.”
You debate your options. Sam would help, without question, but he’s probably asleep after getting back from a mission a few hours ago, and your call goes straight to voicemail. Joaquin’s shift at the compound is long tonight, and he doesn’t answer either. You don’t blame them. It’s late. It’s cold. And this is your mess.
Your stomach twists as the last option settles heavily in your mind.
John.
He’s the one person you don’t want to call because it feels too vulnerable. Too intimate. Because for the last three months, since that night in your doorway, the night you talked honestly, forgave each other, opened a door neither of you has dared step fully through, everything between you has been simmering. Warm. Unspoken.
Calling him now feels like leaning into something you’ve been trying to resist.
But Mara is cold, and he’s her father.
You scroll to his name. Take a breath. Press call. He answers on the second ring.
“Hey,” he says, voice thick like he’d been half-asleep. “Everything okay?”
You try to sound calm. You fail. “The heat’s out.”
He’s fully awake now, you can hear the shift in his breathing. “Out completely?”
“Yeah. And Mara’s freezing. I’ve layered her up but…”
“Stop.” His voice goes firm. “Don’t panic. Pack a bag. Both of you.”
“John…”
“I’m coming to get you,” he says, already moving around in the background, drawers opening, keys jangling. “You shouldn’t drive in this weather. I’m ten minutes away.”
You close your eyes, tension breaking like a wave. “Thank you.”
“No need,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you.”
The line goes silent, and you stare at the phone for a second before forcing yourself into motion. You dress Mara in her boots and puffy coat, she protests sleepily, confused why she’s being moved at bedtime, but you soothe her with a soft voice and a promise of warmth.
When John’s truck pulls up outside, snow is already swirling, thick enough to blur the streetlights. He hops out before you can even open the building door, meeting you halfway with his arms outstretched.
“Give her here,” he murmurs, lifting Mara against his chest so she doesn’t have to step in the slush. She buries her face into his neck, small fingers gripping his collar. He holds her like she’s the most precious thing in the world.
He turns to you next. “Got everything?”
You nod, though your breath fogs in the cold and your fingers are stiff from the air. He takes the overnight bag from your shoulder without asking, carrying both it and your daughter like it’s nothing. Princess prances behind him, ears bouncing with each step.
Inside the truck, the heat blasts warm air almost immediately. John buckles Mara in, checking twice that the straps aren’t twisted, brushing her hair off her face before he closes the door.
You watch him, heart tightening. He’s steady. He’s attentive. He’s softened in all the places he used to be rough and sharpened in all the places he used to be lost. And suddenly your apartment’s failing heater feels like the least dangerous thing in your life.
The drive to his house is short, though snow has begun piling quickly on the windshield. When he pulls into the driveway, the house looks warm, light glowing through the front windows. He gets out again before you can protest, lifting Mara into his arms once more.
Inside, warmth crashes over you like a wave. He has the heat turned up. A soft lamp glows in the hallway. He even has a small stack of blankets on the entry bench, like he anticipated the cold you’d be bringing in.
Mara’s room is ready, bed pulled back. Her favorite stuffed toy is waiting on the pillow. He must’ve bought a duplicate just in case. Eli’s room is next door. His room is down the hall. Everything smells like laundry detergent and pine, like home.
You’ve been here countless times in the past year… but tonight, standing in the doorway with melting snow in your hair and your daughter asleep in her father’s arms, it feels different.
Like something solid. Something lived-in. Something built with intention.
John looks at you over Mara’s shoulder, eyes soft but serious. “You two can stay as long as you need,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”
You nod, unable to speak. Because something inside you shifts at the sight of him holding her in the warm glow of his home, something you can’t deny anymore.
This is safe. This is real. This is inevitable. And you don’t know whether that terrifies you or saves you.
-
Once Mara is asleep, out cold, face smushed against the pillow, one tiny fist gripping the ear of her stuffed bunny, you tiptoe out of her room and pull the door halfway shut. Princess whines at you until you open the door to let her trot inside and curl up at the foot of your daughters bed, huffing happily as she makes herself at home.
The house is warm and quiet, the kind of quiet that settles over everything when snow piles high outside. A soft lamp glows in the hallway. You hear John in the kitchen, rinsing out Mara’s sippy cup and setting it upside down in the drying rack.
For a moment, you stand there in the doorway just watching him. The familiar shape of his shoulders. The way he moves is steady, deliberate. It does something to you that you’re not ready to name.
He dries his hands on a towel and turns toward you. “She out?”
“Completely.”
His mouth lifts in a small smile, but it fades when he glances toward the bedrooms down the hall. “Okay. So… sleeping arrangements.”
You hold up a hand immediately. “John. I’m not taking your bed.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
He folds his arms across his chest. “You’re a guest.”
“I’m the reason we’re here,” you counter. “My place is the one with no heat.”
“And you’re still taking the bed.”
“Walker,” you warn, crossing your own arms.
He steps closer, just a little. “You’re exhausted. You’re freezing. You’re taking the bed.”
“I’m fine on the couch.”
“You are not sleeping on a damn couch.”
“I’ve slept on worse.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
You huff a laugh, but he’s already gearing up for another round. “Look,” you say, trying to keep it light, “you’ve got the super serum. You can sleep on a slab of ice and be fine. I get that. But I honestly should have stayed at my place and not imposed like this to begin with.”
He lets out a short, exasperated breath. “Yeah, well, my mama would skin me alive if she found out I put my kid’s mom on the couch while I took the bed. Or left her back in her freezer of an apartment.”
The way he says my kid’s mom lands in your chest, warm and heavy. You swallow. “John,” you murmur, “I don’t want to take your bed.”
“You’re not taking it from me,” he says softly. “I’m giving it to you.”
And suddenly the room feels smaller. Warmer. Dangerous. You clear your throat. “We’re not going to win this, are we?”
He shakes his head. “Probably not.”
Silence hangs for a moment too long. Neither of you move. Finally, you sigh. “Fine. Compromise.”
He looks suspicious. “I’m listening.”
“We both stay out here.”
“In the living room?”
You nod. “Couch and… chair, or something. Neutral territory.”
His expression softens, understanding the real reason behind your compromise, the line you’re still both too scared to cross. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Okay. Yeah, we can do that.”
He grabs a big, soft blanket from the closet, one you’ve seen Mara curled up in a dozen times, and tosses it onto the couch. Then he heads to the kitchen and returns with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.
“You good with this?” he asks, already pouring.
You sit on the couch and tuck your legs under you. “Yeah. A drink sounds good.”
He settles beside you, not too close, not far either, his thigh brushing the cushion next to yours. The house is quiet except for the hum of the heater and the occasional soft whistle of wind pushing snow against the window.
A movie plays low on the TV, more background noise than anything either of you care about. You sip whiskey. He sips his, though you know it won’t hit him the way it hits you. The blanket ends up draped over both your legs. You don’t remember how exactly. The room feels warmer. Softer. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.
It feels too much like the old days. The way you used to sit together after long missions: talking, teasing, letting the world fall away. The easy closeness. The quiet. The comfort.
You feel his arm resting along the back of the couch. Not touching you, but close enough that if you shifted even an inch, your shoulder would brush his.
He watches the TV, but he’s not really watching. His eyes flick toward you every few minutes, checking in, maybe. Or maybe just looking. You do the same.
Outside, snow taps against the windows like soft fingers. Inside, something heavy and unspoken settles between you, warm and undeniable.
The whiskey is warm in your chest. Not enough to fog your mind, just enough to ease it open, like a window cracked in summer. He swirls the last of his whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly, then glances at you sideways. The lamplight catches the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble there, the way his throat works when he swallows.
“So,” he says, voice low, a little rough around the edges, “did you… I don’t know… date? In the last couple years?”
You arch a brow, lips curving despite the delicate weight of the question. “You want the whole rundown?”
“I want whatever you’ll tell me.” His voice is quiet. Honest. His eyes don’t leave yours, steady and searching, like he’s bracing for the answer but needs it all the same.
You take a sip before answering, the burn of the whiskey grounding you. “One guy.”
His jaw ticks, just once, a flicker of something possessive he tries to hide. “One?”
“Relax,” you mutter, amused despite how fragile this feels, how every word seems to carry the weight of years. “It was a few dates. He was sweet. Nice. Knew how to use a calendar. Brought me flowers once.”
John snorts, but there’s no humor in it, just a sharp edge. “Yeah, he sounds thrilling.”
You smile into your glass, the rim cool against your lips. “It fizzled.”
“Why?” His voice is softer now, but there’s a tension in it, like he’s holding his breath.
You meet his gaze, unflinching. “He found out I was a mom.”
John goes still. His fingers tighten around his glass, knuckles whitening for a moment. Then, soft, protective, almost a growl, he declares, “Idiot.”
“You asked.”
“I regret it,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face, the motion rough, like he’s trying to scrub away the image of someone else with you.
You laugh, but it’s thin, edged with something painful. Something hollow. “What about you? Did you date?”
“Date?” He lets out a breath, short and sharp. “No. I didn’t date.”
“Hookups?”
His ears turn faintly pink, and he shifts, the couch creaking under his weight. “A few.”
You blink, surprised, a sting of something sharp twisting in your chest. “Really?”
He gives you a look, half-defensive, half-sheepish. “I’m divorced, not dead.”
You laugh, but it’s brittle, the sound catching in your throat. “Anyone important?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “No.” His eyes lock on yours, unwavering. “No one touched what we had.” The words hit you like a slow, warm wave, stealing your breath. You look down at your glass before your heartbeat betrays you, before he hears it thudding against your ribs.
You clear your throat, the sound too loud in the quiet. “Okay. My turn.”
He shifts, angling toward you, his knee brushing yours under the blanket. The contact is fleeting but electric, a spark that lingers. “Ask me anything.”
“What are you doing these days? When you’re not… saving the world with the New Avengers? And not with me and Mara?”
He smiles, softening, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “PT in the mornings. Therapy twice a week. Missions sometimes. Dad days with Eli. I help coach his little league team.”
Your heart squeezes, a warm, aching thing. “You coach?”
“Yeah.” His face brightens, eyes crinkling at the corners, the way they used to when he talked about something that mattered. “He’s gotten better. Faster. Still crowds the plate too much, but… he’s trying.”
You feel the warmth rise in your chest, spreading like the whiskey. “He loves you.”
He looks down, smiling into his hands, fingers laced together like he’s holding something precious. “Yeah. I’m lucky.”
You hesitate, then ask, voice softer, “Are you happy?” The question hangs between you like a held breath, heavy and fragile.
John takes a while to answer. When he does, it’s quiet. Honest. “I’m… getting there.” Then he lifts his eyes to you, and they’re softer, deeper, pulling you in. “This stuff? Co-parenting? Being with the kids? Talking to you? This helps.” For a moment, you can’t speak. Your throat is tight, your chest too full.
He fills the silence gently, his voice a low rumble. “Your turn.”
You laugh, shaky. “What do you want to know?”
He lifts his glass, thinking, his thumb tracing the rim. “Like I said. Anything you’ll tell me.”
You take a breath, steadying yourself. “Okay. Ask.”
He looks at you for a long time, long enough that your pulse stumbles, that the air between you thickens, charged with everything unsaid. Then, voice low, careful, he says, “What was it like?”
You blink, caught off guard. “What was what like?”
“Being pregnant.” His eyes soften, raw and unguarded. “Without me.”
You inhale, slow and shaky. His tone isn’t demanding. It isn’t accusatory. It’s careful, like he’s holding something fragile and knows it could shatter. He really wants to know. He needs to know. You pull back, just a fraction, the warmth of the moment cooling as the weight of the past settles in. “It was… a lot,” you say, voice quieter now, measured. “Hard. Lonely. But not always. There were moments I loved it, too.”
He doesn’t interrupt, just watches you, his hand stilling on the couch back.
You keep going, the words steady but distant, like you’re recounting someone else’s story. “Sam came to my first appointment. Joaquin came to another. Bucky dropped off groceries like a grumpy, judgmental fairy godmother. I wasn’t alone. But I was really lonely.”
John’s jaw works, emotion flickering across his face. Grief, guilt, longing. His fingers twitch, like he wants to reach for you but knows he can’t. Not yet.
You swallow, the memory heavy. “I almost called you.” He closes his eyes, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “So many times,” you whisper, your voice steady but soft. “But every time I tried, I remembered how things ended. How angry you were. How angry I was. I didn’t want to hear that you didn’t want us.”
His eyes snap open, raw and pained. “I never didn’t want you. I was just… broken.”
“I know that now,” you say, your tone gentle but firm, pulling the moment back from the edge. “Back then, I didn’t.” You shift, curling your legs up for warmth, breaking the contact of your shin against his thigh. The distance feels deliberate now, a boundary you both need. You clear your throat. “Ask me something else. Something that won’t make us spiral.”
He huffs a soft laugh, the tension easing just enough to breathe. “Alright. But only if you ask me something too.”
“Deal.”
He thinks for a moment, his gaze flicking to the snow outside, then back to you. “Is this… weird for you?”
You meet his eyes, considering. “Is what weird?”
“This,” he says, nodding between you, his voice low. “Being here. Talking like this. Sitting like this.”
You glance down at the blanket, at the space between you. Close, but not quite touching anymore. “It’s not weird,” you say honestly. “It feels… safe.”
Something in him loosens, his shoulders dropping a fraction. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice warm again, pulling you back in. “Me too.”
You take a small breath, the air between you warming once more. “My turn.”
He lifts his chin in invitation, his eyes catching the lamplight, soft and steady.
“Are you scared of wanting this again?”
He freezes, the question hitting him like a slow, inevitable wave. Then, quiet, full of truth, he says, “Yeah. Terrified.”
You nod, your own fear mirrored in his eyes. “Me too.”
The admittance settles warm and heavy between you, the snow outside a quiet hush, the room smaller, warmer, alive with possibility.
John clears his throat, his voice rougher now. “Okay. My turn.”
You smile faintly, your pulse quickening again. “Go ahead.”
He hesitates, his eyes searching yours, like this next question might tip the balance. Then, voice low and steady, he asks, “If I had known about Mara…” His gaze doesn’t waver. “If I’d stayed with you after that fight… would we still be together?”
Your heart hits the brakes. You pick up your whiskey glass, your hand trembling just enough to notice. You take a slow sip, the burn grounding you, and set it down. You hold his gaze without flinching.
“Yes,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the weight of it. “If you had stayed… If I had stayed… we would still be together. I never would have left you.”
The response hits him like a physical blow. His breath leaves him in a slow, unsteady rush. His eyes close, and for a moment he looks like he’s hurting and healing at the same time, his broad shoulders trembling under the weight of what could have been.
When he opens them again, they’re darker. Warmer. Devastated. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, hovering over the blanket where your legs rest. Then it settles on your ankle, his thumb brushing a slow, reverent line over your skin, muscle memory guiding him. The touch is warm, electric, pulling you back into the heat of the moment. His fingers slide higher, tracing the curve of your calf, each movement careful but hungry, like he’s memorizing you all over again.
You swallow. Hard. “John…” you whisper.
He leans in, not fully, not carelessly, but with intention. With want. With something sharp and trembling behind his eyes. His voice is low, rough at the edges. “Then let’s pretend.”
Your heartbeat stutters. “Pretend?”
He cups the side of your calf with his hand, fingers warm, calloused. “Pretend I knew about Mara,” he murmurs. “Pretend we never split. Pretend we’re still…” His breath shudders. “Together.” The word hangs there between you, hot and fragile, like it might burn straight through the air. You feel the danger in it. The possibility. The cost.
The couch seems to tilt under you. His thumb sweeps up the side of your leg again, stopping just beneath the hem of your sleep shorts, and he looks up at you with a vulnerability you’ve never seen on his face, not even in the worst days, not in the breaking days.
He is asking. Not taking. Not assuming. Asking. Your chest tightens, ribs stretching unbearably around your heart.
“John…” you whisper again. He hears the hesitation. Sees the conflict. The child sleeping down the hall. The history between you. The future you’ve been too scared to think about.
So he leans in closer, closer than he has in two years, and his voice drops to a whisper so soft and sincere it nearly crushes you. “Just pretend, baby.”
Your breath trembles out of you. Your hand has already moved without permission, fingers light on the back of his neck. He goes still at the touch, like every nerve in his body has been struck.
“Only if you want to,” he adds quickly, forehead almost touching yours. “If you don’t, I’ll stop. I promise.” His eyes search yours, blue-gray and wide and entirely honest.
You hold his gaze for a long moment. Long enough to feel the fear. Long enough to feel the longing. Long enough to feel the truth rise inside you like a tide you can’t fight.
“I want to,” you whisper. Something breaks in his expression, softly, quietly, beautifully. He shifts, sliding your legs further across his lap until one arm tucks beneath your knees, the other bracing himself on the couch. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t drag you. He doesn’t take.
He waits for you to move with him. You do. You guide yourself backward, lying down slowly across the couch cushions. Your heart kicks hard when he follows, careful, steady, until he’s hovering above you on his forearms, caging you in without trapping you. His body radiates heat. His breath fans across your cheek.
“Jesus…” he murmurs, voice breaking on the word. “I forgot how beautiful you look like this.”
Your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. He notices and his hand moves again, slow and reverent, gliding up the outside of your thigh. The sensation is enough to set off sparks in places you had buried for survival. He stops just beneath your hip. Pauses. Lets you feel the weight of his hand. Lets you choose.
You inhale shakily. He lowers his forehead to yours, noses brushing. The closeness steals your breath. “Still good?” he asks, voice low and steady.
You nod. “Yeah.”
“Say it,” he whispers.
“I’m good,” you breathe.
His shoulders roll with the exhale he’s been holding. And then he lowers himself just a little more, chest brushing yours. His lips hover over your cheekbone, then drift along your jaw like he’s tracing a map he still remembers by heart.
You tilt your head, your fingers sliding into his hair. He sucks in a breath through his nose like he’s drowning in the sensation. Everywhere he touches feels like the place you’ve been missing.
Your voice cracks. “John…”
He stops instantly, lifting his head just enough to see your eyes. “Too much?”
“No,” you whisper. “Not too much. Just…” You swallow again. “I don’t want this to hurt in the morning.”
He flinches, just a fraction, but enough for you to feel it in his body above you.
He cups your cheek with one large, warm hand, thumb stroking gently. “It won’t,” he says. “I swear it. It’s pretend, okay? Just pretend. No expectations. No promises. Just…” He shakes his head slightly, searching for the right word. “Just us. Like we were.”
Your chest aches, pain and relief and longing all tangled up. “Okay,” you whisper.
His breath leaves him in one shuddering exhale. And then, slowly, carefully, his hand slides down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, settling at your hip. His thumb strokes your skin through the fabric of your shorts, and the sensation goes straight through you.
You can’t help it, your eyes flick to his mouth. His lips part. Just a fraction. Just enough to show he noticed. You don’t kiss him. But you lean in a little. And he leans in a little. And the air between you heats, thickens, tightens into something that feels like gravity.
Your voice is barely audible. “John…”
His mouth drags lightly along the corner of your jaw, nearly a kiss, absolutely not one. He breathes you in. Then he murmurs, voice low and gravel-soft against your skin, “Can I ask you another question, sunshine?”
The nickname hits you like impact. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, tugging him closer without meaning to. You tilt your head a fraction in silent permission.
“Yes,” you breathe.
John hums, the sound warm and rough in your ear. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, not kissing, just hovering, and the heat of him makes your whole body tense in delicious anticipation. His breath ghosts along your skin, sending a shiver all the way down your spine.
His voice drops into a low, sinful growl that hits you straight in the belly. “If we were still together, right now…” He presses his knee between your thighs, teasing, but rough enough to make you gasp. “Would your legs be wrapped around me, or just on either side of me like this?”
You moan softly at the friction of his thigh pressing between your legs. “They’d be… spread. Further.” You whisper thickly.
John lets out a low, rough noise, half groan, half growl, at your answer. His hands flex where they’re gripping the couch beside you, his entire body tensing like he’s barely keeping control. Slowly, testing to see if you’ll stop him, he shifts his thigh again, pressing harder, letting you rock against it, his lips hovering over yours.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice ragged. “Like this?” His hands move to the underside of your thigh, spreading your legs further, bending one up toward your chest to press more fully against you. You can feel the hard ridge of him through his sweats, thick and insistent, dragging against your soaked core.
You whimper softly at the friction, heat pooling in your gut. “Yeah,” you pant, “just like that.”
John exhales roughly at the whimper you make, his self-control fraying at the edges. He rocks his hips into yours, letting you feel him more fully. He keeps his lips close, close enough that if he moved even an inch, he’d be kissing you.
“Good,” he murmurs, “because I don’t think I can stop myself from touching you right now.”
“God, you’re–” you groan as he rocks his erection against your sweats.
“Hard?” he cuts in, voice strained. “For you. Always for you.”
“You mean you… still…”
“We’re pretending, remember?” he hushes you, rocking his hips into yours with deliberate pressure. “We’ve been together for the last three years, sunshine. Raising our baby.”
“Our baby,” you pant, rocking your hips, grinding against him. You’re close already, and it makes you feel a little pathetic. “Yes. Yes we have.”
John growls with satisfaction at the way you’re responding to him, to his touch, to his voice, the feel of his body pressing against yours. “Our baby.” He agrees, his voice rough as he continues to rock against you, grinding against your soaked heat through the layers of your clothes. “You want to know another thing we could be doing?”
“Making another one?” you moan softly, delirious with how close you are to coming undone from just grinding against him on the couch.
John lets out a sharp, almost broken sound at your answer, something between a groan and a growl as his hand squeezes your thigh, his body still grinding you into the cushions, your thighs trembling as you approach your release.
“Fuck,” he rasps. “Exactly that.”
“Oh,” you moan as you feel yourself teeter on the edge. “Oh, John.”
John exhales harshly at the sound of your desperate whine. He remembers that voice, the little one you make before you finish. “Tell me,” he growls in your ear, “you want me to touch you more?”
“Yes,” you cry, hands threading in his hair as you continue to grind back into him. “Yes I do.”
He moans as your hands thread in his hair and tug, his breath stuttering only slightly. His lips find yours immediately, rough and hungry as he kisses you like he’s been dying to for years. He doesn’t hold back, his teeth grazing your lips, tongue sliding against yours, swallowing the cry you let out as you come undone.
The orgasm rips through you, sharp and blinding, your hips bucking against his thigh as you clench around nothing, soaked through your shorts. He keeps rocking you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling, gasping into his mouth.
But he doesn’t stop. He pulls back just enough to yank your shorts and panties down in one rough motion, tossing them aside. His sweats follow, shoved down just enough to free his cock, thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. He drags the head through your slick folds, coating himself, groaning at how wet you are.
“Still pretending,” he rasps, lining himself up. “Still us. Still mine.”
You nod frantically, legs spreading wider, heels digging into the couch. “Yours.”
He pushes in with one slow, relentless thrust, stretching you open, filling you so completely your back arches off the cushions. The burn is perfect, the fullness overwhelming. He bottoms out with a guttural groan, forehead dropping to yours.
“Fuck, you feel…” He cuts himself off with a shaky breath, pulling back slow, so slow, then sliding home again, deep and sloppy, the drag of him inside you making you both gasp. “So fucking good. Always so good for me, baby.”
You cry out, soft and broken, nails dragging down the cotton of his shirt, bunching the fabric in your fists. He growls low in his throat, hips rolling in a messy, unhurried rhythm, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you again
But it’s too much, too soon. One thrust. Two. The heat of you, the slick clutch of your body, the sound of your moan, he’s gone. His hips jerk forward, burying himself to the hilt, and then he’s pulling out with a strangled groan, hand flying to the base of his cock as he comes hard, thick ropes of it spilling across your belly in hot, messy pulses.
“Shit, shit, I’m sorry,” he pants, voice wrecked, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he shudders through the aftershocks. “Been too long. Couldn’t… fuck, I couldn’t hold it.”
You laugh, breathless and dazed, fingers threading through his damp hair. “It’s okay,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his temple. “It’s okay.”
He lifts his head, eyes glassy with apology and awe, thumb smearing the mess across your skin like he’s painting you. “I’m not done,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Not even close.”
He kisses you then, slow, deep, sloppy, tongue sliding against yours, swallowing your soft moan. His hand cups your cheek, the other sliding down to cradle your hip, thumb stroking the curve of your waist. You taste salt and whiskey and him, and it’s perfect.
Minutes pass. Just kissing. Just breathing. Just the soft drag of his lips over yours, your jaw, your throat. He’s still half-hard against your thigh, and you can feel him twitching, thickening again with every press of your mouth.
“Super stamina,” you tease against his lips, breathless.
He huffs a laugh, nipping your bottom lip. “Super something.” He shifts, sliding a hand between your legs, fingers gliding through your slick folds, circling your clit with gentle pressure. You gasp, hips bucking, and he groans into your neck.
“Still so wet for me,” he murmurs, voice reverent. “Still mine.”
You nod, legs falling open wider. “Always.”
He lines himself up again, slower this time, eyes locked on yours as he pushes in, inch by inch, letting you feel every thick drag of him. You both moan, the sound muffled against each other’s lips.
This time, he lasts. He fucks you in long, deep strokes, slow enough to feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, fast enough to make the couch groan beneath you. Wet sounds fill the quiet room, obscene and perfect. His hand tightens in your hair, fingers twisting gently at the roots, tugging your head back just enough to bare the column of your throat. He presses open-mouthed kisses there, then a slow, deliberate bite, teeth sinking in just shy of pain, marking you with tenderness. You keen, clenching around him, and he shudders, hips stuttering.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, voice wrecked and tender all at once. “Gonna put another baby in you. You want that, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” you sob, legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him deeper. “Yes, John, please.”
He tugs your hair again, a little sharper this time, tilting your head so he can bite the soft spot beneath your ear, then lick the sting away. “Gonna keep you full,” he whispers against your lips, biting your lower lip gently, then soothing it with his tongue. “Gonna fuck you full you every night until you’re round with my kid again. You’re mine. This pussy’s mine.”
You come with a soft, shattered cry, walls fluttering around him, milking him in slow, pulsing waves. He groans into your mouth, hips losing rhythm, thrusts turning sloppy and desperate.
“Oh, fuck. You’re so good to me,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, breath hitching. “I’m not gonna last. I can’t…Christ, you feel perfect.”
You cup his face, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, tears in your eyes from the intensity, from the love. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”
He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “No one else ever did this to me,” he confesses, voice cracking. “Not once. I’d be with someone and close my eyes and it was still you. Your face. Your voice. Your body. You’re the only thing that ever got me hard. Still are. Always will be.”
Your heart breaks open. You kiss him, slow, deep, sloppy, tears mixing with saliva, noses bumping. “John,” you breathe into his mouth. “Come inside me. I want it. I want you.”
He whimpers and buries his face in your neck, hand fisting tighter in your hair, pulling until your scalp tingles. He bites down on your shoulder, teeth sinking in just enough to leave a mark, then licks the spot reverently. His hips snap forward in three messy, desperate thrusts, deep and sloppy, before he stills, pulsing inside you, flooding you with heat. You feel every spurt, every throb, and it drags your orgasm out longer, your body trembling beneath him.
He doesn’t pull out. He stays buried deep, chest heaving, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, your mouth in soft, reverent, sloppy kisses. His hand releases your hair slowly, fingers combing through the strands, cradling the back of your neck instead, holding you close.
“Still pretending?” he whispers, voice raw, trembling.
You shake your head, tears slipping free. “No.”
He kisses you again, slow, open-mouthed, tasting salt and whiskey and everything you’ve both been holding back for years.
“Good,” he murmurs against your lips, voice thick with love. “Because I’m not letting you go again.”
He stays inside you for a long moment, breathing hard against your neck, your legs still loosely hooked around his waist. When he finally pulls out, the loss of him makes you both shiver. He presses a soft kiss to your lips, then another to your temple.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Let me take care of you.”
He scoops you up like you weigh nothing, blanket abandoned on the couch, and carries you down the hallway. The bathroom light is low, warm, and he sets you gently on the counter, the marble cool against your bare thighs. He wets a soft washcloth under the tap, steam curling in the air, and kneels between your legs. His touch is reverent as he cleans you, slow, careful strokes across your belly, between your thighs, wiping away the evidence of him with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
You watch him, eyes heavy, and he glances up, catching your gaze. “You okay?” he asks, voice soft.
You nod, throat tight. “More than okay.”
He smiles, small and real, and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before helping you down. He finds one of his old T-shirts in the hamper, soft, worn, smelling like him, and slips it over your head.
His bedroom is dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside the window, filtering through the snow. He pulls back the covers, the comforter a deeply familiar shade, your eye color, you realize with a start. You crawl in, the sheets cool against your skin, and he follows, sliding in behind you. He pulls you close, your back to his chest, his arm heavy and warm across your waist.
You’re out almost immediately, face pressed to his collarbone, the steady thump of his heart under your cheek.
John doesn’t sleep. He watches you, the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks, the soft part of your lips. Up close, he sees Mara in the slope of your nose, the curve of your mouth. And he sees you in Mara. The way she scrunches her nose when she laughs, the way she reaches for him with both hands. His heart clenches, a sweet, sharp ache.
He wants this.
He wants you.
This house, he bought it before the breakup, before everything shattered. He’d walked through the empty rooms with you in mind, picturing Eli’s toys scattered across the living room, your books on the shelves, your laugh echoing in the kitchen. He’d decorated it the way he thought you’d like. The comforter he’d picked because it matched your eyes. After you left, he couldn’t stand to be here. The silence was too loud. He stayed at the compound, in sterile rooms that didn’t smell like home.
When he started healing, therapy, time, the slow crawl back to himself, he moved in. Brought Eli. Turned the guest room into Mara’s without hesitation once he learned about her. And this bedroom…he’d always hoped it would be one he shared with you one day.
He presses his lips to your forehead, breathing you in.
He falls asleep like that, lips against your skin, hoping, praying, that tomorrow brought another chance.
-
The world is muffled when you wake. There’s a strange stillness in the air, the kind you only get after heavy snow, sound swallowed, light softened. For a moment you think you’re still dreaming, because everything feels too warm. Too safe.
Then you register the weight around your waist. John’s arm is draped across you, heavy and solid, his hand resting just under your ribs. Your back is pressed to his chest, your legs tangled with his. His breath fans across the back of your neck in slow, even waves. The soft cotton of his T-shirt hangs loose over your body, smelling like him, clean soap, something woodsy, something distinctly John.
For a heartbeat, you don’t move. You just let yourself lie there and feel it. This. The thing you used to have. The thing you swore you’d never have again. The thing you still wanted more than you ever admitted out loud.
Your fingers curl into the pillow. You could stay here. You could close your eyes and go back under and pretend this is just… life. Your life. The one that never broke. But reality creeps in fast.
Mara. Down the hall, sleeping in a room with her favorite stuffed bunny on the pillow. Eli. The family you’ve built, painfully and carefully, this past year. The fragile peace you and John have worked so hard to earn.
You swallow, throat suddenly dry. Your heart starts to beat too fast. Because last night wasn’t just history. It wasn’t just muscle memory. It was a line crossed. A decision made. And whatever comes next has to be deliberate.
Behind you, John shifts. You tense automatically. His arm tightens fractionally, like his body is reluctant to let you go even before his brain catches up. Then you feel him wake all at once. His breath changes. His chest expands in a deeper inhale. His hand flexes against your ribs.
“Morning,” he says quietly, voice rough with sleep.
You don’t trust your voice yet, so you just hum in response. He doesn’t move his arm. For a moment, neither of you says anything. You stare at the frost-fogged window and the faint glow of snow-reflected daylight leaking around the curtain edges. The house is silent, no small footsteps yet, no cartoons, no clatter. Just you and him and the echo of everything that happened last night.
Finally, you force yourself to turn over in his arms. He lets you, arm sliding away enough for you to roll onto your back. He props himself up on one elbow beside you, hair sleep-tousled, eyes puffy, expression open and unbearably careful.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey,” you answer.
He studies your face like he’s looking for something. Regret, anger, panic. You see it in the set of his shoulders, the tightness in his mouth. He’s braced for impact.
You take a breath. “We should talk.”
He nods immediately. “Yeah. We should.”
You push yourself up to sit against the headboard, pulling the comforter higher around your legs. He mirrors you, sitting beside you with his back to the headboard, leaving just enough space between you that you’re not touching, but close enough that you could be with the slightest shift.
For a moment, neither of you knows where to start.
“Do you regret it?” you ask, because you’d rather rip the bandage off than dance around it.
His head snaps toward you. “No.” It’s immediate. Firm. No hesitation. He softens a second later, realizing how intense that sounded. “No,” he repeats, quieter. “I don’t regret it.”
You exhale slowly, staring down at your hands. “I don’t either,” you admit. “But I’m… scared.”
“Me too,” he says quietly.
You look up at him. He’s watching you with that same careful steadiness, like he knows one wrong word could send everything crashing.
“I don’t want this to be a mistake,” you say. “I don’t want us to blow up what we’ve built with Mara. Or Eli. Or us as co-parents. We finally figured out how to be good together in that way and,” you gesture between you, “this changes things.”
“It does,” he agrees. “It should.”
You swallow. “Can we… keep doing this?” you ask. “Co-parenting. Living in each other’s lives. If things between us go bad again?”
He lets out a slow breath. “I’m not gonna lie to you and say it’d be easy. It wouldn’t. But I’m not the man I was when I blew everything up. I’ve done the work. I know how I spiral. I know what my triggers are. I know what to do when I start going there.”
You listen, watching the way his hands rest on his knees, grounded, not clenched.
“In therapy,” he continues, “I had to sit with a lot of ugly stuff. The way I handled losing the shield. The way I handled my anger. The way I handled you.” His jaw flexes, once. “I don’t want to be that man again. I’m not going to be him again.”
You nod slowly, letting it sink in.
“And I’m not looking for a one-night rewind,” he says, voice steady. “I meant what I said last night. I want you. For real. Not pretend. Not as some… fantasy version of us that never broke. I want this you. The one who raised Mara. The one who learned to do all of it without me. The one who still let me back in anyway.”
Your throat tightens.
“I want a real second chance,” he says. “Not just as her dad. As yours, too. I want to be your partner. The way I should’ve been the first time.” He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t crowd you. He just lets the words hang there, heavy and honest.
“And if you tell me no,” he adds quietly, “I’ll live with that. I’ll show up for Mara. For Eli. For you, as much as you’ll let me. I won’t punish you for needing boundaries. I won’t disappear to make a point. I don’t… do that anymore.”
The simplicity of it knocks the air out of you more than any plea would have. You sit with it for a long moment. Looking at him. At the lines around his eyes that weren’t there years ago. At the steady way he breathes. At the way he’s not rushing you.
“What if I say yes?” you ask. Your voice is very small. Very careful. “What does that look like to you?”
He considers the question, not answering on impulse. “It looks slow,” he says eventually. “It looks like talking. Checking in. Not pretending things didn’t happen, but not letting them run the show. It looks like Mara always knowing she’s safe, no matter what. Like Eli knowing he doesn’t have to be scared of things changing again.”
He reaches up, rubs a thumb over his eyebrow, a nervous habit you recognize.
“It looks like date nights,” he adds, a little shy. “Real ones. Babysitters and everything. It looks like me asking before I touch you. It looks like you telling me when you’re scared, not when you’re already halfway out the door. It looks like us being a team. On purpose this time.”
You feel your eyes sting.
He notices, but doesn’t make a big deal of it. “You don’t have to answer right now,” he says. “We can… sit with it. We’ve got time.”
You let out a humorless breath. “We’re snowed in with one bed and our wild kid. Not sure time is our problem.” A small, surprised laugh slips out of him. It loosens something in your chest. “You really want this?” you ask, needing to hear it one more time. “Not just because it feels good right now. Not just because you’re lonely. Not because you feel guilty.”
He holds your gaze, unflinching. “Yeah,” he says. “I really want this. I want you.”
The quiet that follows isn’t light, but it isn’t crushing either. It feels… full. Open. You inhale, slow and steady, and really listen to yourself.
Do you want this? Do you want him? Not the idea of him. Not the ghost of what you lost. Him. As he is now. A man who broke and rebuilt. A father who loves your daughter in a way that makes your heart ache. A partner who is offering you not perfection, but effort. Consistency. Choice.
Your answer rises clear and simple, despite the fear wrapped around it. “Okay,” you say softly.
His brows draw together. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat, stronger this time. “We try. For real this time. Slow. Smart. Together.”
His shoulders sag in visible relief. For the first time since you woke up, he lets himself smile, small, but bright. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say. “But if you ever pull that self-destruct shit again, I’m telling Sam, Joaquin, and Bucky, and they can fight you in the yard.”
He huffs a laugh, eyes shining. “Fair.”
You reach over, finally closing the small gap between you, and lay your hand over his. He turns his palm up, lacing his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You squeeze his hand, gathering courage. “I’m serious. If we do this… I need some things in place. Not conditions. Just… safeguards.”
“Tell me,” he says, squeezing your hand back, gaze serious but warm as a hearth.
You inhale. “Couples therapy. Or co-parenting counseling. Something with structure. With a moderator. Someone who’ll call us out before we repeat old patterns.”
His reaction is immediate and gentle,a soft exhale, his shoulders loosening. “Good,” he murmurs. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
You blink. “You were?”
“Yeah.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I-I actually talked to my therapist about it. Months ago. About whether it was even… appropriate to hope someday you might come in. She said it would be healthy to ask for help together if we ever tried again.”
Your breath catches. You weren’t prepared for that. For the idea that he’s been quietly preparing for this, not expecting it, not assuming it, but holding space for the possibility of building something better.
You swallow. “Okay. Good. I also want to take it slow.”
He nods again. “Of course.”
“I mean publicly,” you clarify. “For Mara. For Eli. I don’t want them confused or feeling like the ground is shifting under them.”
His eyes soften in that way you’ve come to recognize, the way that says I hear you, I respect you, I’ll follow your lead. “They’ll know we’re together when it’s steady,” he says. “Not before.”
You exhale, grateful. “And I need us to check in regularly, like you said,” you say. “Not shove issues down until they explode. Not let fear or guilt or anger build in the dark.”
He sits with that for a long moment, then reaches out, palm up between you. Not insistently. Not assuming. Just offering. “I’ll check in as much as you want,” he says. “As often as you need. I’m not asking you to forget what I did. I’m asking you to let me prove I’m not that man anymore.”
Those words hit you low in the chest, steady, grounded. “Okay,” you breathe, before pressing a quick, chaste kiss to his lips.
His thumb strokes once along the back of your hand, warm and sure. “Okay,” he echoes.
And that’s it. Not the end. But the beginning of something real.
a/n: This is sitting at over 30k words. i have been working on it for a few days and really just wanted to write something long for John again. Part two will be posted ASAP.
This also serves as a bit of an exploration of John's cannon character arc following the Thunderbolts and his road to redemption. I am really proud of how this two part series ended up, so even if it doesn't get a ton of notes, I really look forward to hearing feedback from those who do read it!
I will warn that this will probably not be everyones cup of tea. please read t/w below.
t/w: porn with plot, found family, strangers to friends to lovers to strangers, hurt (no comfort in this part i fear), unprotected sex, fem reader, accidental pregnancy trope, listened to friends by sombr while writing this lol, piv sex, no foreplay they were horned up
The training facility in Quantico always smelled like a mix of disinfectant, rubber mats, and raw ego. Sam said it built character. Bucky said it built concussions. You just thought it made everyone cranky after the third day of simulations.
Today was day one of a week-long joint training cycle: Sam Wilson’s Avengers and Bucky Barnes’ New Avengers: two units with different philosophies, similar mission outcomes, and entirely too many men with super-strength and emotional repression. You had learned to navigate it all with ease. Sam depended on you to keep the peace, manage the flow between teams, and occasionally stop Joaquin from antagonizing Bucky into early retirement.
You were tightening the straps of your gloves when the facility doors hissed open behind you.
“Barnes’ boys are here,” Sam muttered from your left.
You looked up from your gear just in time to see the new arrivals filing in. Bucky in front, expression permanently lodged somewhere between long-suffering and tired amusement, and the rest of his squad trailing behind him.
And then, of course, came John Walker.
He was bigger in person than the news footage ever captured, broad shoulders stretching his Henley, sleeves shoved up to the elbows, veins standing out against forearms that looked carved from stone. The shaved-down military buzz cut he’d once sported had grown out a bit, giving him a softer edge he didn’t seem to know what to do with. He walked like a storm contained in a man’s body: tension in every step, but pretending he wasn’t holding lightning by the throat.
You could feel Sam’s eyes flick between you and the man now walking toward the mats.
“Behave,” Sam said under his breath. It sounded like a warning.
“I always behave,” you answered sweetly.
Sam scoffed. “You behave like a raccoon in a Starbucks dumpster.”
But you weren’t listening anymore. Because Bucky had nudged Walker forward, and Walker’s eyes had landed on you. Recognition flickered in his expression, surprise, maybe curiosity, and then he smoothed it out with the familiar public-friendly charm he wore like heavy armor.
“Fancy seeing Wilson’s squad here,” he said, voice dropping into that low Southern drawl he tried not to lean on, usually failing.
You arched a brow. “We got invited. Unlike you.”
That earned you a quick grin, sharp, boyish at the edges, a flash of something unguarded. Then he nodded once in acknowledgment.
“Walker,” you said with a clipped, professional tone that could slice steel.
He snorted. “Inspiring. You rehearse that in the mirror?”
“Oh absolutely,” you deadpanned. “Right after practicing ways to tolerate your personality for the week.”
Sam groaned into his hands. Bucky muttered, “I’m going home,” and then walked to the far corner as if distance alone could prevent the headache, followed by Ava Starr. Yelena Belova and Bob Reynolds simply looked on between the two of you in poorly concealed amusement.
But Walker just smirked, one of those lopsided little expressions that suggested he enjoyed baiting you, maybe more than he should.
“Alright,” Bucky announced, clapping his hands. “Pairing time. You and you.” He pointed between you and John with all the care of someone assigning seats in a kindergarten classroom.
“Seriously?” you asked.
Bucky’s smile was too innocent. “Yep.”
Walker’s smile was not innocent at all.
-
The problem wasn’t that John was physically strong. Plenty of Avengers were. The problem was that he was both strong and strategic, and it meant paired drills with him were… intense.
He didn’t just swing. He calculated. He watched your feet, the set of your shoulders, the way your weight shifted before you pivoted. He wasn’t trying to overpower you. He was trying to read you, like you were a puzzle he was determined to solve.
“You’re slow on the recoil,” he said, ducking one of your punches like it was nothing. He moved with that infuriating ease that came from knowing exactly how fast he was.
You spun with the follow-through, sweat damp at the base of your neck, the mat firm beneath your boots. “You’re slow in general,” you shot back, your tone airy even as your lungs burned. You pivoted on the ball of your foot, coming around with a low strike toward his side.
He twisted just enough that you missed anything vital and hit solid obliques instead. Your knuckles complained; he didn’t.
He laughed, just a breath at first, a short huff that you might’ve dismissed if it hadn’t slipped out again, fuller, real, vibrating low in his chest. He stepped in, crowding your space like he owned it, and grabbed your wrist mid-swing. His fingers wrapped completely around your joint, warm and calloused, the strength in his grip leashed but undeniable. You could feel the latent power there, the super-soldier serum humming under his skin like a live wire.
You didn’t fight the pull. You used it. Dropped your weight, hooked your leg around his thigh, and tried to sweep him.
He didn’t move. Not even an inch. You might as well have tried to topple a tree.
“I forgot you don’t move for anyone,” you grunted, teeth clenched as your momentum stalled against him.
His mouth tugged into a small, smug half-smile. “You have to earn that privilege, sunshine.” He stepped in closer instead of back, like he was deliberately testing how much proximity you could handle. Too close. You could feel the heat of his body, the faint dampness of sweat through his Henley, the steady rise and fall of his chest brushing yours every time you breathed.
And his breath, goddamn him, was warm against your cheek. You could smell soap and clean cotton and a hint of whatever cologne he’d put on this morning that had no business still smelling that good after three hours of drills.
You twisted out of his grip, barely, fingers sliding free from his hand with a small burn of friction. You reoriented your stance and snapped a sharp strike toward his ribs, the heel of your hand catching him just under the lowest one on his right side. It wasn’t enough to do damage, but it was enough to land.
“That’s one,” you announced, muscles singing with the effort.
His brows lifted, a spark of amusement lighting his eyes. “You keep score?”
“With you?” You shook out your hand and watched the way his chest expanded under your touch. “Absolutely.”
He tilted his head like he was considering that, like your answer pleased him more than he wanted to show. Then his expression sharpened.
He lunged. He moved faster than you anticipated, faster than most people could move. You dodged left, then right, your boots squeaking on the mat. The world narrowed to his shoulders, his hands, the line of his hips as he pivoted to cut you off every time you slipped around him.
You were breathing harder now, a bead of sweat sliding down your spine. He herded you without seeming to, using angles and reach and speed to guide you exactly where he wanted. You ducked under one arm, but his other hand came up like a trap, fingers catching your elbow and yanking you forward, right into his chest.
Your breath hitched, not that you’d ever admit it. The impact knocked the air out of you in a soft oof, your palms braced against the solid warmth of his sternum. Up close, he was a wall of heat and muscle, his heart a steady thud under your fingertips.
His lips curved near your ear, breath whispering across the sensitive shell. “That’s one for me.”
Electricity skittered down your spine, entirely too aware of how easy it would be to just… stay pressed there. To let the closeness mean something more than a tally on some imaginary scoreboard.
You shoved him away before your heartbeat could betray you, hands flat against his chest as you pushed yourself free.
“Don’t get cocky,” you said, stepping back, rolling out your shoulders like nothing about this was affecting you.
His eyes flicked down, quick, assessing, like he could see past your armor. Then he smiled again, smaller this time, and reset his stance. The timer on the wall buzzed, signaling the end of the drill.
You were almost embarrassingly grateful.
-
By the afternoon, the smell of sweat and rubber had given way to the harsher scents of the simulation arena, concrete dust, prop gunpowder, the faint acrid bite of artificial smoke. The overhead lights had been dimmed, replaced by flickering holo-projectors throwing up images of half-collapsed buildings and debris-strewn streets.
Sam and Bucky stood near the control booth, arms crossed in almost identical expressions of exasperated authority as they watched their combined teams gear up.
“Mixed units,” Sam said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’re not playing my team versus his. We’re all on the same side in times of global crisis, so act like it.”
Bucky added, “If I see any of you using ‘friendly fire’ as an excuse to punch each other, I’m cutting your training hours and sending you to paperwork duty.”
You snorted as you checked your weapon. “He’s talking to you,” you murmured to Walker at your side.
He adjusted his tactical vest like it weighed nothing. “He’s always talking to me.”
The simulation briefing was simple: hostile targets scattered across a mock urban environment, some civilians to protect, some “explosives” to neutralize. The AI would adapt based on your responses, ramping difficulty up or down accordingly. You’d done this scenario before. It was a good test of team cohesion.
It was not, however, usually done with John Walker glued to your flank.
From the moment the simulation started, he fell into step beside you like you’d been training together for months. You swept your sector, eyes tracking doorways, rooftops, broken windows. He read your movement without needing translation, shifting to cover the blind spots you didn’t have time to call out.
“Two on the left balcony,” you said, barely above a murmur.
“Got ’em,” he replied, already sighting down his weapon.
You moved forward; he moved with you. When you ducked under a low-hanging pipe, his hand lifted to tap the top of your pack, guiding you clear. When you paused at an intersection to listen, he went still beside you, presence solid and reassuring rather than crowding.
It felt… easy. Familiar in a way that should’ve been impossible this early.
A simulated civilian stumbled out from behind a wrecked car, crying. You covered her, guiding her toward the extraction marker, only for the AI to trigger a secondary wave of hostiles from the opposite alley.
“Six incoming, three o’clock,” you called.
“On it,” Walker said, moving past you, his body becoming a shield between you and the new threat. The world narrowed to targets and movement and the steady rhythm of your breathing syncing with his. You called shots; he took them. He barked quick directions; you followed without thinking, trusting his read of the field as much as your own.
Then the AI decided to get creative. The concussive charge activated behind a pile of broken concrete, just a flicker of blue-white light barely visible through the simulated dust.
You saw it first. You didn’t think. You just moved.
“John!” you snapped, lunging toward him. You hit him with your full momentum, hands flat against his chest.
He reacted in the same breath, instincts snapping to life. His hands dropped to your waist, fingers biting in as he spun, twisting you away from the flashpoint. The world lurched, your feet leaving the ground for a second as he carried you with him.
The blast went off behind him with a deep, booming thud that rattled the scaffolding overhead. The shockwave hit his back, debris peppering his shoulders, a spray of simulated dust and foam burst across the space you’d occupied a moment before.
He took all of it.
His arms locked around you, body braced, head ducked over yours. Your cheek pressed against his chest, feeling the jolt of impact reverberate through him.
For a second, there was nothing but the sound of his breathing, harsh and controlled by your ear, and the steady, powerful beat of his heart under your palm where it had ended up splayed against his sternum.
“You okay?” he asked immediately, voice rougher than usual, hands already scanning you. He slipped one palm down your spine, checked your sides, the other hovering near your ribs as if expecting to find a break.
You blinked up at him, throat dry, stunned by the instinctive protectiveness. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t let go. Not right away. Instead, his eyes searched your face, darting from your pupils to your mouth and back, checking for signs of shock or pain. Something raw flickered in that blue, fear, relief, maybe something older and heavier that had nothing to do with the simulation.
“Good,” he murmured finally, the word exhaled more than spoken. It sounded like a release, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it. Then, as if remembering himself, he forced his arms to loosen, hands dropping away. He stepped back, clearing his throat, shoulders squaring like he was putting everything back behind its usual neat locks.
“On your six,” he said briskly, turning to cover the next angle like the moment hadn’t happened.
But you felt it in your bones, a crack in the professional façade neither of you could quite seal back up.
-
The med bay always felt colder after a simulation, too bright, too clean, like the rest of the facility’s noise had been scrubbed away and left only the sound of your own thoughts.
You sat on the end of a cot, forearm braced across your thigh as you wound athletic tape around your wrist. The skin there was red and tender from a bad landing; nothing serious, but enough that the med tech had shoved a roll of tape into your hand and told you to “reinforce it next time.”
Across the narrow aisle, John Walker sat on another cot, an ice pack pressed to his left shoulder. The Henley he’d worn under his gear clung to his back and chest, darkened in patches with sweat. His hair was damp at the temples, a few strands curling where they’d escaped whatever product he’d used to tame them.
He wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was fixed somewhere on the floor, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping in his cheek from where you sat.
The silence stretched, filled only by the soft hum of equipment and the distant murmur of voices in the hallway.
“You always throw yourself in front of explosives?” you asked finally, peeling the tape and smoothing it down with more force than strictly necessary.
He snorted, a short sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You always push people twice your size around?”
“Yes,” you answered simply, no hesitation.
That startled him enough to glance over. You caught the flicker of surprise before he let the corners of his mouth twitch up. The laugh that followed was small but genuine, no bravado in it, just a warm, low sound that made your chest tighten for no good reason.
You watched him for a moment. The way his fingers flexed around the ice pack, knuckles whitening slightly. The way his shoulders hunched, not from pain but from some invisible weight he was carrying. The heaviness in his eyes that didn’t match the way he moved on the field, precise, unstoppable, controlled.
He looked like a man who never put anything down, even when it was crushing him.
“You’ve got…” You lifted your hand and waved it vaguely at him. “…divorced-dad energy.”
The ice pack slipped right out of his grip and hit the floor with a wet thump. He stared at you. “Wow,” he said. “Just…wow.”
“Not an insult,” you added quickly, eyes dancing.
“Pretty sure it is,” he muttered, bending to retrieve the ice pack. A cold drop fell onto his pant leg; he brushed it off with more focus than necessary.
“It’s not,” you insisted. “It’s… lived-in. Grounded. A little tragic, but functional.”
“Tragic,” he echoed, deadpan.
You narrowed your eyes, putting the pieces together. “You’re recently divorced.”
His entire body went still.
You’d meant it lightly, a bit of teasing to break the tension. But the way he reacted, the subtle flinch, the way his throat worked around a swallow, the micro-tightening at the corners of his mouth, made something click. This wasn’t just a checkbox on a form. It was a wound.
He was trying so damn hard to hold it together.
You softened, letting some of the edge drop out of your voice. “Didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”
He exhaled slowly, eyes dropping to the floor again. “No, you’re good,” he said after a moment. “Just… yeah. It’s recent.”
You nodded, letting the silence breathe between you. It wasn’t awkward. It just was. Honest, heavy, not something either of you tried to fill with cheap comments.
“Kids need proof grown-ups survive heartbreak,” you said finally, fingers absently smoothing the edge of your tape.
He looked up at you, then, letting his gaze rake over you slowly. Like the words had reached a place inside him other platitudes hadn’t.
“You’re still here, aren’t you?” you added gently. Not a challenge. A statement. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes were a little shinier than before, like you’d pressed on a bruise he’d been hiding.
“You… don’t seem bothered,” he said quietly. “Most people hear ‘divorced,’ ‘single dad,’ and suddenly I come with too many complications. Damage. Baggage.” He tried to make it sound like a joke. It didn’t quite land.
You shrugged, mouth quirking. “Everyone’s complicated. At least you come with a kid, not a desire for world domination or hatred of puppies.”
That pulled it out of him, a real laugh, full and startled, shaking loose something in his chest. It lit his whole face, made him look younger for a heartbeat.
“God,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, eyes dropping as if embarrassed by how much that helped. “You’ve got a way with words.”
“You have no idea,” you said breezily, though there was a flutter just under your breastbone that betrayed you to yourself.
He met your gaze again and held it. The moment stretched between you, thin and taut, like a wire strung between two buildings. The kind of silence that hummed with possibility, with the awareness that if either of you named what was happening, everything might change.
“Good to know Wilson’s team isn’t all rookies and show-offs,” he said eventually, voice a little softer than before.
“Good to know Barnes’ squad isn’t all human battering rams,” you shot back. But your voice lacked its earlier bite. His did too. Something had shifted. A door cracked open that neither of you quite dared to step through.
Not yet.
Bucky appeared in the doorway like he’d sensed a disturbance in the Force. His gaze swept over you, then Walker, then the space between you.
“Why does this room feel like a Hallmark special?” he asked dryly. “Wrap it up. We’re debriefing in ten.”
Walker cleared his throat and pushed off the cot, the spell breaking. He adjusted the ice pack on his shoulder, the movement almost awkward for a man who usually moved like he owned every inch of space.
“See you tomorrow?” he asked, the question casual on the surface, weighted underneath.
You nodded, taping the last piece around your wrist. “Try not to get blown up again.”
He huffed out that almost-laugh, then gave you one more lingering look, briefer than you wanted, longer than it should’ve been, before turning and heading out the door.
You watched him go, the broad line of his back disappearing into the hallway. Your wrist was only half-taped. Your heart was beating too fast for someone sitting still on a cot in a sterile room.
You told yourself it was just adrenaline from the sim.
You knew it wasn’t.
You were thrumming with something you refused to name.
-
It wasn’t supposed to be a date. That was the lie you clung to, the denial that made it easier to walk beside John Walker down the dim hallway outside the mission control room, your bag slung over your shoulder, his steps matching yours like gravity itself had aligned your pace.
It had been months since that first chaotic joint training. Months of sniping comments that turned into banter. Banter that turned into cooperation. Cooperation that turned into… something quieter. Softer. Something neither of you ever directly named.
You’d learned a lot in those months, how John drank his coffee (too dark and way too hot), how he stretched before missions (religiously), how he sometimes went still when conversations drifted toward family. You knew he was a single father. You knew the divorce was recent. You knew Eli existed. You knew the name “Olivia” still made him go quiet for a second, nostalgic, protective, but never bitter.
But you had never met Eli. You’d never even seen his picture. Maybe John was protecting his privacy, or maybe he thought showing you would make this…whatever this was, too real.
Tonight changed that.
The debrief ran late, so late the cafeteria lights were off, chairs stacked upside-down on tables. Sam and Bucky bickered their way out of the room like an old married couple, leaving the two of you alone with the hum of old fluorescent lights.
You were gathering stray folders when you felt him watching. Not staring, just watching. Measuring if he’d lose his nerve.
“You eaten yet?” he asked finally. It was casual in tone, but not in energy. He stood too stiff, hands shoved in the pockets of his tactical pants, thumb tapping against his thigh like he needed to burn nervous energy.
You raised a brow, amused. “Planning to kidnap me, Walker? Should I alert Wilson?”
A twitch broke the tension of his jaw. Not quite a smile. Not quite not. “No kidnapping,” he said. “Just a diner down the road I think you’d hate. Burgers aren’t great.” His eyes flicked to yours, hopeful. “Fries are addictive though.”
You slung your bag higher on your shoulder. “I don’t know. You seem like the plain grilled chicken type. Lettuce on the side. Judging the rest of us slop eating peasants.”
That got a real laugh, low, warm, startled. “Trust me,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve survived Alexei’s cooking. I can appreciate a good plate of slop.”
The diner was exactly the kind of place that deserved its 24/7 neon sign. Chrome edges dulled by decades, a jukebox in the corner that still took quarters, laminated menus with little cracks near the folds, the surfaces of it permanently sticky with syrup. You took the window booth. Walker slid into the opposite side, his broad frame crowding the small space, one knee brushing yours under the table before he jerked back like he’d touched a live wire.
He cleared his throat, pretended it didn’t happen.
A waitress with curly hair and pink gum snapped her notepad open. “What can I get you lovebirds?”
John choked on air.You didn’t miss the way his ears flushed pink. “We’re–” he started.
“Very hungry,” you interrupted smoothly. “Two fries. Two burgers. Milkshake for me.”
John stared like he’d just been grabbed mid-freefall. The waitress winked and wandered off.
It should’ve been awkward after that, but something about the diner softened him. Maybe the retro lights. Maybe the background chatter. Maybe the knowledge that here, in this booth with laminated menus and sticky table edges, he wasn’t U.S. Agent or the Failed Captain What’s-His-Face or a soldier trying too hard to be steady.
He was just… John.
He fidgeted with a sugar packet for a full minute before blurting, “So, uh… I have a kid.”
You blinked. “I know, John.”
“You do?”
“You talk about him in little pieces,” you said gently. “Not the details. But enough. Last month we sort of talked about that, too, remember?”
John froze, sugar packet crushed between his fingers. “Right. Yeah.” He swallowed. “Elijah. I call him Eli.”
You nodded. “Eli.”
He looked down at the table, thumb dragging along the edge. You knew that hesitation, fear of judgment. Fear of being too much. Fear of the wrong reaction. “He’s with his mom tonight,” John said after a moment. “Olivia. We’ve known each other since high school.”
There was no bitterness. No defensiveness. Just something soft, worn at the edges. You’d always respected that, how he talked about Eli’s mother with care, even after the divorce. “He’s almost three,” John added, voice gentling. “Smart. Too smart sometimes. Got her smile.” His own curved, small and fond. “Got my stubborn.”
You tilted your head. “Do you have a picture?”
His whole body stilled. “You… you want to see him?” There it was, raw hope pulling tight across his features. Like he’d expected you to change the subject. Like he’d braced himself for polite disinterest.
“Of course I do,” you said simply.
He swallowed. Hard. Then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone with careful, almost reverent hands. He unlocked it, swiped past a few screens, hesitated once, like showing you this was cracking open a door he couldn’t close, and then slid the phone across the table.
And there he was. A little boy with warm brown skin, chubby cheeks, and curls so perfect they bounced even in a still photo. Big brown eyes, one dimple deepening on his left cheek. Wearing dinosaur pajamas. Grinning so wide his whole face lit up.
Your breath caught. “Oh,” you whispered. And you felt something soft and fierce unfurl in your chest. “He’s beautiful.”
John’s reaction wasn’t dramatic. But it was profound. His shoulders dropped, just enough to show he’d been holding them tight for months. His breath hitched, almost silent. His eyes flicked to your face, not hunting for approval, but for authenticity.
“You really think so?” he asked, voice barely there.
You laughed, unable to help yourself. “John, come on. He looks like a tiny version of you. He’s got your whole facial structure. It’s alarming how endearing it is.”
A stunned laugh broke from him, louder than before, the sound warming the small booth like sunlight breaking through blinds. He reached forward to take the phone back, slow, careful, and your fingertips brushed. Just a featherlight graze. Skin to skin. But it felt like more.
His hand was warm, calloused, solid. You could feel the strength in his fingers even in that tiny accidental touch. He didn’t snatch his hand away. Not immediately. Neither did you.
John exhaled, barely audible. The kind of exhale a man made when something eased in him. Something deep, something quiet. The kind of exhale a man made when a weight he didn’t talk about finally shifted off his shoulders.
“You’re…” he started, then stopped, as if reconsidering the vulnerability. “Thanks. For… not making it weird.”
You smiled softly. “How could it be weird? Eli’s part of you.”
He stared at you for a long second, no mask, no armor, no deflection. Just a man sitting across from someone he wasn’t expecting to understand him.
Then the waitress returned with fries piled high in baskets, breaking the spell. John leaned forward, grasping a fry, trying to act normal. But every now and then, he looked at you the same way he looked at that photo of his son: Like something inside him had recognized something inside you. Like he’d been waiting to breathe this easy again.
And maybe, just maybe, this was a date.
-
John worried the whole time. You could feel it in the way he kept adjusting the strap of his watch as you walked up the steps to his apartment. In the way he hovered his hand near your lower back, close enough to guide, never close enough to be presumptuous. In the way he kept exhaling like he was preparing for bad news.
“You don’t… have to stay long,” he said suddenly as he unlocked the door. “If he’s fussy. Or tired. Or shy. I don’t want you to feel stuck.”
You touched his arm lightly. “John. Breathe.”
He blinked at you, then actually inhaled, like your voice was a reminder he’d been holding his breath for years.
The door swung open. Warm light spilled into a cozy living room, soft gray couch, fleece blankets draped across the arm, a basket of toys overflowing near the TV. A little pair of toddler sneakers sat abandoned by the door. Crayon scribbles and finger paintings were pinned to the fridge in uneven rows, the kind only a parent would put up with reverence.
It smelled like toddler shampoo and laundry detergent and something faintly sweet, vanilla crackers, maybe. Home.
“Eli?” John called gently, closing the door behind you. “Buddy, I’m home.”
A rustle from the hallway. Then, small footsteps. Eli appeared around the corner wearing a mismatched pajama set, dinosaurs on top, stars on bottom. His curls were mussed from nap time, cheeks a little rosy, eyes huge and warm and cautious.
He was beautiful. Radiant. A mix of his parents in that magical way children often are, Olivia’s soft curls, John’s stubborn chin, his own unique spark in every line of his face. You felt something in your chest soften immediately.
John crouched down, smile warm and gentle. “Hey, Big Guy. Remember how Daddy said a friend was coming over?”
Eli peered at you from behind John’s leg, thumb hovering uncertainly near his mouth. You didn’t move toward him. Didn’t crouch immediately. Didn’t overwhelm.
You simply lowered yourself slowly to kneel on the rug a few feet away and offered him a small wave. “Hi, Eli,” you said, your voice as soft as your smile. “I’m [Name]. Your dad talks about you all the time.”
John’s face snapped toward you, eyes widening as if he couldn’t believe you’d said that. But it was true. He talked about Eli every chance he got.
Eli’s eyes flicked to his dad, checking for confirmation.
John cleared his throat. “I, uh. I do.”
Eli pressed a tiny hand to his father’s shoulder, leaning into him for reassurance, curls falling forward. You waited. Not performing. Not coaxing. Just existing in his space with patience. After a moment, Eli ventured one small step forward. His gaze darted to your shoes, then your hands, then finally your eyes.
You knew enough about children to let him lead. So you stayed still. He studied you for almost a full minute, little brows drawing together in concentration. Then, like a verdict reached, he toddled the rest of the way over.
He didn’t stop at arm’s length. He walked right into your lap. Just… folded himself against you like you were a pillow he’d been using for years. Your breath caught, heart doing something painful and bright. You instinctively slid an arm around his back to keep him steady.
He plopped a plastic dinosaur into your free hand. “Rawr,” he demanded.
You gasped dramatically. “Rawr back!”
He giggled, a bubbling, ringing sound that punched straight through your ribs. Behind you, John went absolutely silent. When you looked up, he was standing half-in, half-out of the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame like his legs didn’t trust themselves. His hand rested over his chest, thumb tracing slow circles unconsciously, calming himself.
His expression…It wrecked you. Awe. Gratitude. A thread of disbelief. And beneath it all, something so heartbreakingly hopeful that you had to look away before it swallowed you whole.
John Walker was not a subtle man. But this? This softness he tried so hard to hide? Was almost tender.
Eli shifted in your lap, tapping his dinosaur against your hand until you made the proper dramatic shrieks of distress. He leaned back into your chest, warm and trusting, tiny fingers grabbing a lock of your shirt to hold onto.
“Daddy,” Eli announced suddenly, pointing at you, “she funny!”
John laughed. A real, stunned, helpless laugh. “Yeah, bud,” he said, voice thick. “She is.”
You played with Eli for nearly an hour. Cars, dinosaurs, blocks. Eli narrated everything with the fearless enthusiasm of a toddler who decided you were safe.
John watched most of it from nearby. Sometimes sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, just watching the two of you with a dazed smile. Sometimes pretending to tidy up toys while sneaking glances at you over his shoulder. Sometimes leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, arms folded, eyes soft and unreadable.
You didn’t need super-soldier senses to feel the weight of his gaze. It wasn’t lust or possession or anything dangerous. It was something quieter, deeper. Longing wrapped in reverence.
Eventually Eli started rubbing his eyes, and John scooped him up with practiced ease, pressing a kiss to the top of his curls. “You tired, bud?” he asked softly.
Eli mumbled something unintelligible and tucked his face into John’s neck.
You stood, smoothing your hair back. “Want help getting him down?”
John hesitated, just a breath, before nodding. “Yeah. If… you want.”
In the small, dim nursery, you helped him put Eli into his tiny bed, fleece blanket, stuffed lion, night-light glowing soft gold on the wall. John hummed something under his breath, voice low and soothing. You leaned against the doorway, watching father and son, something warm swelling painfully behind your ribs.
When Eli finally drifted off, clutching his lion, you followed John back to the living room.
He let out a slow breath, rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… didn’t expect that.”
“What? Him liking me?” you teased lightly.
“No. I mean, yes, but…” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t expect you to be so good with him.”
You stepped closer, hands slipping gently into your pockets. “John. He’s a great kid. It’s easy to be good with him.”
His eyes softened further, almost unbearably. “He is.”
You walked to the kitchen, grabbing the toddler cup Eli had abandoned earlier. You rinsed it in the sink, humming under your breath as you washed it. The water ran warm over your hands. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, catching the steam.
When you turned, John was standing a few feet away, leaning against the counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Watching you. Not in a hungry way. Not in a territorial way. In a this is what home could look like way.
He inhaled, slow and shaky, like trying to memorize the moment. Then, quietly, as if he didn’t want to disturb the air around you, he said, “This… is what it’s supposed to feel like.”
You met his eyes. Something inside you shifted. Something inside him broke open. Neither of you said anything else as you crossed the distance between the two of you and folded yourself into his arms, letting him rest his cheek on your temple, pressing soft kisses there that burrowed all the way into your heart.
-
It didn’t happen all at once. It happened slowly, quietly, in the spaces between missions, in the corners of briefings, in the familiar warmth of seeing each other in places where you weren’t supposed to be looking for each other.
It happened in the subtle ways your two teams began to blend, and how John Walker gravitated toward you like gravity didn’t quite work the same anywhere else you stood.
Sam Wilson figures it out first. He was not known as a subtle man. He walked into the gym one morning, saw you pinned beneath John on a sparring mat, his thick thigh pressed between your legs, and stopped dead in the doorway like he’d walked in on two raccoons stealing bread.
“Hey,” His eyes narrowed. “Why does this feel flirty?”
You and John jolted apart like teenagers caught under bleachers. “It’s not flirty,” you insisted, even though your face was warm.
“It’s training,” John added, sounding suspiciously breathless.
Sam crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. Training. Right. Because I always shove my thigh between Buck’s when I get him pinned beneath me on a training mat.”
John choked. You kicked Sam out of the gym.
He left laughing.
-
Bucky was the next to grant his blessing. Sort of. He didn’t comment at first, even though you were sure Sam ran straight to him after the gym that day. He just watched.
He saw the way John’s temper smoothed around you, the way he held himself differently when you stood beside him, shoulders less rigid, jaw less clenched. He saw, too, the way you softened around John, how you read his moods in advance like you’d memorized every contour of him.
One evening after a mission briefing, Bucky appeared beside you as you organized med kits. “So,” he said, tone so flat it could’ve been a tabletop, “you love him.”
You dropped a roll of gauze. “Bucky,” you warn.
“No, it’s fine.” He shrugged. “He probably loves you too. God knows he looks like he’s trying not to sing love songs every time you walk into a room.”
You turned crimson. “It’s not like that. Not officially.”
“Should be.” He tightened a strap on his gear. “Man’s a good dad. And you’re good for him. Better than he knows how to say.” He paused, then side-eyed you. “Just don’t break him.”
You swallowed. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good.” Bucky nodded once. “Because if you hurt him, I’m telling his kid. And Belova and Reynolds.”
You laughed so suddenly you hiccuped. “Terrifying.”
“Children are terrifying,” he agreed. But his faint smile told you everything you needed: Bucky approved.
-
Joaquin Torres made it his personal mission to be the most annoying person possible about it by teasing you relentlessly.
“You’re glowing mija,” he said one morning as you tied your boots. “Absolutely suspicious. Dare I say icriminating, even.”
You glared. “It’s moisturizer.”
“I do not need to know about you and Walker’s sex life,” he sang in response.
You threw a glove at his head. He dodged, cackling.
“Careful,” he warned. “Your boyfriend might get jealous.”
“You are the worlds biggest brat, Torres. Go away before I decide to shove a foot up your ass.” You glare at your good friend. He shoots you a dazzling smile, making finger guns in your direction.
“True. But so are you. It’s why I like you.”
You flipped him off lovingly.
-
Your first kiss happened after a joint op in upstate New York. A long day, a colder night, with adrenaline thrumming through your veins. You were all huddled in the debrief tent, waiting for transport, when the heater cut out.
The temperature dropped fast. Everyone shouted. You shivered violently, more from exhaustion than cold, and John’s eyes snapped to you instantly. He shrugged out of his jacket without thinking and draped it over your shoulders.
You tried to protest. “Walker, your jacket…”
He shook his head, voice soft. “Take it. Super serum makes me run hot.”
You want to keep fighting, but the cold is winning, so you pull it around you. It’s warm and smells like cedar and wind and the faintest hint of his cologne. It smelled like safety. Like home.
He was watching you closely, the way he always did when he was trying not to feel something too deeply. His hands hovered and then dropped, as if touching you again might undo him.
“I’m fine,” you murmured.
His voice came out rougher than intended. “I know. I just…” His jaw worked, the words stuck behind his teeth. “I worry.”
Something in you cracked open. “You don’t have to,” you whispered. A lie. A kindness, really.
He stepped closer, his body heat teasing at the edges of your senses. His breath was visible in the cold air, warm puffs between you. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
Silence wrapped around you both, soft, thick, charged.
Your fingers curled around the lapel of his jacket draped over your shoulders. “John,” you breathed. And something in him finally broke.
He lifted a hand slowly, giving you every second to pull back, and touched your cheek with the gentlest brush of his thumb. His eyes searched yours, trembling with a question he didn’t dare speak.
You answered it by leaning in. The kiss was soft at first. Careful. Reverent. Then deeper, sweeter, like something long-held finally let free. His hands framed your face, yours slid into his hair, pulling him closer. His breath stuttered against your mouth, a quiet sound that told you he’d been wanting this for far longer than he’d ever admit.
When you finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, his voice was a low whisper, “I… really care about you.”
You smiled. “Yeah. I know.”
John laughed, shaky, relieved, disbelieving, and kissed you again, shorter this time, like he couldn’t help it. When the heater sputtered back on and the tent filled with noise, you and John stepped apart slowly, reluctantly, but with a new truth glowing warm between you.
You were his.
And he was yours.
-
You didn’t announce anything. You didn’t need to. Everyone already knew, anyway.
You found yourselves gravitating toward each other naturally. John bringing you a coffee in the morning, you checking the bruises on his ribs after missions, him resting his hand on the small of your back in crowded hallways, you leaning into his shoulder during briefings.
It was subtle affection woven into routine. The kind of relationship that didn’t explode into being, it built itself, brick by brick, in quiet moments. When he picked you up for dates, Eli’s toys were always still in the backseat. When you stayed over, he always left the lamp on dim so you wouldn’t trip on a scattered pile of action figures. When the teams trained together, he always stood just slightly between you and danger.
He loved like he fought. Fiercely, instinctively, all-in. But with you… he learned how to be gentle, too. He’d curl his fingers into your jacket sleeves when the wind was cold. Kiss your forehead before missions. Leave little notes on your gear (“Don’t forget lunch”) because he worried you skipped meals when stressed.
You spent nights on his couch, Eli asleep in his room, a movie playing softly while you and John whispered about everything and nothing.
You held his son. He held your heart. And neither of you said I love you, but it hung in every touch, every look, every whispered “be careful” before assignments.
It was real. It was deep.
It was the happiest either of you had ever been.
-
But even the strongest foundations can crack. And beneath all the warmth, all the laughter, all the perfect compatibility…there were shadows forming.
John’s job chipped away at him. His guilt. His restlessness. His need to prove, to the world, to himself, that he was still worthy. And every time he took a risk on a mission, every time he brushed off a wound, every time he returned home with eyes too tired to meet yours… a tiny crack formed.
You pushed them away for as long as you could. So did he. Because you were in love. Because you made him feel safe. Because he made you feel chosen.
But the cracks were there.
And they were only growing.
-
It happened on a night that should’ve been perfect. A rare evening off for both of you. No late debriefs. No emergency consult calls. Eli was with his mom for the weekend, and for once John didn’t have to juggle two worlds on too little sleep.
He picked you up with takeout from your favorite place, insisting on carrying the bag even though you tried to swipe it from him at least twice.
“It’s heavy,” you teased.
He snorted. “You realize I can bench-press Bucky, right?”
“Bucky lets you because he likes the attention.”
John laughed in that soft, low way he only did around you, and you leaned into his shoulder as you walked down the hall to your apartment, the warmth of his body sinking into yours like gravity.
Dinner was easy. Comfortable. Your legs tangled with his on the couch. Stolen fries. His hand brushing against your thigh in a way that was almost possessive, almost shy. A movie playing in the background that neither of you really watched.
You ended up stretched across his chest, his arm heavy around your back, the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
“This is nice,” he murmured, fingertips tracing slow circles on your spine.
“Hmm,” you hummed, already half-asleep. “Could get used to this.”
You felt more than heard his quiet exhale, a warm breath against your hairline. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. “Me too.”
You drifted off like that, safe and warm in the shelter of him. It was several hours later, long after the movie ended, long after the lamp dimmed itself automatically, that you woke to something wrong.
John was shaking. Not a gentle tremor. Full-body tension. Muscles rigid. Breath coming in short, harsh bursts. You shifted on his chest, lifting your head. His eyes were open but unfocused, pupils blown wide, sweat shining at his hairline. He wasn’t seeing your apartment.
He wasn’t seeing now.
“John,” you whispered, voice soft but urgent. “John, hey. Look at me.”
He didn’t. His gaze flicked past you, wild, lost. His chest rose and fell in sharp, ragged breaths. You could feel the tremors running through him, every muscle locked like he expected to be attacked any second.
Your stomach tightened. You’d seen panic attacks before. You’d seen trauma responses. But you had never seen him like this. Utterly unguarded, stripped raw by whatever memory had dragged him under.
You reached for his face, featherlight. “John, sweetheart, look at me.”
He sucked in a breath, the sound torn from somewhere deep. “I’m fine,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “I’m…I’m fine. I’m okay.”
He wasn’t.
“John,” you said again, firmer now. “You’re here. You’re safe.”
His throat bobbed. “Lamar,” he kept quietly repeating. His fingers curled into fists in the fabric of your blanket like he was trying to anchor himself to something, anything.
“It’s not real,” you murmured. “Whatever it is, you’re not there. You’re with me.”
His gaze finally snapped to yours. Not steady. Not calm. Desperate. He looked like a soldier caught between worlds. Like a man terrified he’d scare you away if he let you see him like this.
Your chest tightened at the sight. “Breathe with me,” you whispered. You pressed your forehead to his, cupping his jaw gently, not restraining, just holding. Grounding. You breathed in slow and deep, exaggerating the movement so he could follow.
He tried. God, he tried. His first attempt was a shuddering mess of an inhale. The next wasn’t much better. His hand shot up, grabbing your waist, not in panic, not in fear, but like he needed something solid to hold onto.
Your fingers threaded into his hair. “I’m right here.”
His breath hitched again. “I didn’t…” He swallowed. “I didn’t want you to ever see me like this.”
“Like what?” you asked softly.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Weak.”
Your heart cracked in half. “John,” you breathed, “none of this is weakness.”
He shook his head, jaw trembling. “I should be past this. I should…I should be better. Stronger. I shouldn’t…” He choked on a breath. “I shouldn’t fall apart. Not in front of you.”
You slid fully into his lap, straddling him gently without thinking about the intimacy of it, just needing him to feel the full weight of your presence. “Look at me,” you whispered.
His eyes opened. Blue and broken.
“Do you see me running?” you asked. “Do you see me scared?”
He stared at you like the answer mattered more than anything. “No,” he whispered. “You’re not scared at all.”
“Exactly.” Your thumbs brushed his cheekbones. “I’m here because I care. Because I want to be. You don’t have to hide the hard parts from me.”
He let out a long, shaking breath and leaned into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
You guided him through grounding, touch, sound, breath, presence. Together. Slowly, agonizingly, the tension began to ease from his body. Not fully, not completely, but enough that his breathing steadied, his eyes focused, his hands went from clenching your waist to holding it gently.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, voice breaking.
You closed your eyes, emotion burning behind them. “Good thing I never asked you to,” you said, fingers sliding into his hair.
He shuddered, a soft, broken sound muffled against your neck.
You held him and didn’t let go. Not even when he loosened his grip and leaned his head against your chest, letting you stroke the tension from his hair. Eventually, his breathing evened out completely, his weight settling against you instead of fighting itself.
“Stay?” he murmured, barely audible.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.
You curled around him on the couch, his arms wrapped around your waist, your fingers combing slowly through his hair. He fell asleep like that, heavy, warm, vulnerable against you. And as you held him through the night, you realized you loved him. Deeply. Quietly. Fiercely.
And maybe that terrified you more than anything.
-
The first thing John had felt the next morning was warmth. Not the feverish kind that came with nightmares, but the steady, enveloping kind that seeped into his bones and made him want to stay exactly where he was.
Your body was curled against his on the couch, one of your legs thrown over his thigh, your head tucked beneath his chin. The blanket had slipped down to your waist sometime in the night; his arm was still locked around you, palm splayed over the small of your back like he’d been afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
He didn’t move. Not yet. He just breathed you in, your hair, your skin, the faint trace of last night’s takeout still lingering on the air, and felt something inside his chest unclench for the first time in months. Maybe years.
You’d seen him. All of him. The parts he kept locked behind bravado and muscle and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. And you hadn’t flinched. You’d held him like he was something worth holding.
His throat tightened. He pressed his lips to the top of your head, soft, reverent. Then lower, to the warm slope where your neck met your shoulder. Another kiss. Another. Slow, deliberate, like he was mapping you with his mouth. You stirred, a sleepy sound rumbling in your throat, and he smiled against your skin.
“Morning, Sunshine,” he whispered, voice rough with sleep and something else. Gratitude, maybe. Awe.
You hummed, shifting closer, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re warm,” you mumbled, eyes still closed. “Don’t move.”
He didn’t. He kissed the hinge of your jaw instead, lingering there, breathing you in. Then the corner of your mouth. Your cheek. The tip of your nose. Each press of his lips was careful, like he was afraid you’d break, or like he was the one breaking, and you were the only thing holding the pieces together.
You opened your eyes finally, blinking up at him in the soft gray light filtering through the blinds. Your hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the stubble there. “Hey,” you said softly. “You okay?”
He nodded, but his eyes were glassy. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect to wake up like this.”
“Like what?”
“Happy,” he said, the word cracking in the middle. He kissed you then, slow and deep, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it. His hand slid up your spine, under your shirt, palm warm against your bare skin. You arched into him, a quiet sound escaping your throat, and he pulled back just enough to look at you.
“I want you,” he said, voice low, steady. “If you want–”
You kissed him before he could finish. Harder this time. Needier. Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth, shifting so you were fully beneath him on the couch. The blanket fell away completely. His weight settled over you, solid and grounding, and you wrapped your legs around his hips like you’d been waiting for this for months.
Maybe you had.
He kissed down your neck again, slower now, savoring. Your shirt rode up under his hands, and he pushed it higher, lips brushing over your collarbone, the curve of your breast. You gasped when he mouthed over your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra, and he pulled back just long enough to tug your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind the couch.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, eyes raking over you like he was memorizing every inch. His hands were everywhere. Your waist, your ribs, the soft skin of your stomach. Worshipful. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.
You reached for him, fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt. He helped you, shrugging it off, and then your hands were on his chest, tracing the scars, the muscle, the smattering of hair, the faint bruises from recent training ops. He shivered under your touch, breath hitching when you leaned up to kiss the hollow of his throat.
“John,” you whispered, and it undid him. He kissed you again, desperate now, hands sliding down to the waistband of your leggings, taking your panties with them. You lifted your hips to help him, and he peeled them off slowly, kissing every inch of skin he exposed. Your thighs. The sensitive spot behind your knee. The curve of your hip. When he finally settled between your legs again, you were both breathing hard, completely naked, foreheads pressed together.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, voice trembling with restraint.
“Don’t you dare,” you breathed, and pulled him down into another kiss.
He laughed, shaky and relieved, and reached for your thigh, holding it wide and open. His palm was hot against the back of your knee, fingers curling gently but firmly, spreading you for him. He slowly pulled his hips back, the slick drag of his cock sliding through your folds, coating himself in the wet heat that had been building between you for what felt like hours. The blunt head nudged your clit, then slipped lower, teasing your entrance, and you gasped, hips jerking involuntarily.
“You’re so wet,” John said, voice a rush, a slight tremble in it, like he couldn’t quite believe it. His eyes flicked down to where you were joined, watching the way your body glistened for him, then back up to your face, pupils blown wide. “Jesus, sweetheart… look at you.”
“I-I’m sorry?” Your voice came out shy, a little embarrassed, cheeks flushing hot. You’d been with men before, but none had been quite as thick as John, and even with those other men, no matter how much foreplay they did, they never got you quite as soaked as you were now. It was almost obscene, the way your arousal dripped down your thighs, the way your body opened for him like it had been waiting its whole life. You shifted, trying to close your legs a fraction, but his grip held you open, gentle but unyielding.
“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss you, slow and deep, swallowing your little whimper. “Never apologize for this. You’re perfect.”
He lined himself up again, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and entered you slowly, eyes locked on yours, watching for any sign of discomfort. There was none. Just heat, and fullness, and the overwhelming rightness of it. Your body welcomed him like it had been made for this, stretching around him with a slick, eager ease that made you both groan. He sank in inch by inch, the drag exquisite, your walls fluttering around him as he filled you completely.
“Okay?” he asked, voice strained.
You nodded, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Move.”
He bottomed out with a low, guttural sound, his hips flush against yours, and stilled, giving you a another moment to adjust. But you didn’t need it. You were already clenching around him, hips rolling up to meet his, a soft, needy sound escaping your throat. “John,” you whispered, fingers digging into his shoulders, “please…”
He did. Slow, deep thrusts that had you arching off the couch, gasping his name. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining, and he pinned it gently beside your head. The other slid between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect pressure, and you cried out, hips bucking up to meet his.
He groaned, forehead dropping to yours, and began to move. Slow, deep thrusts that dragged along every sensitive spot inside you, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each roll of his hips. Your body responded eagerly, slick gushing around him with every withdrawal, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet morning air. You were so open for him, so ready, your thighs trembling in his grip as he held you spread, watching himself disappear into you again and again.
“God, you feel…” He couldn’t finish, voice breaking on a thrust that had you arching off the couch, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. Your body was on fire, every nerve alight, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. You didn’t know why it felt so intense, why your hips kept chasing his, why your walls kept fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper, hold him there.
He shifted, angling his hips just right, and the head of his cock brushed something inside you that made your vision white out. You sobbed his name, nails raking down his back, and he growled, pace stuttering as he felt you tighten around him. “There,” you gasped, “right there, don’t stop!”
He didn’t. He thrust harder, deeper, the couch creaking beneath you, his hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with his thumb. The dual sensation was too much, too perfect, and you came with a broken cry, walls clenching rhythmically around him, milking him as your body shuddered through the waves of pleasure.
He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a hoarse groan, hips jerking as he spilled inside you. You felt it, the hot pulse of him, the way your body greedily accepted every drop, your cervix dipping lower to meet him, your womb fluttering with a need you didn’t understand.
He collapsed over you, breathing hard, arms wrapping around your back to hold you close. You clung to him, legs still wrapped around his hips, keeping him inside you as the aftershocks rippled through you both. His lips found your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, murmuring soft, reverent words you couldn’t quite catch over the pounding of your heart.
“I love you,” he whispered, so quietly you almost missed it. “I’ve loved you for months. I just… didn’t know how to say it.”
You kissed his temple, fingers threading through his hair. “I love you too.”
He made a soft, broken sound and held you tighter, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go. You didn’t. You stayed there, tangled together on the couch, the morning light creeping in around the edges of the blinds, and let the quiet settle over you both.
-
It didn’t happen the next day. Or the next week. Trouble didn’t arrive with thunder or alarms, it seeped in quietly, like water finding the smallest opening in a wall and settling there, patient and destructive.
In truth, it began right after the morning you gave yourselves to each other completely, your bodies and your hearts, your whispered I love yous pressed into skin and breath and trembling hands. The morning where John had held your face afterward and kissed you slow, reverent, like he finally understood what it felt like to want something he was allowed to keep.
You’d spent hours after tangled in his arms, his breath warm on the back of your neck, his hold protective without meaning to be. You had felt whole. Solid. Anchored. Like something inside you had found the place it was always meant to land.
He’d felt it too. You saw it in the softness of his eyes, in the way he’d traced a thumb across your lower lip that afternoon, murmuring, “I meant it, you know. Every damn word.”
And he had meant it.
But love didn’t fix a man who had spent years breaking quietly under the weight of guilt and expectation. If anything, loving you cracked him further open, made him more vulnerable, more afraid of losing something good. Afraid of ruining it. Afraid of ruining you.
You didn’t see that part. Not then. You only saw the shift. Small at first. Barely noticeable. A hairline fracture.
You didn’t know how quickly it would spread.
-
The first missed date night came with a text sent in the late afternoon weeks later: Mission ran long. I’m okay. Promise. Rain check?
You told yourself it was fine. Missions ran long all the time. You curled up on your couch that night with a blanket and a book, but there was a strange ache low in your stomach, emotional, not physical. You dismissed it as nerves, as the tenderness that came with loving someone who scared you with how much he meant.
-
The second missed night hurt more. You’d cooked for him. His favorite, even. You'd worn the soft shirt he always lingered on with his eyes, the one he once told you made you look more beautiful, more his, than anything else in the world. You didn’t tell him that was the night you’d whispered I love you into his chest, listening to his heartbeat stutter against your cheek.
He didn’t show. No text. No call. Just silence. Slow, creeping, suffocating silence. You waited until the food went cold, then colder again when you reheated it. The sun dipped below the horizon. The room dimmed. You told yourself he was okay. You told yourself there was a reason.
When your phone finally buzzed, it was nearly midnight: Sorry. Debrief went late. Head’s all over the place tonight.
You held the phone too tightly. Your throat burned. You knew, knew, he wasn’t the type to say he loved you and then vanish. To fuck you and leave. You knew he wasn’t shallow or careless or cruel. And yet that tiny voice inside you whispered anyway, growing louder with every beat of your heart…
Maybe you scared him. Maybe you were too much. Maybe you weren’t good enough. Maybe he regrets having sex. Maybe he regrets loving you at all.
You hated that voice. You hated that it felt plausible. And you hated the sudden sharp sting in your chest that refused to ease.
Another crack, thin but deep.
-
When the new scar appeared on his side the following week, you felt something inside you snap in quiet alarm.
You saw it immediately, the way he winced when he sat down, the way he shrugged off your concern with a too-fast smile, the way the bandage under his shirt was already stained with dried blood.
You knelt in front of him, fingers gentle as you lifted the hem of his shirt. “John… this is deep.”
For the first time in days, he met your eyes fully. And for a moment, just a breath, you saw everything he had been holding back: the fear, the shame, the exhaustion layered in his bones. The man underneath the armor, frayed and hurting.
Then he forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s fine.”
“Doesn’t look fine.”
“I said I’m…” His voice snapped, harsh and sharp enough to make you flinch. He closed his eyes instantly, shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just…” He inhaled shakily. “I’m okay,” he repeated, softer, gentler, like he wished saying it out loud could make it true.
You didn’t push. You should have. He should have talked. But you both pretended the rising tide could be held back with silence.
Another crack, this one echoing through you.
-
Your own body started whispering too. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… off. A heaviness in your limbs that no amount of sleep could fix. Breasts tender in a way you hadn’t felt before. Appetite swinging wildly, one day nothing sounded good, the next day you found yourself eating more than usual without realizing it.
Your cycle, always irregular, still hadn’t come. But irregular had always been your normal. Birth control had always worked. Pregnancy wasn’t even a thought. So you chalked the exhaustion up to stress. The nausea up to nerves. The soreness to hormones shifting at inconvenient times.
The emotional volatility, snapping quicker, crying easier, you blamed squarely on John pulling away. And you did not see the real reason behind it. Something tiny. Something fragile. Something quietly rooting itself into your body while you were losing your footing in your life.
-
The tenth missed night was different. It wasn’t a text, it was a voicemail. His voice was strained, frayed at the edges. “Hey, uh…I don’t know. I’m just… I need some air. I’m not…I’m not okay tonight. Don’t wait up.”
You sat on your couch, phone on your chest, staring at the ceiling while your heart splintered. He had never left a message like that. Not for you. Not since letting you into the softest, most guarded parts of him. You wanted to be angry. You wanted to storm to his place and demand the truth out of him. But your body felt too heavy, your limbs rooted, your emotions a tangled storm you couldn’t sort through.
You curled in on yourself on the couch, one hand resting absently over your abdomen, flat and soft and unknowingly harboring the smallest flutter of life, and you wondered when everything had begun to shift.
Why you felt like you were losing him. Why you felt like you were losing yourself.
Another crack… this one jagged, sharp.
-
The argument came days later. It started with a dish left in the sink, a promise he’d forgotten, another night where he came home long after he said he would. He looked haunted, shadows carved into the hollows of his cheeks, sleeplessness clouding his eyes.
You tried to keep your voice steady. “Hey. I just… I miss you.”
He froze. Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just a subtle tightening, as if your words struck a place inside him he couldn’t touch without pain. Something in his expression shifted. Fear, guilt, anguish, all flickering too fast to catch.
“Talk to me,” you whispered. “Please. Tell me what’s going on.”
He shook his head, jaw tight. “I’m fine.”
“John, you’re not. You’re…”
“I said I’m fine,” he shouted before catching himself, closing his eyes like he wished he could pull the word back.
You felt tears prick, your throat closing. Not from the shout, but from the distance. The walls. The way he was slipping through your fingers like sand.
He saw the hurt, remorse softening his features instantly. “I didn’t mean… It’s not you. I’m just… everything’s complicated right now.”
“So let me in,” you begged. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
“You’re already in too deep,” he muttered, barely more than a breath. But you heard it. It sliced you open.
“What does that mean?” you whispered.
He didn’t answer
Your stomach twisted painfully, not knowing it was hormones too, not knowing the dizziness in your head was more than heartbreak, not knowing your body was trying to tell you something louder than your fear.
“Did I do something wrong?” you asked, voice breaking.
His face crumpled. For a half-second, he looked shattered. Then he slammed the emotion behind a wall and straightened, coldness settling where warmth had once been. “No,” he snapped. Too quick. Too harsh. “You didn’t.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re disappearing?”
His jaw clenched. “Maybe you’re reading too much into things.”
“John…”
“Drop it.” Soft. Desperate. A plea disguised as dismissal.
You dropped it. Your heart didn’t. And for the first time, the truth sank into you like ice: He wasn’t just pulling away.
He was preparing to push you out.
-
The weeks that followed were slow, painful erosion. He grew quieter. You grew more anxious. He came home with more bruises. You grew more nauseous, especially in the mornings.
He slept less. You slept too much. He avoided intimacy, not because he didn’t want you, but because he didn’t trust himself not to break something he cherished. You interpreted it as rejection.
Hormones twisted every insecurity into a tidal wave. You cried twice in the bathroom that week, shoulders shaking, hands pressed to your face, telling yourself it was exhaustion, not realizing it was something deeper, something your body was already working overtime to protect.
You didn’t tell him. He didn’t tell you about the nightmares waking him every night. And together, without meaning to, you drifted, two planets slowly losing their orbit. The cracks were no longer hairline. They were structural. And all they needed was one wrong day, one harsh word, one moment of weakness, for everything to break wide open. Faster than either of you could stop it.
-
It didn’t happen because of one fight. It happened because of all of them. Because of every swallowed apology, every missed night, every bruise he refused to explain, every time you reached out only for your hand to meet emptiness. Because of every whispered fear you choked back, convinced you were imagining it, convinced he couldn’t possibly love you the way he said he did if he was drifting this far away this fast.
It happened because he was collapsing and wouldn’t let you brace him. It happened because you were unraveling and didn’t know how to ask him to catch you. It happened because the cracks had already formed, and the weight of two people trying so hard to be strong finally made them split.
It happened on a Tuesday. Not a dramatic night. Not a mission gone wrong. Just a Tuesday with dull sky and cold rain that tapped lightly against the kitchen windows of his apartment. Just a Tuesday when you showed up at his place without texting first.
You let yourself in, the spare key heavy in your hand, a privilege he gave you when things were good, when “Come in whenever you want” meant something soft and full of promise.
The apartment was dark, except for a small lamp in the corner casting a lonely pool of light. John sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it held the answers to questions he’d never learned how to ask.
He didn’t look up right away. He must have heard you come in, he always did because of his super soldier senses, but he stayed still, shoulders bowed under something you couldn’t name.
“Hey,” you said quietly, closing the door behind you. He didn’t answer. Your heart pulled tight. “Long day?”
Another long moment of silence. Then, with a voice that sounded scraped raw, he finally spoke. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The words hit you like cold water. You blinked. “John? What? Why?”
He finally lifted his head, and the sight of him made your breath hitch: red-rimmed eyes; a bruise blooming along his jaw; exhaustion etched into the lines of his face; something hopeless simmering beneath the surface.
You stepped toward him on instinct. “John… talk to me. Please. Whatever it is, we can…”
“We can’t,” he said sharply, standing so fast the blanket beside him fell to the floor. You stopped in your tracks. He raked a hand through his hair, pacing like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts. “I can’t do this anymore.”
A quiet thud echoed through your chest, like something inside you cracked and splintered. “Do what?” you whispered.
“This,” he said, gesturing between the two of you. “Us. You trying to fix me. Me falling apart anyway.”
“I’m not trying to fix you,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m trying to be with you.”
“That’s the same damn thing.”
You flinched, swallowing hard. “Why are you talking like this?”
“Because it’s true.”
“No,” you said, shaking your head, stepping closer. “This isn’t you. You’re tired. You’re stressed. You’re…”
He laughed, hollow and humorless. “You don’t know what I am.”
“You won’t tell me!” The crack in your voice startled even you. “I keep trying to be here for you, but you keep shutting me out. What am I supposed to do, John? Pretend I don’t see you breaking?”
His jaw clenched, eyes flashing with something pained and defensive. “I don’t need a savior.”
“I’m not trying to save you,” you whispered. “I love you.”
He went still. Completely still. As if the words hurt him worse than anything else could. “Don’t,” he said, voice low and sharp. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m not taking it back.”
“You should,” he snapped.
You recoiled like you’d been slapped. He saw it. He saw every second of your hurt. And for a flicker of a moment, his face cracked, regret, devastation, longing all fighting to surface. But then he shut it down, shoved it into whatever corner of himself he’d been burying everything else.
“You deserve better,” he said quietly. “Better than me. Better than this.”
“Stop deciding that for me.”
“You deserve someone who’s not one mistake away from ruining everything.”
“That’s not you,” you insisted. “You’re not–”
“Yes, I am!” he shouted, the sound ripping out of him. “I lose control. I get reckless. I take hits I shouldn’t. I wake up every night thinking about the shit I can’t undo. Every day I wonder if I’m screwing up Eli’s life. And then you,” He stopped abruptly, chest heaving. His hand shook as he pointed toward you. “You make me feel like I could be good again,” he said, voice breaking. “And that scares the shit out of me. Because if I lose you? If I mess this up? There won’t be anything left of me worth saving.”
Your breath trembled. “So your solution is to end it before you can lose me?”
“Yes.” It was so simple. So brutal.
Your knees went weak. “So that’s it?” you whispered. “You’d rather hurt me now than risk me loving you later?”
He closed his eyes like he couldn’t bear to see your face. “I’d rather you hate me than watch me drag you down with me.”
You stepped forward, tears streaking silently down your cheeks. “John, I don’t hate you. I love you. I’m here because I love you.”
“Well, I don’t want it anymore,” he said. He didn’t shout this time. He didn’t snarl it. He said it quietly. Deliberately. Like he knew exactly where to plunge the knife.
And that made it hurt worse than any scream. You felt everything inside you go still, numb, weightless, like your body had disconnected from your mind. “You don’t mean that,” you whispered.
He didn’t look away. “I do.” It wasn’t true. Not even a little. But he made it sound final. He made it sound real. And for the first time in months, you had nothing left to cling to, not his touch, not his words, not his promises, not his love. Everything slipped through your fingers.
You inhaled shakily, nodding as if that could hold you together. “Okay,” you whispered. “If that’s what you want.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you. Didn’t take it back. Just stood there and let the two of you crumble.
You walked to the door in silence, hands shaking, vision blurring with tears you refused to let fall until you were gone. You turned the knob. Paused. And without looking back, you said the only truth you had left.
“I hope one day you realize you didn’t have to lose me to save me.”
Then you walked out. The door clicked shut behind you, the softest sound in the world, but it echoed through him like a gunshot. He sank to his knees in the empty apartment, breath shuddering out of him, hands trembling. He didn’t chase you. He made sure it hurt so you wouldn’t come back.
You cried the entire way home, silent, devastated tears that soaked your sleeves. Your stomach twisted painfully, hormones amplifying everything tenfold. You chalked it up to emotion, to heartbreak, to the collapse of the future you’d been so sure of.
You didn’t know the nausea that followed wasn’t just from crying. You didn’t know the ache low in your abdomen wasn’t just grief. You didn’t know something inside you was already holding on. Already dividing. Already becoming. Already growing.
His. Yours.
Everything you didn’t know how to tell him. Everything he didn’t know he’d lost. Everything that would bring him back to you two years later.
-
You didn’t notice the first week. Or the second.
Grief has a way of muting everything else, numbing the edges of your senses, making the world feel underwater, making your own body feel like something distant and irrelevant. You moved through your days like someone half-asleep, half-awake. Work, missions, showers, meals… everything felt mechanical. Everything felt wrong. You thought it was heartbreak. And some of it was. But some of it wasn’t.
It was the morning you nearly fainted in the shower that finally made you pause.
The water was hot and steaming around you, pounding against your shoulders, and suddenly the tile swayed under your feet, your vision swimming in heat and white fog. You grabbed the shower wall, bracing yourself, breath stuttering, the edges of your ears ringing.
You leaned your forehead against the cool tile, chest rising and falling too fast. And you told yourself:
Stress. I’m just tired. I’ve barely slept since we broke up. I’m not eating enough. I’m just sad. I’m just sad. You repeated it like prayer. Like a mantra. Like a lifeline.
It didn’t help.
You felt sick when you stepped out of the shower, like something beneath your ribs was shifting. Something unfamiliar. Something… wrong. The feeling didn’t fade when you got dressed. Didn’t fade when you made coffee and couldn’t stand the smell. Didn’t fade when you sat on the couch and tried to steady yourself. It became impossible to ignore sometime that afternoon when you opened your fridge and the sight of a carton of eggs made your stomach lurch so violently you had to sit down.
You were sweating. Dizzy. Breathing too fast. Your hand drifted, unconsciously, to your abdomen. Flat. Soft. Warm beneath your palm. Nothing unusual. Nothing visible. But inside… something felt different. Something felt off. Something felt like a door you hadn’t meant to open was suddenly swinging wide.
You closed the fridge. Sat heavily on the cool kitchen floor. Pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes. And then, with a kind of raw, shaking realization that felt like the earth tilting beneath you, you whispered, “No. No, no, no, no…”
You told yourself it was impossible. You were on birth control. You’d always been irregular. You’d been bleeding on and off from stress the last few months, hadn’t you? You’d been nauseous before, tired before.
It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.
Still shaking, you stood, walked to your bathroom cabinet, and tore through it until your fingers closed around an old, half-forgotten pregnancy test shoved behind painkillers and half-used lotion bottles.
Your heart hammered. Your breath hitched. Your fingers trembled so violently you almost dropped it twice. You set the test on the counter. A small, stupid, plastic thing that held your entire future inside it. You told yourself again, it won’t be positive. It can’t be positive. It’s impossible. It’s impossible.
But your hands moved anyway. You took the test. And then the seconds began. Long. Slow. Endless. You sat on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around them, forehead bowed like someone praying to survive their own life.
You watched the window. You watched the test. You watched your future tilt and spin and shrink to a single point. When the second line bloomed into place, faint but unmistakable, your breath stopped.
It didn’t stutter. It didn’t break. It stopped. Completely.
You stared at it, numbness crawling up your limbs like frost, something in your chest going quiet and hollow. One line. Then two. A ghostly pink. But there. There. There.
You blinked once. Twice. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat, neither sob nor gasp, something caught between. You reached for the counter to steady yourself, your fingertips brushing the edge of the sink, your knees folding under you until you sat again on the cold tile.
“No,” you whispered, shaking your head slowly, pleading with the universe. “No, no, no, not now… not like this…”
Your tears came silently. Slow, desolate things that rolled down your cheeks and dropped onto your bare knees, leaving tiny dark circles on your skin.
You curled forward, elbows on your thighs, hands cradling your face. You cried for the shock. You cried for the timing. You cried because you were alone in your bathroom, staring at a positive pregnancy test while the man who made this child had told you, with his own voice, with his own mouth, that he didn’t want this anymore, didn’t want you, didn’t want the future you had imagined.
You cried because you loved him. And because he was gone. And because some fragile piece of him was now lodged beneath your heart, growing quietly, without his knowledge.
You didn’t know how long you stayed on that floor minutes, hours, weeks. Time didn’t move normally anymore. It felt suspended, like you were trapped inside a snow globe someone had shaken too hard.
Eventually, your crying softened. Your breathing steadied. Your hand drifted again to your abdomen, slow this time, tentative. Like you were afraid of your own touch. You pressed your palm there. Warm. Still. Alive. A baby.
John’s baby.
Your baby.
You closed your eyes and whispered, barely audible, “I’m going to keep you.” As soon as the words left your mouth, the decision settled in your bones. Solid. Irrevocable. Anchoring. You hadn’t even realized you’d made it. But there it was.
You would keep this baby. With or without him. With or without support. With or without the future you used to picture when John kissed you slow, whispered he loved you, pressed you into his chest like he was afraid the world might steal you away.
You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, breath unsteady. “Okay,” you whispered to the tiny, silent life beneath your skin. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
And the truth, the brutal, heartbreaking truth, was that you did not tell him. You didn’t call him. Didn’t text him. Didn’t go knocking on his door with the test trembling in your hand. You stayed silent. Because you weren’t sure whether telling him would hurt him or hurt you more. Because the breakup was still a fresh wound, bleeding beneath every breath.
Because he had made it so painfully clear he didn’t want to drag you down with him. Because you weren’t sure if this news would feel like salvation or a shackle around his throat. Because the thought of seeing the look on his face, the confusion, the fear, the guilt, was too much to bear. Because you were terrified he would choose not to choose you.
And most heartbreakingly, most humanly, most painfully, because some part of you believed he didn’t deserve to know. Some part of you believed he had forfeited the right when he pushed you out. And some part of you believed, deep down, that protecting this tiny new life meant protecting yourself too.
So you folded the test into a small plastic bag, tucked it into a box in your closet, and wiped your face again. You stood on shaky legs. You washed your hands. You stared at yourself in the mirror, eyes red, cheeks wet, expression hollow. And then you forced yourself to breathe. One breath. Then another. Then another.
You whispered to your reflection, steadying your voice, “We’re going to be okay.” You didn’t believe it yet. Not fully. But your hand drifted again to your abdomen, lingering there. And something inside you, something tiny, something new, felt like hope.
-
You still didn’t tell him. Not the next day. Not at all. Not with the breakup making everything too sharp, too raw, too humiliating to touch. The pregnancy test remained hidden in the back of your closet, tucked under a folded sweater you rarely wore. You told yourself you’d deal with it when things didn’t feel so fragile.
You didn’t realize nothing about this would ever stop feeling fragile.
In the days following the discovery, you moved like someone who had been hollowed out and stitched back together with quiet, trembling hands. Every step felt deliberate. Every breath careful. The world didn’t know what had changed inside you, but the world felt wrong anyway. Too loud. Too bright. Too fast.
Your stomach churned unpredictably, not violently but consistently—like an undercurrent of nausea that ebbed and flowed through the day. Exhaustion settled deep in your bones, a heaviness that even adrenaline couldn’t shake. The coffee you once relied on made your throat tighten. Certain smells in the compound kitchen made you gag. You hid it well.
Or… you tried to.
-
Sam saw you one morning standing outside the training gym, leaning a hand against the wall as if steadying yourself. Sweat beaded along your temple even though you hadn’t been exercising. Your breaths were short, careful. You blinked with the slow, deliberate intention of someone keeping herself upright through sheer will.
“You good?” Sam asked, brows knitting as he approached.
“Fine,” you murmured, pushing off the wall. “Didn’t sleep great.”
He gave you the look, the one that cut straight through bullshit. “You’re pale,” he said. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m not.”
“You say that like it means something.”
You rolled your eyes, but the gesture lacked its usual spark. “Sam, please. I just need some air.”
Sam’s gaze softened, not pitying, but concerned in the way only someone with a big, inconvenient heart could manage. “Is it Walker?” he asked quietly.
The mention of his name was a blow to the chest. You kept your expression neutral by force. “We’re not doing that,” you whispered.
Sam’s jaw flexed. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he said gently. “But you’re not fine. And whatever this is… you don’t have to carry it alone.”
Your throat ached with the weight of everything you couldn’t say. Not yet. Not to him. Not to anyone. So you just nodded once, brushed past him, and escaped before the tears could rise. Sam watched you walk away with an expression you didn’t see, an expression that said he knew something was wrong, even if he didn’t know what.
-
It was Joaquin who caught you first in the act of being human. You were bent over a trash can in the communal kitchen, covering your mouth, gagging on absolutely nothing except the smell of reheated salmon someone had microwaved with criminal negligence.
Joaquin stopped mid-step, holding a mug of tea. “…You alive? Hung over? Eat some bad sa–” he started, half-concerned, half-ready to make fun of you.
You waved a trembling hand in his direction. “Don’t say salmon.”
He blinked. “Okay. I won’t say sa–”
“Joaquin.” You warn.
“Right. Got it. Not saying it.”
You straightened slowly, eyes watery, stomach still rolling.
“You sick?” he asked. You hesitated a moment too long. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re sick.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m just…tired.”
“Tired doesn’t make you dry heave at the smell of fi–”
“Joaquin. Torres.”
He grinned, but it faded quickly when he saw the actual distress in your face. “Hey,” he said softly. “You good? Really good?”
You forced a breath through your nose. “Yeah. Just… stressed.”
He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push. Joaquin was annoying, but he was respectful in the ways that mattered. He slid his mug toward you. “Ginger tea. Helps with…” he paused, choosing a safe word “nausea.”
You blinked at him. “How did you…?”
“My sister was pregnant last year. I learned things.”
Your heart gave a hard, panicked thump. Pregnant. The word hung heavy between you even though neither of you said it. You took the tea. And for the first time, you wondered how long you could keep this secret.
-
Bucky Barnes was the next to notice. He noticed because he noticed everything. You were in the armory with him, restocking magazines and organizing weapons after a mission. You reached for a heavy crate and felt something sharp tug low in your abdomen. Not pain—just a warning. A tightening. You flinched, immediately pulling your hand back.
Bucky’s head snapped toward you. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you said too quickly.
He frowned. “You’ve been moving different.”
“Different how?”
“Careful.”
You froze.
“Like you’re protecting something,” Bucky added.
Your heart stopped. He stared at you with that unerring, unnerving gaze, like winter itself could dissect you. And for one fleeting second, you wondered if he knew. Truly knew.
You forced a tight smile. “Just sore.”
He didn’t buy it for a second, but he didn’t corner you. He simply nodded once, slowly, suspicion lingering in his eyes. “If you need something,” he said, voice low, “you should ask.”
That almost undid you.
-
The weeks dragged on. Your nausea worsened. Your fatigue deepened. Your emotions swung harder and faster than you could control.
You stopped volunteering for joint missions. Stopped attending certain briefings. Stopped hanging out in the common areas where the New Avengers might drift in, where you might see John by accident.
You couldn’t risk that. Not when every time you thought his name, your throat tightened. Not when every time your hand drifted to your abdomen, you felt guilt and grief twist together inside you. Not when the thought of him finding out made your heart ache in ways you didn’t have the strength to endure.
Sam noticed your retreat first. Joaquin noticed your nausea. Bucky noticed your caution. Your team noticed your sudden absences. But no one knew. Not really. Not until the morning in the med bay.
-
You had gone in for a routine physical, exhaustion had made your reflexes sloppy in training, and Sam insisted you get checked. You reluctantly went, telling yourself you’d lie your way through the exam, tell them it was just stress. Except the nurse noted your blood pressure. Your iron levels. Your vitamins. All dipped.
Then she asked, politely but firmly, “When was your last menstrual cycle?”
You froze. Your silence was answer enough. Five minutes later, Sam walked in, chart in hand, expression unreadable. The room felt suddenly too small.
“Hey,” he said softly, closing the curtain behind him. “I talked to the nurse.”
You stared at the floor. He exhaled slowly. “You’re pregnant.” The words dropped like stones into water.
You choked on a breath. Sam’s face softened, grief and tenderness flickering beneath the surface. He crossed the space and knelt in front of you, his hands on your knees, grounding you gently.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.
Your voice broke. “I didn’t know how.”
Sam’s eyes shone with something raw. “Is it…?”
“John’s,” you whispered.
Sam closed his eyes. Not in judgment. In heartbreak. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, pulling you into his arms. And you let him. Because for the first time since the test, you couldn’t pretend you were okay. He held you through your shaking breaths, whispering, “You’re not alone. You’re not doing this alone. Not anymore. Okay?”
You nodded into his shoulder, tears soaking through his shirt.
Buck and Joaquin find out soon after. Sam told them, not the whole story, but enough. Bucky didn’t say much, but he placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed, gentle, steady, protective. It felt like a vow.
Joaquin cried. You did too. He hugged you so tightly you wheezed, then immediately panicked, going, “Oh my god, is that allowed? Did I squeeze the baby? Did I kill the baby? Sam! Did I–”
“Joaquin,” you sobbed-laughed into your hands. “The baby’s fine.”
He made you sit. Made you drink ginger tea. Made you tell him everything you could manage between tears.
“Does Walker know?” Joaquin whispered.
When your face crumpled, both men understood the answer.
-
The secrets start to feel like a wall. You stopped going to places where he might be. Stopped walking past the sparring rooms where his voice might echo. Stopped eating in the common room, afraid he would walk in and see you, see how your exhaustion was showing, see the curve of your belly that would eventually betray you.
You went quiet. Withdrawn. Smaller.
Sam kept your secret. Joaquin shielded you from questions. Bucky softened whatever edges he could for you. But every night, you lay in bed with a hand on your abdomen and whispered apologies to the tiny life inside you.
“I’m sorry your father doesn’t know.”
“I’m sorry I’m doing this wrong.”
“I’m sorry you only have me.”
Your tears tasted like grief and hope intertwined.
Choke hold, sex drunk, bitting, and overstimulating
hi nonnie!!!
I have been staring at this ask since the beginning of October waiting for it to come to me and I’m so sorry because it HASNT
but I have some friends who’ve written some of the things you’re looking for so I’m gonna pass them your way!
@umbreoni has a delish headlock & overstim fic that you can (and should) read here
@flockoff-featherface has a stunning overstim and car sex fic (it’s on my tbr but I’m linking it anyway bc Roe never misses you can read it here
@unificsation wrote one of my favs ever called hold the line! Chapter three has overstim and some of the best smut I’ve read. The series Masterlist is here!
@heldbybarnes vibranium stress test is a recent read but one that deserves 1047197391 more notes. I absolutely adored it and had so much fun reading Bucky and readers banter and dynamic!!! Has overstim and you can read it here
but while I have you
@cursedheartsclub wrote one of my favorite smutty pieces on this app. it’s one I frequently revisit, it’s just the right amount of rough, soft, fluffy, and knee-weakeningly horny!!! you can read it here
