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── .✦ you are a cowboy like
she/her · 20 · chile
— about this;
slow burns, soft longing, best friends to lovers, taylor swift vibes.
steve harrington and others
🍂 — long story short ⤷ taglist
🍁— ‘this the damn season (soon) • collection of stories that happened during the fall
staying friends is safe, doesn’t mean you should ☆ chapter one extra
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
warnings:
word count: 700
⟡ series masterlist
"Do you play with dolls too?" you had asked the boy who was now sitting next to you on the rug.
Your mother had gone into the kitchen with the woman who had arrived, chatting animatedly like anyone who has guests always does.
"No," he whispered, almost with annoyance. You could feel his attentive gaze on the toys you had randomly arranged on the rug, and now also on the stuffed bear he had given you.
"What do you play with?"
"With my toy soldiers."
A smile quickly settled on your lips and you turned to look at him.
"Next time you can bring them, and we can play together."
Steve just stayed silent, watching you move your dolls delicately, as if they were real.
"Do you have friends?" your voice came out curious, fixing your big eyes on him.
Steve made a face. "Not many. In kindergarten, I used to play with my classmates until one of them broke one of my pencils."
"You stopped being friends because of that?"
"No. I think my dad argued with his dad, and since then he doesn't play with me."
You stayed silent for a long moment, letting go of the doll and turning the upper half of your body toward him.
"A girl once pulled one of my ponytails," you said, batting your eyelashes. "I didn't do anything. My mom doesn't let me argue."
"And your dad?"
You quickly fell silent, lowering your gaze to your clasped hands in your lap.
"I don't know. I don't know who he is."
And Steve felt almost personally offended. He rarely felt unlucky to have a father; he almost always proudly said that his father and mother were powerful businessmen. He loved his father even though they weren't very close.
That you didn't know who your father was seemed tragic to him.
"Why don't you know?" His voice was genuinely confused. His furrowed brow and wrinkled chin showed he was really trying to understand what you were saying.
"I've never seen him," you said as if it were the most obvious thing. You had never questioned things too much; you didn't feel like his presence was something that was missing.
"Don't you miss him?"
"I don't know," you looked into his eyes, searching for some answer that you couldn't find in yourself right then. "Do you miss your father?"
And Steve frowned. "Honestly… I prefer it when he goes on business trips."
And he lowered his gaze to your little pink dolls, each one dressed and combed correctly, as if the slightest imperfection would ruin the universe you had created.
"I like your hair," you said so easily and honestly that somehow Steve's heart managed to race.
He timidly lifted his gaze to meet your eyes — pretty and bright.
"Do you want to eat cookies, Stevie? Can I call you that?"
And Steve didn't know how to say no to the prettiest little girl he had ever met in his entire life.
"You can call me whatever you want."
You smiled, jumping up and taking his hand to pull him toward the back door. There was a small table with three little chairs, a glass of juice, and assorted cookies.
"Can we play tea party?"
And Steve didn't really know how to respond.
"I… I've never played that."
"We have to pretend we're princesses chatting while drinking tea, but instead of tea we'll drink juice."
Steve blinked at you. "I don't want to be a princess."
"Then you'll be my prince."
And as naturally as drinking a glass of milk in the morning, you hugged him tightly.
And Steve almost started crying right then and there, because it had been so long since he'd felt such a real hug.
"I hope you always come over to play with me."
"I will," he said almost without hesitating.
And he didn't mind spending the rest of the afternoon pretending to drink tea with you while you rambled on about your favorite princesses.
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
taglist: @maddiedinosaur @dreamerjj @johnricharddeacy @mmmunson @autumn-phantomn @darlingharrington01 @zuncorvemi @xoxsupasparkly @soophieestars @chocorade @voldyslostnose05 @str8100zz @multifandombliss @onlyangel-444 @soobsdior @fallout-girl219 @littleemissperfecttt @micheledawn1975 @mrtonystark @blujaybirdy @taygrls @bluegardenn @daydreamerblues @witchingcove @selene-writes
come for me like a savior and I'd put myself through hell for you ୨ৎ chapter five
pairing: Steve Harrington x femhenderson!reader
warnings: Mentions of y/n, panic attacks, mentions of bullying, steve begins to remember, robien being a great friend, dustin being an overprotective brother
word count: 2.2k
⟡ series masterlist
"Let me see if I understand," the girl stopped Steve with her hand. "You think you were a jerk to Y/N in high school, and it turns out you now think you're in love with her, but you can't remember exactly what you did?"
Robin closed her eyes to process the rapid, jumbled words her friend had dropped early that morning as they sorted video tapes in each section.
"I'm not in love with her, it's more like…" The words suddenly died on his lips. "Look, it's like being aware that a girl is pretty, that's all."
Steve dropped a few tapes while trying to rearrange others; his mind was definitely not at Family Video during his average nine-hour shift. He was thinking about her teary eyes and her sweet lips whispering words so beautiful they hurt Steve like a punch to the gut.
"I never lost hope that you would love me."
Those words were tormenting him. He fell asleep thinking about those words, dreamed about you and those words, woke up and his first thought was those words. He could only think about you; doubt and confusion were growing inside him.
"To be fair…" Robin stepped closer, helping him pick up the tapes he'd dropped. "You were shitty to a lot of people in high school. Even to me."
"That's not the point, Robin," Steve grunted in annoyance, stepping a few feet away from her and walking toward the horror section. "The point is I don't remember her. I don't remember anything I did."
Robin followed behind him, still holding the box of tapes, returning some of the previously rented and returned movies to their proper places.
"Maybe it's like super mega specific amnesia," she said, rolling her eyes at her friend and making a confused face. "You know, you've taken so many hits to the head that I wouldn't be surprised if one of them affected some vital part of your brain."
"That doesn't help me at all," he said, dropping the remaining tapes into the box Robin was holding and leaning against one of the shelves. "Do you remember her?"
"Not much. We never ran in the same circles." The girl's attention was on the special Evil Dead collection, where she put the tapes. "She was the opposite of popular. She was always getting those aggressive comments from your super-friend Carol about her clothes."
Steve's frown deepened, and his eyes filled with regret. He could physically feel it building in the pit of his stomach.
"She was always nice, but I never saw her with anyone in the hallways. Actually, I don't think I ever saw her in the hallways at all." Robin's gaze lifted from the bloody cover of the tape and fixed on Steve. "I think something did happen. And I think you should start making amends if you don't want to lose Dustin."
"What does Dustin have to do with it?"
"No matter how good of a friend you are to Dustin, she's his sister. If you did something bad to her, Dustin will never forgive you."
And understanding flooded over Steve like an ocean.
He knew better than anyone that at some point his actions would come back to bite him, but he never thought it would happen like this.
Not with the mere possibility of losing his best friend.
When Steve showed up at your house with a kicked-puppy look on his face and a bouquet of daisies, he never imagined he'd end up being brutally attacked with a heavy dose of maternal affection.
The truth was, your mother was a loving woman who was always happy to have guests in her home, and Steve, being weak against any kind of female affection, decided to stay.
"So you came here specifically to bring flowers for my mother?" Dustin asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah, I never come over to your house, so I wanted to thank your mom for creating my friend."
A sound of tenderness escaped the woman's lips, but Dustin's eyes narrowed, not trusting the words coming out of Steve's mouth.
"I didn't know you were friends with Dustin," Steve said, smiling kindly at the woman in front of him, looking away from Dustin.
"We're like brothers."
"Dustin, you have a very handsome friend. You should introduce him to Y/N."
Steve tensed at the sound of your name. He had come here with the purpose of talking to you, of resolving his doubts and your insecurities regarding him.
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from asking about you.
"Not in his wildest dreams," Dustin replied dryly, shooting a cold look at Steve.
"I would introduce you, but she went out with a friend," the mother repeated, oblivious to the earthquake her words were causing. Steve exhaled, not sure if it was a sigh of relief or disappointment.
You weren't there. But you'd be back. And he needed to have the answers before that happened.
"No problem, Mrs. Henderson," the smile on the older boy's lips refused to leave.
"Dustin, go heat up the teapot."
Steve noticed how Dustin rolled his eyes reluctantly and let out a frustrated sigh — something Steve himself had received when he'd been told to do something.
A smile escaped his lips. He couldn't lose this kid who was like a brother to him.
"You've gotten so big, Steve," she smiled at him, though her eyes were on the picture on the wall.
A yearbook photo.
There he was, in the last row, smiling.
In the front row was you, not smiling, but with your eyes open and bright.
"You have a very pretty daughter, Mrs. Henderson," the words came out almost automatically from his lips.
Of course he had seen you — always sitting in the front row, eagerly answering the teachers' questions.
You hadn't lost those traits of yours.
"Thank you so much, Steve."
His gaze returned to the woman in front of him, who was getting up to walk toward a cabinet.
Steve took the opportunity to scan the house. Pastel colors flooded the living room; everything felt warm and cozy, from the rug to the white ceiling. The air smelled like you — that strawberry and vanilla scent he'd smelled in your hair yesterday.
"Here," Steve said, taking the book your mother was handing him. "My little ones are the most precious thing to me." When he turned the first page, he was surprised to see a photo of — he assumed — you.
A tiny baby sleeping in a pink crib.
Steve didn't remember his mother or father being very fond of keeping physical memories of his childhood; he'd rarely seen photos of himself, just the ones hanging on the wall in their dark, wallpapered rooms.
But with every page he turned, he could see that you had, in fact, been a child who was very loved.
Then came the first photos of you with Dustin in your arms, you smiling from ear to ear, holding the little boy tightly against your chest.
"Mom! That's embarrassing!" Dustin complained as soon as he entered the living room with a small teapot in his hands and two cups.
"You were adorable, dude," Steve joked, making the younger boy roll his eyes.
"Shut up."
"Dustin!" his mother scolded, which made him cross his arms before sitting next to Steve to supervise what he was looking at.
"That was Halloween four years ago," Dustin pointed to a photo where they were dressed as pirates — Lucas with an eye patch, Will with a hook, Mike with a beard drawn on his face, and you there too, dressed as a princess.
"You guys were always such nerds with your costumes?" Steve asked with a chuckle, earning a shove from Dustin.
But the smile on Steve's face disappeared as quickly as if someone had flipped a switch. His fingers, holding the album, began to tremble. Not a gentle tremor, but a deep one, like something inside him was breaking.
You, smiling shyly at the camera, wearing a white skirt that reached your ankles, and a white blouse — a white blouse that suddenly felt far too familiar in Steve's memory.
He stared at the photo for several seconds, from your shoes to the way your hair was styled.
He knew that blouse. He'd seen it before. But where? He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing his memory, and all that came was a flash: a sound, a laugh, a red cup falling.
"That was her first party," your mother commented to Steve. "I bought her that blouse, but we had to throw it away. It got stained red."
Suddenly the air felt heavier, as if his lungs refused to let air in. He forced himself to close the photo album with his trembling fingers and handed it to Dustin.
"Are you okay?" the boy asked, as if from the bottom of a tunnel.
He didn't turn to look Dustin in the eyes. He didn't have the courage to admit that he might have caused tremendous damage to the person Dustin loved most.
"Yeah, I… I need to go home," Steve's voice came out hurried and almost breathless as he stood up quickly from the couch.
"You won't have tea, honey?"
"No, I… I'll come another day," he answered vaguely, his hand going to the doorknob. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Henderson." He turned his neck almost painfully, as if suddenly all the muscles weighed twice as much. "See you around, buddy."
"Sure, Steve."
His feet hurried toward the car, opening the door almost desperately. Now he was fully aware that he had screwed up, and God, he didn't want to face it.
He didn't want to be alone with this weight on his chest. He needed to talk to someone who knew him, who knew what he was capable of in the past and wouldn't judge him for trying to change. So, without thinking twice, he turned the wheel toward Robin's house.
It wasn't just the way you looked in that photo — cute and smiling — it was the memories suddenly coming back to him. You, with your blouse stained red, your cheeks flushed, your eyes full of tears.
Steve knew perfectly well that he wasn't that guy from before anymore, but the consequences of who he used to be still followed him to this day.
Sure, he loved the power that being popular brought him. Being respected and admired by every person in that stupid high school. How everyone sought his approval — which made him forget that he himself was seeking people's approval — it was magical how just pretending to be someone else brought benefits, and he knew perfectly well how to maintain that title.
King Steve.
He gave his friends what they wanted. Carol expected him to date pretty girls, which led him to be with the most minimally cute and popular girl. Tommy wanted him to be imposing, so he dedicated himself to making fun of those who didn't fit into any social circle — those who used to be the most hidden and quiet. They got the worst of him, the annoying and resentful part of him.
And now he understands.
You were one of those people.
And he was deeply sorry, now that he had managed to find a real group where a person's worth wasn't measured by how popular they were.
He stopped his car in front of his best friend's house — the one who had helped him become better. He let out a shaky sigh as his fingers moved toward the door to get out.
He noticed the flowers in the front garden. Red. The color of the punch that night that stained your blouse.
He looked away almost painfully, and his finger pressed the doorbell at his friend's house.
"Hey, Steve," his friend's big smile made his chest feel warm.
"We need to talk."
"Shit."
"Robin, who is it?" a voice from inside made the girl roll her eyes.
"My boyfriend!" she yelled, frowning, making Steve let out a small laugh.
"That's great!"
"Yeah, we're going out, you know, to do couple stuff." With that, she grabbed her jacket from the hook and closed the door behind her.
Steve watched her with a slightly raised eyebrow.
"Turns out it's better to say I have a fake boyfriend than to explain why I go over to Vickie's house so much."
"Makes sense."
He sat back down in the driver's seat, waiting for Robin to sit next to him. The girl dropped into the seat with an exaggerated sigh.
"I swear, it's like she suspects her daughter is a lesbian. They must have, like, a button for detecting homosexuals. You know what that would cost me? My whole life locked up in a psychiatric hospital…"
Steve interrupted his friend, turning his gaze toward her.
"Robin, I screwed up." His friend fell silent, focusing her eyes on him. "And I need help. I need to fix this problem, because…"
"Wait, wait," Robin placed her hand amiably on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. "What happened?"
"I… I need to apologize to Y/N. You were right. I was an idiot to her, and it's worse than you think."
And for the first time, Steve felt that his reputation as King Steve only brought him trouble, and he wished he could erase all those moments when he left you alone while he and his friends laughed at you.
But he was willing to fix and close all those wounds from the past. For you. And for Dustin.
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
taglist: @maddiedinosaur @dreamerjj @johnricharddeacy @mmmunson @autumn-phantomn @darlingharrington01 @zuncorvemi @xoxsupasparkly @soophieestars @chocorade @voldyslostnose05 @str8100zz @multifandombliss @onlyangel-444 @soobsdior @fallout-girl219 @littleemissperfecttt @micheledawn1975 @mrtonystark @blujaybirdy @taygrls @bluegardenn @daydreamerblues @witchingcove @selene-writes
staying friends is safe, doesn’t mean you should ☆ chapter one
pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
warnings: domestic violence, physical violence, psychological harm, childhood innocence. fluff, hurt/comfort, childhood friends, found family, soft steve, cuddling,emotional hurt/comfort, innocent love.
word count: 3.6k
author’s note: I've decided to restart this series because it was a bit poorly written. This time I've decided to add more things, I hope you like it! Please share your opinions with me (respectfully).
⟡ series masterlist
1971
Steve had always considered himself lonely when it came to playing in his backyard. He usually didn't play with the other neighborhood kids because he was afraid they would steal his toys. But it was never a problem for him—he had no siblings and had already grown accustomed to playing alone.
It was mid-summer. His mother preferred to leave him in the front yard where the fresh grass was, rather than in the backyard where the pool still meant a giant risk for him. So that meant he watched the older kids ride by on their bicycles.
He resentfully placed that Mickey Mouse figure his father had given him (as an excuse for missing his first day of kindergarten) onto the green grass.
"Stevie, sweetheart," his mother's voice sounded sweet as honey. "I've told you not to get your toys dirty with soil."
"Fine," he simply said, a small pout forming on his lips.
Reluctantly, he removed his Mickey Mouse figure from the green grass and placed it on the same blanket he was sitting on, carefully cleaning off the little clumps of dirt where his figure had been resting.
A sigh escaped his lips as he looked around for his mother, who was carefully removing dead leaves from her plants. His mother rarely had days off, and from what little he knew at his age, he believed his mother's job was very important, surely related to national security—at least, that's what he thought.
The truth was, he was used to spending his weekdays with his babysitter. She was fun, always playing hide-and-seek with him, but that didn't mean he didn't miss his mother. And he liked to pretend he didn't, because he was too proud to admit it. And the truth was, it saddened him that his mother chose to spend time with her plants rather than sit down and play with him.
"Mommy?" Steve's voice came out in a low, almost hesitant whisper, but still, his mother turned her neck to look at him.
"What's wrong, honey?"
"Don't you want to play with me?"
Steve's mother let out a little laugh before stepping away from the plants. The carnations swayed in the warm summer breeze, almost as if they were demanding her abandoned attention back.
His mother took off her gloves, carefully tossing them onto the small wooden bench where she had her watering can resting, and walked precisely toward Steve. Her eyes sparkled as she looked at her little boy, and she knelt on the blanket where he was sitting.
"Were you missing Mommy?" she teased lightly, but Steve just nodded, a pout already settling on his lips. "Poor baby."
Steve let out a little giggle as his mother began peppering kisses on his cheeks, pulling him closer into her lap, hugging him against her chest. He could smell the floral and citrus scent of his mother's perfume—the same scent that, for as long as he could remember, had managed to calm his worst crying fits and senseless tantrums.
Steve was small, at least that's what people said. Five years old was enough to form a tough personality, or so he thought. He had understood that the people you love don't always stay close, and there's nothing he could do to change that. He had understood that loneliness doesn't always mean being alone—it can mean being with someone and still feeling lonely. He had understood that he had to make the most of every second near the ones he loved, because he never knew when his parents might have to leave on some business trip that would leave him alone for more than two weeks.
The rest of the afternoon he spent in his mother's arms, constantly grabbing the fabric of her dress whenever she tried to pull away, making her pick him up and carry him with the grace of a swan.
Steve had decided he didn't need anyone but his mother.
It wasn't that he didn't love his father—in fact, he loved it when they both played soldiers in the living room, he loved when his father took him for car rides, and he loved when his father pretended to be Elvis Presley, singing at the top of his lungs in the kitchen.
But that affection disappeared the moment a glass of alcohol touched his father's lips. Suddenly, that loving, fun man turned into a raging, demeaning monster. He hated how he made his mother cry, how he would suddenly realize that Steve wasn't such a good son after all and would search the whole house for him, belt firmly in hand.
For that reason, his mother always put him to bed a little earlier when his father came home. She would take him by the hand, tuck him into his pajamas, then turn on his nightlight while she left sweet kisses on his forehead.
"Is Dad angry?" Steve's small eyelashes brushed against his cheekbones as he looked up at his mother with concern.
"No, love," she whispered against his forehead. "But we don't want him to get angry."
Her slender fingers pulled the covers up to Steve's thin chest.
"Aren't you afraid of him?"
A sad smile settled on her lips. With her other hand, she brushed the brown hair from her son's forehead. "No, I love him."
Steve's brow furrowed in confusion. "But he makes you cry."
A soft giggle escaped her. "You're still little, but someday a girl will come into your life, and you'll know you love her, even if your words or actions don't show it." Her soft thumb moved against the skin of Steve's cheek. "Your father loves me, in his own way. But he does."
The idea of being with a girl seemed disgusting to him. He just wanted to spend his whole life with his mother and make her as happy as possible. He wanted to be a better man. He needed to be a better man.
"Now sleep," she said, leaving one last kiss on his forehead before getting up from the edge of the bed.
Steve just watched her walk softly toward the door, her fingers already wrapped around the doorknob.
"Mom," Steve whispered, making his mother turn to look at him. "I'll be a better man than my father."
A sweet smile settled on her lips. "I know," she said simply, and with that, she opened the door to leave his room and closed it behind her.
Steve woke up the next day feeling more irritable than usual. He hadn't been woken with a kiss from his mother, but by the sound of a truck and many boxes, the noise of laughter, people talking, and one laugh more prominent than the others. He pushed the blankets off his body in one shove.
He wasn't good at waking up early, and he only behaved well if his mother picked him up in her arms. But now, as he placed his bare feet on the plush carpet and walked toward the window, he felt like he needed to break something.
He rubbed his eyes with his left hand while pulling back the curtain that kept the sun from filtering into his room with his right. He stepped onto the little wooden stool his father had made for him years ago and looked out the window.
There was indeed a truck, and many boxes left on the sidewalk of the house across the street—the house that had been empty for at least three years.
There was a man dressed too elegantly, moving boxes inside the house with the help of another man, this one dressed more casually.
Then he noticed the woman. She was about the same age as his mother—at least, she looked just like her. Her hair fell over her shoulders in perfect waves. But something immediately caught Steve's attention: you. A girl slightly shorter than him, gripping her mother's skirt as if her life depended on it.
At his young age, Steve could define you as a little princess. Your eyes were bright, your hair shining under the sun's rays. You held a big bear tightly. From his window, he couldn't make out much, but something had stirred inside Steve—something he didn't yet know how to name.
"Mom!" Steve hurried to get down from the little stool, nearly tripping over his own feet, but he rushed to reach the doorknob of his room.
Immediately, his nose caught the scent of scrambled eggs and coffee—the kind his father always drank. His ears heard the soft voice of his mother humming a song.
"Mom!" Steve shouted again, running down the stairs so fast he nearly fell face-first onto the floor when he missed the last step.
But his mother, quick as always, managed to catch him under his arms and lift him up. "Careful, Stevie," she laughed, leaving a kiss on his cheek. "Did you wake up early?"
"Mom! We have new neighbors!" This time, his father let out a little laugh from the dining room.
"Yes, I'm planning to take them a basket this afternoon. Do you want to come with me?" Steve looked at his mother intently, directly in the eyes. "To welcome them."
"Steve, answer your mother." His father's harsh voice made him jump. He immediately nodded his head in agreement.
Steve didn't miss the way his mother's gaze hardened as she looked toward the kitchen, almost with disappointment.
"Come on, then. You'll take a bath and get all handsome to go with Mommy."
Steve's feet touched the floor when she set him down. The tip of her index finger lovingly touched the tip of his nose, making him laugh happily.
"Now come have breakfast."
He followed his mother, who had already started walking toward the kitchen.
Usually, his breakfast mornings were spent in solitude—sometimes with his babysitter cleaning the kitchen, but mostly, the chairs at the table never filled up. There were always empty spaces, too many chairs for so few people.
Now his father was sitting there, dressed in a suit as elegant as always, a newspaper in his left hand and a cup of black coffee in his right. "Good morning, Steve."
The greeting was as dry and cutting as always. He didn't even bother to lift his gaze from that piece of paper.
"Good morning, Father."
A grimace formed on his lips as he used that diplomatic tone—the one he used only when greeting strangers.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, I dreamed that—"
"Don't talk during breakfast."
Steve fell silent immediately, pressing his lips into a line. He could already feel tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Why was his father here if he clearly didn't want to be?
"I want to hear," his loving mother said as always, placing a bowl of milk and cereal in front of him. "Don't listen to what Daddy says when he's being a jerk."
"Watch your mouth."
"You watch yours."
Steve tensed when his father finally lifted his gaze from the newspaper. His fist clenched against the paper, wrinkling the pages. The cold stare was directed at the woman in front of him.
Was this what love was supposed to look like? Cold and distant? Violent and painful?
"Be grateful your son is here, because I won't hesitate to put you in your place next time."
The tension in the room was suddenly overwhelming. Steve could feel the suffocating grip his mother now had on his shoulder, almost without realizing it.
He didn't want to eat anymore. But he had to, if he didn't want another slap from his father like the last time he refused to eat.
"I'm going to my study," his father said, getting up from the table and dragging the wooden chair across the floor. "I don't want to be disturbed."
The place remained silent as he left the room and closed the door to his workspace with a slam. Steve felt his mother move behind him and take the older man's previous seat.
"Tell me about your dream," she asked with a sweet smile.
Steve had never been so nervous in his short life.
Standing in front of the door of the house across the street, holding his mother's hand while she held a basket full of goods and he held a small teddy bear for the girl he had spotted through his window.
"You know the rules: behave well and always be polite."
His mother reminded him, her knuckles tapping softly against the wooden door. She was always so gentle and delicate, as if afraid that everything she touched might eventually break.
Steve rubbed his feet against each other, unable to stand still, until he felt a tug on his wrist from his mother, signaling him to stay quiet.
The door opened almost instantly, revealing a woman close to his mother's age. She looked sweet and friendly, with a smile that reached her cheeks, her hair falling messily over her shoulders.
"Excuse me," she said quickly, fixing her hair. "The move has kept us busy."
"Don't worry," his mother said with amusement. "I came to welcome you to the neighborhood."
"Oh," the other woman smiled more sweetly this time. "That wasn't necessary."
"Nonsense," his mother waved away the weight of her words, handing her the basket. "That's what neighbors are for."
Steve couldn't help but notice how his mother seemed more relaxed outside the house—how her smile actually reached her cheeks this time, how she seemed to enjoy the conversation.
"Would you like to come in? It's a bit messy, but we have the living room set up."
"Of course."
His mother entered politely, and Steve instinctively followed, pressing even closer to his mother's skirts.
"Hello, little one," the other woman's sweet voice made him blush slightly. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
Steve remained silent. He felt strangely shy under that sweet yet attentive gaze.
"Come on, honey, answer."
"Steve," he whispered when his mother prompted him, his voice almost inaudible.
She guided them to the living room, trying to avoid the boxes scattered throughout the house. He could see some picture frames lying on side tables, a broken lamp, and some more delicate decorations already arranged in the corner cabinet.
The first thing he saw when they reached the living room were the girly toys scattered all over the carpet—and then you.
You were sitting on the carpet, your dress covering your legs and feet, your hair falling over your shoulders just like your mother's.
"Sweetheart, we have visitors."
You lifted your gaze from your dolls and looked excitedly at the people in front of you. Quickly, you stood up and walked to your mother's side.
"Who are they?" you asked softly, almost whispering to your mother.
"They're the neighbors."
Then you shyly fixed your gaze on him, making his heart race a little faster.
"I brought this for you," Steve whispered, his voice trembling as he handed you the little teddy bear.
You hesitated before stepping forward and taking it in your small hands. A smile quickly lit up your young face.
You looked into his eyes sweetly, then hugged the bear to yourself. "Do you want to play with me?.
And Steve never imagined how those words coming from your mouth could change his entire life.
The following weeks became a blur of shared afternoons.
Steve learned to recognize the sound of your footsteps coming down the stairs. He learned that you always saved the chocolate chip cookie with the most chips for him. He learned that your laugh sounded different when it was genuine, and that you bit your lip when you were about to lose at hide-and-seek.
His mother started calling him only for dinner, because he didn't want to go home anymore. And his father… well, his father didn't even notice his absence.
I. The second time Steve went to your house, he brought his little plastic soldiers. You looked at them curiously and then took out your dolls. You ended up building them all a house together out of pillows and blankets.
II. The third time, your mother made cookies. Steve accidentally spilled his milk and froze, waiting for the yell. But your mother just laughed and said, "It's okay, sweetheart, that can be cleaned up." Steve didn't know how to react. In his house, that would have been reason for his father to yell at him.
III. By the fifth time, he no longer needed his mother to take him. He would cross the yard alone, knock on the door with three quick taps, and you would already be waiting for him.
Steve no longer remembers how the two of you became so close…
He had lived so long learning to handle everything alone—from imaginary wars he fought with his toy soldiers to water fights he had by himself. But now that you had come into his life like a ray of sunshine, he simply didn't want to separate himself from your sweet presence.
"I found you," you laughed, jumping on top of him as soon as you found him in the space under your stairs.
Steve let out a little laugh, falling to the floor, letting you hug him and use him like a rug.
"You don't know how to hide," you said, smiling.
"You're too good." The truth was, he let you win, because he loved the way your little laugh made him laugh too.
Steve preferred coming to play at your house, without his father's sharp gaze and without his mother's strict orders. Here, he wasn't afraid of making mistakes, because he had discovered that your mother was an angel.
A few days ago, while you were running away from Steve, trying not to let him catch you, you collided with a coffee table and broke the vase.
He had hugged you almost instinctively, trying to protect you from anyone who might hurt you, the way it had happened to him so many times. But instead, your mother just smiled and said, "I was going to replace that anyway."
"Don't you think you've spent too much time in that house?" his father spoke loudly during dinner. "They'll start thinking you don't have a home."
"He's just playing," his mother quickly defended him, stopping eating to look at him.
"He shouldn't be playing with a girl," he growled. "He's a boy. Because of that little brat, he'll turn into a sissy."
"Don't call her that," Steve quickly defended you, making his father's gaze turn to him.
"Excuse me?" His fist banged against the table, making the silverware jump. "Don't talk to me like that."
"Enough," his mother intervened again. "He'll play with whomever he wants."
That was enough for his father to get up from his seat and grab his mother by the hair, pulling her off the chair. Steve quickly stood up from the table.
"I've let you be bold, but it's over."
"Stop," Steve stepped in, but that earned him a slap that sent him crashing against the wall.
Tears were already streaming down his cheeks, his vision nearly blurry.
"Are you crying? This is all that little girl's fault." Steve growled angrily and mustered the courage to punch his father in the stomach.
"I hate you. I hate you so much. I hope you die." It wasn't a strong punch, but the surprise made his father release his mother and step back.
"Go to your room, love," his mother whispered to him.
And this time, Steve obeyed.
For her.
He went up the stairs, his heart beating so hard it hurt his chest.
Behind him, the shouting started again.
The sound of something breaking.
A dull thud.
Muffled crying.
He locked the door.
And then he collapsed.
The tears fell uncontrollably, his breathing ragged, his body trembling as if he couldn't stop.
He didn't want to be there.
He didn't want to hear.
He didn't want to feel.
He got up clumsily and opened the window.
The cold night air hit his face.
And then he knew.
He had only one place he could go.
To you.
He carefully climbed down the small ladder by his window, his trembling hands gripping each rung. As soon as his feet touched the grass, he started running.
He didn't look back.
He didn't hesitate.
He just ran.
He ran quickly to the same ladder he had climbed down, but this time in front of your house, to climb up to your room.
His knuckles knocked urgently on your window.
He could see you through the curtain.
Brushing one of your dolls.
Calm.
Safe.
As if the world couldn't touch you.
"Steve?"
Your voice made something inside him shatter completely.
He sobbed harder.
You opened the window immediately.
And you let him in.
Like always.
Steve didn't wait.
As soon as his feet touched the floor of your room, he threw himself at you, hiding his face in your shoulder, soaking your nightgown with tears.
"I don't want to go back to my house," he whispered, his voice broken.
And you didn't ask questions.
You just hugged him.
You guided him to your bed.
You moved the teddy bear—the same one he had given you—and tucked him in carefully.
As if he were fragile.
As if he were important.
"You are my home now," Steve murmured, his voice tired and his eyes swollen.
You looked at him.
And smiled softly.
"And you are mine."
The next morning, Steve woke up with the sun coming through a window that wasn't his. He didn't hear shouting. He didn't hear chairs scraping. He only heard your quiet breathing beside him and the distant sound of your mother humming in the kitchen. He smiled. For the first time in a long time, he truly smiled.
And he knew that, no matter what happened, he would run away every night he had to. Because that night, Steve Harrington learned that home wasn't a house—it was an open window, small hands that held him, and a teddy bear that smelled like cookies. And even though he was only five years old, he knew he would never be alone again.
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
taglist:
@maddiedinosaur @dreamerjj @johnricharddeacy @mmmunson @autumn-phantomn @darlingharrington01 @zuncorvemi @xoxsupasparkly @soophieestars @chocorade @voldyslostnose05 @str8100zz @multifandombliss @onlyangel-444 @soobsdior @fallout-girl219 @littleemissperfecttt @micheledawn1975 @mrtonystark @blujaybirdy @taygrls @bluegardenn @daydreamerblues @witchingcove @selene-writes
SPECIAL MASTERLIST 𑣲
stories about special occasions — ☆
CHRISTMAS ₊°｡❆
✦ a nonsense christmas
VALENTINE’S DAY
HALLOWEEN
AUTUMN
NANCY WHEELER 𑣲 MASTERLIST
ONE-SHOTS:
⋆ do you picture me like I picture you?
After months of living with Nancy, the line between friendship and love begins to blur more and more.
SERIES:
okay guys, opinions about the new aesthetic?
@maddiedinosaur @dreamerjj @johnricharddeacy @mmmunson @autumn-phantomn @darlingharrington01 @zuncorvemi @xoxsupasparkly @soophieestars @chocorade @voldyslostnose05 @str8100zz @multifandombliss @onlyangel-444 @soobsdior @fallout-girl219 @littleemissperfecttt @micheledawn1975 @mrtonystark @blujaybirdy @taygrls @bluegardenn @daydreamerblues @witchingcove @selene-writes
This is the first time I've used a GIF as a head image, I hope it turned out well.
thank u @houseofhyde (for being the inspiration for my profile and for helping me, although I think I got lost somewhere because it was hard for me to figure out how to remove the background)
🍂 Hello!, I'm sorry to be so absent, but I'm with a lot of medical exams, of the cardiac type and I've had time, but the truth is that I didn't have the head to think about other things.
But recently in my country, which is Chile, autumn has begun, and a fact about me is that I love this season of the year. So I put on my headphones and put Taylor Swift's album Evermore on repeat and guess what? A million ideas have come to my head.
So I've been rewriting "stay as friends is safe, doesn't mean you should" because the truth was that there were things that didn't convince me, and I've been thinking about changing the aesthetics of my account, maybe something with green? Or autumn aesthetics? I don't know, you help me.
Thank you for the patience you have had me, even waiting for me for updates and I promise you that I have improved the writing a lot, and well, also apart from Steve's stories I have thought about writing about Nancy (I am obsessed with the lesbian vibes that she gives me) and maybe also something with Hopoer (I love older men) and well, maybe stories from other fandoms, such as Joel Miller, Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanoff, I don't know, you tell me if it's okay with you.
Now, finally, I need to make sure that the people who are in my taglist still want to continue there, so tell me if I take them out or leave them @maddiedinosaur @dreamerjj @johnricharddeacy @mmmunson @autumn-phantomn @darlingharrington01 @zuncorvemi @xoxsupasparkly @soophieestars @chocorade @voldyslostnose05 @str8100zz @multifandombliss @onlyangel-444 @soobsdior @fallout-girl219 @littleemissperfecttt @micheledawn1975 @mrtonystark @blujaybirdy @taygrls @bluegardenn @daydreamerblues @witchingcove @selene-writes, and for new people who want to join my incredible and amazing blog they can also let me know.
And I promise you that April brings good things, thank you very much for everything, as we say in Chile: Los quiero mas que la chucha, weones.
HIIIII I’M BACK
I have an obsession with starting new stories when I don't have a single one finished.
YOU CAN BUY ME A COFFE IF YOU WANT
I didn't plan to do this, but in reality I said: Why not?, it's not mandatory that you give me money, obviously not, I won't upload anything interesting or valuable either (maybe some previews of chapters or stories), but I'll leave the page just in case.
BUY ME KOFI
do you picture me like I picture you?
pairing: Nancy Wheeler x fem!reader
warnings: friends to lovers, lesbians, emotional cheating, silence love, unrequited love (in reader’s mind), jealousy, lack of communication, Robin being Robin.
summary: After months of living with Nancy, the line between friendship and love begins to blur more and more.
word count: 5.0k
author’s note: I know this isn't something I usually write about, but I couldn't get the idea of a lesbian relationship with Nancy out of my head. Sorry not sorry.
Your eyes lately seemed glued to the movements of the girl in front of you. You thought it was because of the abysmal amount of time you spent locked up in the same place with the same four people, but there was something about Nancy that you found stupidly attractive.
It was the gentle way her hands moved among the thousands of papers scattered across the table, it was the way her messy curls fell over her forehead, moving with every turn of her neck, it was the way her eyes softened when she talked about something that caused her immense tenderness or nostalgia, it was the way her lips pursed when something displeased her, it was the way she made your heart beat when her attention focused on you and she chose to spend part of her time talking with you.
It was hours and hours of conversations. Hours and hours of details about Nancy's personality. Hours and hours of a secret language you could only speak with her. You had learned that she hated music too loud and booming, she hated the idea of settling in one place and not growing as a person, she disliked the idea of having children and having to worry about the idea of stagnating, she was scared to think that all her loved ones could die because of her. And then you had learned other, less important facts, facts that you had dedicated yourself to memorizing. She took her coffee with exactly half a teaspoon of sugar, she preferred citrus scents to sweet smells, she liked to use only one spoon with the white handle and flower design, she liked to sleep on the left side of the bed because it made her more comfortable, she liked to write various different essays to relieve stress, she liked to wear pink clothes that contrasted with her strong personality.
Learning about Nancy was like learning all the words to your favorite song, it was like reading a book you had already read just because you loved its ending, it was like sitting in front of a campfire after a cold day. It was easy to understand why Steve and Jonathan were hopelessly in love with Nancy.
"Meditating on life?" you blinked rapidly, coming back from your restless thoughts. You could only smile as Nancy sat down next to you.
"Yeah," you whispered weakly, that's how you'd been feeling lately with her. Weak and docile. You wanted to think it was because you simply really enjoyed having a friend in this hell you were currently living through. But deep down you knew it was much more than that. "You know, the usual, monsters and alternate dimensions."
She let out a little laugh and you felt your heart slow down. "Yeah, the usual." Sometimes you wondered; how risky would it be to just crash your lips against hers?
You let the orange scent of her perfume envelop all your senses. The warm light from the lamp next to the sofa made you feel serene, something you always managed to feel only with Nancy by your side. Her pink sweater made her look almost angelic while her blue jeans somehow made her eyes shine in a strange way.
You could share hours and hours of silence loaded with unspoken words with her. And for a moment, as you managed to grasp the immensity of your feelings, you wished she had the same confusion in her mind.
"I think Jonathan and I aren't doing well," Nancy let out an almost imperceptible sigh. Your eyebrows furrowed as she rested the back of her head against the sofa cushion.
"I thought you were? I mean, for the amount of time you've been together." She gently turned her neck to look into your eyes, and you got slightly lost in how her eyes softened when she saw you.
"Yeah, I thought so too. But lately I just think... I don't think we'd be together if this hadn't happened." Her eyes moved to the scar on the palm of her hand. "We share a trauma and we thought that was enough to call it love but... I don't think I was ever in love with him or... Steve."
"I think when the world is ending you just don't want to face it alone," you smiled gently at Nancy. "I don't think any of that was wrong... Surely if I'd found out about this earlier I'd be with someone too, worst case scenario, Steve."
Nancy let out another little laugh as she rested her cheek on your shoulder, her eyes bright from her smile fixed on you. "I'm glad you're here."
You didn't want your heart to race the way it did, nor did you want your cheeks to blush a deep pink, but it still happened. The weight of her gaze made you feel like you were breathless in a terrifying way, your throat tight, unable to say a single word. Could it be possible that she felt exactly the same? You let your mind play with various scenarios where the possibility of an entire life with her was your reality.
"Nancy..." you barely managed to whisper as your eyes dropped to her pink lips. You felt her hold her breath but before anything could leave your lips, the door opened.
"You're not gonna believe what we found." Your gaze had never looked away from someone so quickly. But Steve's loud voice and Jonathan's light footsteps brought you back to reality, a reality where you weren't alone with Nancy.
You looked away towards Steve who was already smiling broadly at you. His eyes were bright as he held a bag of chocolates in his hands. "Are they even in good condition?" Nancy asked in an amused voice.
"Of course they are, Nance." Steve raised an eyebrow as he tossed a chocolate bar to the girl beside you. You didn't turn to admire how her long fingers delicately took the chocolate bar, you didn't trust yourself to do so.
"I brought you this." Jonathan approached her more shyly. Nancy's words still echoed in your head, but even if Nancy wasn't in love with Jonathan, you knew he was. The way his eyes lit up when he saw her, how he risked his life just to keep her safe, the way he wanted to see her grow even if it wasn't with him, all of that told you he was completely in love with her.
And in a way you could find it romantic, tender, you could even praise what they had. But something inside you throbbed with pain. Not even you could understand the complexity of this feeling that had been forming for a few months, so you didn't know how to soothe the pain that settled in your chest like a brick.
You got up from the sofa before seeing Jonathan's lips gently crash against Nancy's pink ones. You knew you couldn't bear to see their lips a little shinier, their cheeks flushed from the kiss her boyfriend had given her. You hated this. You didn't want to feel this way.
The heat in Indiana always felt a bit drier than in the other cities you had visited with your family years ago; you thought it was because of the absence of trees, or you could also associate it with the heat emanating from underground lately.
You watched carefully as the birds flew over the WSQK antenna, wanting to tell them not to, or they might die burned by the energy emanating from it.
You were grateful to be wearing a light dress that could at least give you some coolness under the penetrating rays of the sun. You could even feel your hair sticking to the back of your neck from the sweat silently creeping down behind your hair.
"It's hot." Steve's voice snapped you out of your thoughts and you let out a little laugh seeing him in a wool vest and a brown jacket.
You had learned to like the guy who always seemed to be more of a pretty face than a thinking brain.
"Are you like, from lava or something, why so bundled up?" Steve let out a little laugh, leaning his arm on the wooden pillar.
"You know, I'm preparing in case we have to run to the other side." You saw the scars on his fingers and neck, you could almost feel sorry for the guy in front of you. "They make me look hotter."
You smiled at him sincerely as you nodded, you didn't like Steve, not by a long shot, but you could appreciate how he tried to hide the real pain of his scars and turned them into charm.
"Yeah, totally, makes me wanna jump on you." You rolled your eyes as the words left your mouth, provoking a flirtatious grin from him.
"Steve, Robin needs you inside." Nancy's voice made Steve's eyes immediately go to her.
"Yeah, sure." The guy glanced at you before going back inside.
Nancy quickly took the spot Steve had just occupied and looked at you with a furrowed brow.
"Are you falling for the Harrington charm?" I let out a little laugh, shaking my head.
"No, no way." My back rested against the other wooden pillar and I stared at Nancy.
Her curls perfectly framed her face, her baby pink shirt made her look almost angelic. You had learned to love those blue jeans she seemingly couldn't take off lately. Her eyes, as bright as ever, looked almost unreal with the sun's rays reflecting in them.
You were aware that you had been avoiding being alone with her, even if not on purpose, you tried to stay away from her because you didn't trust your own eyes to hide the intensity of your feelings.
"You seemed pretty charmed with Steve, actually." Her accusatory words made you raise an eyebrow. If you didn't know her, you could easily think she was angry because you were flirting with her ex-boyfriend for whom she still had confused feelings.
But you knew perfectly well that Steve couldn't matter less to her, and that her anger came from something you still couldn't recognize (or maybe you could, but it was much better to pretend).
"I'm not interested in jumping into Steve's arms." Your unconcerned voice did little to erase Nancy's frown. "Why do you seem so worried about that?"
Her eyebrows relaxed and her eyes opened a little wider than normal, something you had noticed she did when she didn't really know what to answer.
"I'm not worried, just... Perplexed." Her blue eyes looked away from yours to stare somewhere else.
"Perplexed?" Your brow furrowed in amusement.
"Yeah... I didn't think you'd be fooled by Steve's charm." You noticed the muscles in her neck tense. "I think you deserve someone much better than Steve, maybe he's changed but..."
She bit her lower lip as her eyes returned to yours, shiny and full of internal confusion, her chin tensed almost in a pout.
"You don't deserve a guy who doesn't know what he really wants, you deserve someone who gives everything for you, who makes you his reason for living and whose biggest concern is taking care of you."
You blinked several times to process the words that escaped Nancy.
You could caress her words as if they were a love letter or a confession, the purest confession of love.
Your own heart beat wildly against your chest and you were afraid she could see it through the fabric of your dress.
"Nance..." your words escaped as a whisper, making Nancy's eyes go back to your lips.
"Babe!" Jonathan's voice made you quickly pull away from Nancy, almost instinctively you brought your fingers to push the strands of your hair back. "Hi, girls."
Jonathan gently wrapped his arm around Nancy's waist to pull her towards him, you heard Jonathan's lips leave a smacking kiss on Nancy's cheek.
You dared to look at her, that smile that didn't quite reach her ears was on her lips, her overly embarrassed eyes stared at you intently while her jaw tensed.
"Hi, Jonathan." You managed to greet, forcing a friendly smile.
"I didn't know you were coming today." Nancy's voice tried to sound unconcerned, even delighted with her boyfriend's visit.
"Well, I planned to surprise you." It physically hurt to see Jonathan's lovesick smile, how his eyes shone when he saw his girlfriend, how he had taken the time to drive all the way here just to see her face.
"I'll go inside," you said with discomfort and something akin to guilt touching your words. "I'll leave you two alone, lovebirds."
You avoided looking at those blue eyes that you knew were already looking at you. The word 'lovebirds' weighed bitterly as you went back inside.
You leaned against the door as you closed it behind you, and you could only feel the sorrow growing inside you imagining the kisses Jonathan could so freely give Nancy, how surely he could have the privilege of holding her on the darkest, coldest nights.
"Need help with that?" Robin asked you cheerfully when she saw you dragging a box across the floor.
"Please." Your breathless voice made her smile as she hurried to get up from the sofa to help you drag the box.
"What do you have in here anyway?" She let out a sigh of exhaustion when they left the box on top of a table. "When I was ten I had a dog, fat and big, every time I tried to pick him up he'd poop on me." You looked at her attentively, blinking several times. "Anyway, since then I haven't picked up anything as heavy as this box."
Finally a laugh escaped your lips at Robin's anecdote; she always said the least appropriate things most of the time.
"I brought some books that no one reads anymore at home and around the neighborhood, you know, for the affected people."
"And why did you bring them here?" she said, starting to pick up the books to look at their covers. "Sorry to tell you but here we'd rather die of boredom than hold a book, in fact I seriously think Steve is like illiterate, he doesn't know how to spell 'schedule'."
"I always thought he passed English because the teacher was in love with him." Robin opened her lips in understanding. "And I brought these books for Nancy to see them first, maybe she's interested in one."
Robin's eyes settled on your face, analyzing your features and how your eyes flashed briefly at the mention of Nancy's name.
"And then I'll take them away." You turned your head towards the girl but she was looking at you cautiously.
It wasn't an easy topic to broach, not in these years; any wrong word and Robin knew you could run away and distance yourself from her forever. But she also needed to let you know that if for some reason you liked a girl, she could understand it more than anyone.
"You brought this heavy box just so Nancy could see the books?" she asked in an extremely measured voice.
"Yeah." Your brow furrowed, not understanding why Robin's curiosity seemed to grow so suddenly.
"I mean, you collected a bunch of books and your first thought was... Nancy?"
"Obviously, I'm aware of how much she loves reading good books and I don't know... Maybe it makes her a little happier."
Robin looked around before grabbing you by the wrist and dragging you into the soundproofed booth where the radio was broadcast.
You complained about the tug on your wrist and even more so about how serious she seemed.
"Robin, you could have politely asked me to come here," you complained again as she closed the door and looked you in the eyes.
"My mom hated my aunt," she suddenly blurted out, making you raise an eyebrow in confusion.
"And what does that...?"
"She never let me visit her and wouldn't let her come to the house. My aunt never got married. She lived with a friend. They shared everything, even the garden. People said things, but she didn't care. She said happiness doesn't understand rules." Robin's eyes shone. "It took me a while to understand it, really, but then I got it. When I saw Tammy Thompson."
You felt your heart beat rapidly because somehow you knew where this conversation was going, and it made you too nervous to admit your reality out loud.
"I liked everything about her, how she talked, how she smiled, her curly blonde hair, her eyes... I thought it was admiration, like... Look at that girl, how pretty she is! But no." Robin sat on the small support table inside. "I liked her, romantically speaking. And it's complicated being what I am, because any wrong move and I'm the biggest pervert in Indiana... No, in the world."
You let out a little laugh at the rapid and confused words coming out of her mouth; you could even distinguish the nervousness in her own voice.
"In short, I found Vickie and, God... She's the person I love, and I understood that my mother didn't keep me away from my aunt because she was a bad person, but because she had chosen to love a woman."
Carefully, she let the following words escape: "If I'm wrong, forgive me, but if I'm not... I think what you feel for Nancy is more than just friendship and if I'm right... From the way her eyes always seem to be looking for you, I think she might feel the same way."
Hearing those words come from someone else was hard to hear; you hated that your internal conflict had been evident to someone else and that it had been so easy for them to deduce what was going on in your thoughts.
You could feel your hands beginning to tremble and the lump in your throat growing larger — one thing was having your own internal confusion, another was someone noticing and managing to decipher what was happening — you bit your lower lip trying to bring yourself back to reality, outside of your mind.
Robin's hands gently took yours, her thumbs stroking the backs of your hands.
"I understand how you feel, because I felt exactly the same way when I finally understood." You could feel the tears already starting to fall down your cheeks, silent and disobedient, refusing to ask your permission to fall. "But you're not alone. If you prefer to keep this in silence, I'll respect it and I'll be your support forever... Or if you prefer to tell Nancy, believe me, I'll be cheering from the sidelines, I'll be your biggest fan."
A smile peeked through your tears; you felt extremely grateful to the girl in front of you. "Nancy is with Jonathan," you whispered with a broken voice.
"Screw Jonathan," she smiled but immediately corrected herself. "I like Jonathan, but both of you... We all know that relationship is going downhill, like that paper airplane Dustin made, the one that went straight into the water."
"I need time." You wiped your tears with the back of your hand and Robin nodded quickly.
"You have the right to take all the time in the world." You smiled when Robin affectionately ran her fingers through your hair.
The entrance door opened and your eyes immediately fixed on Nancy, behind her came Jonathan and Mike, but her eyes seemed to be scanning your face, shiny from your tears.
She quickly advanced towards the booth so you had to move away from the door so she could open it.
Her arms immediately pulled you close against her while her fingers stroked your hair almost vehemently. You allowed yourself to bury your nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling that floral scent you knew so well, the one that had made you turn Nancy into your definition of home.
"What happened?" Nancy asked worriedly, pulling back to look into your eyes. Her thumbs finished drying the previously spilled tears and lingered longer than necessary stroking your skin.
Robin smiled softly at you before stepping around them to leave the booth, to give you more privacy.
"Nothing... I'm just overwhelmed." Your fingers went to one of Nancy's curls to play with it. Her eyes lingered on your lips before she gave you an affectionate kiss on the forehead.
"You know you can come to me too, right?" You nodded, brushing your thumb along her jawline; it was too intimate a gesture in that soundproofed booth, where Robin could only observe from the outside how your cheeks flushed and Nancy's did too.
"It's nothing serious," you said finally, letting your hands fall to your sides and taking a step back.
As much as you loved Nancy's closeness and the illusion of something more, you couldn't ignore Jonathan's gaze through the glass.
She seemed to react too, snapping out of a daydream that was totally forbidden for the eldest Wheeler daughter, the perfect daughter who should be a pride to her parents.
"I brought some books, I wanted you to look at them first... You know, in case you like any." You brought your hands to the back pockets of your denim skirt. "Then I'll take them to city hall."
A warm smile settled on Nancy's lips, her eyes shining brighter than when Jonathan brought her some tape from a band she didn't even like.
"Thank you," she whispered sweetly, you almost missed her tucking a curl behind her ear but your eyes as always seemed to follow every single gesture of the girl in front of you.
Carefully, you touched her arm to gently move her aside to reach the booth door.
You bit your lower lip when her fingers went to your wrist, but you pulled away from her when Jonathan had already stepped forward to open the door.
"Nance," Jonathan's voice whispered affectionately. "Want to go for a ride?" You could recognize the need for privacy, to love each other like before, to hold his girlfriend's attention.
But Nancy's eyes were fixed on you, with a tender smile.
"No, I'm going to stay and look at the books," she whispered so sweetly you felt your heart leap.
"Are they fighting again?" Steve furrowed his brow when he heard the voices in the distance.
It wasn't hard to figure out, from Nancy's wrinkled face, the fury in her eyes and her pursed lips listening to Jonathan's words.
You were sitting on the roof of the place with a blanket under you, next to Robin and Steve. It was one of those quiet days where they just hung out without kids running around. But before the night even started, it had already been overshadowed by the shouts in the distance from both of them.
"It's like the... tenth time this week?" Robin asked with a hint of mockery as she took a sip from her beer can.
"I'd say it's the tenth time today," Steve joked this time, handing you the bag of marshmallows.
You took one out of the bag despite the worry growing in your gut seeing Nancy so distressed. You wanted to go down — not to interrupt the argument — just to let her know she had support if something went wrong.
"Guys," you complained with a frown, unable to process a single word of mockery towards the situation. "I don't think this is a situation to make fun of."
"We're not making fun," Steve corrected you immediately, raising his index finger as if to give more weight to his answer. "We're pointing out the obvious, lately they spend more time arguing than being a couple."
"And this time Dingus hasn't done anything to provoke an argument." You turned to look at Robin who was already watching you with a raised eyebrow and a sideways smile.
Your cheeks flushed and you looked back at Nancy who had her face in an offended grimace, her lips parted and her eyes blinking repeatedly told you so.
Jonathan's eyes looked up towards the roof and you could feel them on you, so intensely that you felt almost responsible for the argument that had just occurred.
"Is he leaving?" Steve asked with genuine confusion. In all these years, argument after argument, Jonathan had never left Nancy alone during a fight.
"That's new." Robin nodded with her lips curved in a smile as her elbow nudged your side.
Nancy's eyes looked up to fix on you; you expected to see anguish and desperation, the trace of unshed tears in her eyes, her chin trembling. But instead you only saw relief in her eyes, how her shoulders dropped when she saw you, and a soft smile settled on your lips.
"I'm going to her," you said before carefully standing up, grabbing a blanket before going down the stairs.
Nancy was already waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs with her hands shoved in her coat pockets.
"Can I...?" you asked before gently wrapping her in the blanket. Her cold cheeks under your thumbs made you feel strangely protective. "Do you want to talk?"
You sat down next to her on one of the sofas that had gradually become your spot. Where you always sat to talk between laughs or sometimes between silent glances.
Now you were wrapped under the same blanket, because she had passed the blanket over your shoulders.
"We broke up," she said with as much naturalness as someone talking about their breakfast.
"Oh," you said softly, carefully taking her fingers between yours. "I'm sorry."
Her fingers gripped yours more tightly with a silly smile on her lips. "Don't be." Unconsciously, she moved closer to you. "I couldn't keep lying to him, I couldn't keep saying I loved him when that clearly wasn't true."
You didn't want to look at her with the intensity you had now, you didn't want to scare her, but you couldn't deceive your eyes; they yearned for the woman sitting beside you.
"I told him I was grateful to him, for everything we went through, but that my heart simply didn't belong with him anymore... Or maybe it never did." She let out a small laugh, looking at you with the same intensity. "He never really knew me; he didn't care what music I liked or what I did in my free time. In three years of relationship, he was never able to understand me, at least not like you do."
Your heart stopped; you could feel an electric shock travel through your entire body to the tips of your toes.
"At first I thought I had finally found a friend, someone I could be myself with. It was so easy being by your side that suddenly I always wanted to be near you. I tried to convince myself that I was happy with Jonathan, that we loved each other, and that what I felt for you was platonic — with a capital P — but I knew by the way I sometimes imagined it was you kissing me instead of Jonathan. You slipped so easily into my thoughts that I could never understand how it happened; I just know that one day you seemed to be everything I needed."
You gently wet your lips, which suddenly felt drier than normal, making her eyes drop to your lips.
"Jonathan noticed, he realized my eyes were on someone else, that I smiled more often when I was with you, that I chose to sit in silence with you rather than talk to him, and if we did talk, all my answers somehow led back to you."
"I spent months thinking I was the only one feeling confused," you finally dared to speak, when she seemed to fall silent. "I kept reminding myself you were with Jonathan, that you were happy with him, and I couldn't create false illusions... Especially because, we're two girls, I know the problems all this could bring us, and believe me, I don't want you to go through hard times because of what we feel."
Nancy just let out a little laugh, taking your fingers and leaving a kiss on each one. "I couldn't care less right now, I don't care what people say anymore. I've fought extradimensional monsters; people's opinions are the least of my fears."
A sigh escaped your lips; you dared to move even closer to her, your thigh brushing against hers.
"I care about you so much, Nancy." She smiled affectionately, tilting her neck slightly to rest her cheek on her own shoulder, her eyes, clear as the sky, still fixed on you.
"I know," she whispered so simply that you felt silly for ever doubting if she felt the same, because here, with her looking at you like you were the most precious thing...
You simply leaned forward, gently cradling her cheeks in your palms. Your nose brushed softly against hers and you felt her hold her breath at the same moment she closed her eyes.
"Nancy Wheeler, can I kiss you?" Her fingers went to the strands of your hair falling over your face to brush them aside.
She was the one who finally dared to press her lips against yours in a kiss so soft you could have died right there. Her lips weren't desperate; they touched yours with adoration. You both knew you had a whole lifetime to adore each other.
"You're such a terrible partner you turn girls into lesbians," Robin blurted out with a happy smile, watching you and Nancy.
Steve simply stared at them with a pout forming on his lips, which made Nancy let out a little laugh, hiding her face in your neck.
Softly, you placed a kiss on her forehead. For the first time in months, your chest felt lighter as Nancy's floral scent quickly enveloped your senses.
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Come for me like a savior and I'd put myself through hell for you - chapter four
pairing: Steve Harrington x henderson!femreader
warnings: drunk reader, slow burn, Steve still doesn't remember (I swear there's an explanation for this), confessions, Dustin is overprotective, Steve is kinda in love.
word count: 5.1k
⟡ series masterlist
𐙚⋆.˚
March 1983
You liked to habitually sit in the row of seats by the window. When class bored you, you could easily focus your attention on something outside. Sometimes, in the middle of class, you'd find yourself tracing with your finger, on the desk, the Warrior symbol you used on your D&D character sheet.
But you also liked watching the birds that landed on some tree branches, you also liked seeing that lady who always walked her dog early in the morning so it could do its business.
At any other time, Mr. Abrams' science class would have kept you pretty focused, but right now you couldn't tear your thoughts away from that snowflake that had stuck to the window.
Miss Kelly had recommended you find new hobbies ("playing D&D with your brother and his friends doesn't count," she'd clarified). You were trying to leave years and years of bullying, mental wounds, and insecurities behind you, but no matter how hard you tried, your thoughts always returned to the person who had managed to destroy you, Steve Harrington.
You had built a personal geography to avoid him. A survival routine you didn't even know you could memorize. You no longer went to the cafeteria at the time he used to be there; you preferred the dusty silence of the library. If you saw him near the main exit, you'd take a detour through the east hallway or, sometimes, take refuge in the girls' bathroom, counting seconds until you were sure the coast was clear. You had emptied your locker and now carried everything in a bag that weighed more than it should.
You could only see him in the classroom, and even then you had made an effort to stay out of his sight, choosing to sit as far forward as possible and on the opposite end from him. You heard his voice when you weren't completely lost in your thoughts, you could hear his malicious laugh when you stopped focusing on the teacher's voice, and worse yet, you could feel his gaze when you did your best to stay out of his sight.
You didn't even make an effort to get up when the bell rang announcing the end of the school day. You kept your eyes on the snowflake that was slowly beginning to melt. The noise of backpacks and chairs scraping against the ceramic floor made your eardrums ache. By the time you moved your gaze from the tiny snowflake, no one was left in the classroom.
Can a person die of grief? You hoped not. You moved with heaviness, feeling every limb tightly clenched. The strap of your bag was heavier than ever against your shoulder.
"Miss Henderson," Mr. Abrams' voice stopped you as you were about to go out the door. You knew that sooner or later this moment would come, when you'd have to be questioned by him.
You turned on your feet to face him. He didn't seem angry, you could see the concern in his eyes and the way his eyebrows drew together upwards. "What's wrong?"
"I don't want to pry, really. But I couldn't help noticing your grades have dropped significantly." You looked at the worried man in front of you, you really wanted to be honest but... how do you explain that you'd lost motivation without sounding depressed? "I want to know if there's something affecting your performance, I can't help noticing how you seem to be everywhere but here."
"I haven't been sleeping well," you forced a smile, not wanting to worry the teacher in front of you even more.
"This seems like more than just not sleeping well, you've always been my best student and I'm worried about you. If you don't want to tell me what's happening, that's completely fine. But I need to know you'll be okay." You could feel the lump in your throat quickly forming, you didn't want to cry over something that made you feel miserable at night in the comfort of your room. You didn't want to tell him that Steve Harrington had ruined your life.
"They're just things that have happened to me. My mom says it's common at this age to feel..." you didn't know what to call this thing you were feeling.
"Depressed?" You nodded softly. "It's normal. What's not normal is getting stuck in that place. Don't let what you're feeling define who you are." A sincere smile formed on your lips when you heard that.
The sound of a chair scraping immediately brought you back to reality. Suddenly you were fully aware of where you were, in the classroom, and someone else was still here.
"Goodbye, Mr. Abrams." Your jaw tensed and the trembling in your hands became even more evident when that voice you knew made itself known in your moment of weakness. Suddenly you felt like your lungs were empty and you had to breathe much faster to compensate. You were breaking down in front of the teacher, without having noticed that the cause of it all was also present.
"Goodbye, Harrington." You felt the weight of his gaze on you. You realized that now he was fully aware, now he knew that he had achieved what he wanted, to hurt you.
You felt the teacher talking to you again, but now it was just background noise. You turned your neck slightly to see the door Steve was closing behind him, his eyes connected with yours. You hated how you still let your heart be affected by interactions with him, when most of your misery was because of him.
"I'm sorry, I have to go. But thanks for the conversation." You didn't even wait for a response before going out the door where Steve had previously exited. You didn't look around, you wanted to take all the time to leave this place and be at home, sheltered by your brother's laughter.
But you confirmed again that the world was against you when you saw Steve standing by the exit door. His gaze was already on you. He didn't seem annoyed, he didn't seem amused, he seemed... worried?
You quickly turned around to escape to your best-known place. The girls' bathroom. You could already hear Steve's heavy footsteps behind you trying to catch up.
"Sorry," you murmured as you bumped into a curly-haired girl, you didn't even stop to look at her properly because Steve's hand was already on your wrist. His hand wrapped around your wrist firmly, but his palm was sweaty. His expression wasn't triumphant, but one of intense, almost anguished concentration, as if he were holding onto something that was slipping away.
"Easy..." you didn't want to hear him, you felt panic running through your body alerting your nervous system. You yanked your wrist with a sudden, desperate movement. A sharp pain, like a ring of fire, ran through your wrist and made you catch your breath. His grip, however, didn't loosen. "Stop, you'll hurt yourself."
His voice, unusually low, managed to cut through the roar of your own panic. You looked up. His eyes, now stripped of their usual arrogance, were fixed on yours.
"I'm sorry," Steve whispered, and his thumb traced an unconscious circle on your skin, a gesture that belied the hardness of his grip. Then, as if he'd caught himself, he went rigid. "I didn't mean to cause you pain..."
His whisper was so low it was almost lost in the echo of footsteps in the hallway. You didn't want to hear him. You wanted to scream at him that the pain you felt wasn't in your wrist, but in a much deeper place, a place he had ransacked over and over again.
"Leave me alone," you said with the last bit of willpower you had left. "I'm so tired of you, really. I don't know what I did to deserve this from you..." you lowered your gaze to let silent tears fall, which you quickly wiped away with your free hand. "I'll get completely out of your life, just leave me alone."
You finally burst into tears, in the school hallway with some curious glances already noticing the scene. Steve Harrington holding your wrist. But you didn't care when you finally felt like you'd hit rock bottom.
"Just please... stop." Steve gently released your wrist. You didn't waste time, and though tearful, you moved away from him without looking around so you could go out the main door.
You took the long way home. You walked aimlessly, letting the snow—the same snow you'd watched through the glass hours earlier, untouched and pure—melt into the salty heat of your tears. There was no longer a window to protect it.
You hated the idea of Dustin seeing you like this. But, for the first time, beneath the shell of shame, another feeling emerged: a tiredness so deep it felt solid. You had hit bottom. You had cried in front of everyone. You had said "enough." There was nothing left to protect.
𐙚⋆.˚
1986
"Please," you refused again as Dustin chased you again as soon as you came out of the bathroom. "Help me convince Mom."
You pushed him gently with your shoulder to move towards your room. The feeling of the plush carpet under your damp feet from your recent shower bothered you a little. Hearing Dustin begging behind you made you feel especially irritable.
"Let me go to that party with you," you rolled your eyes again, letting out a pretty loud groan.
"You're 14, they won't let you into any party." Before you could grab your doorknob, Dustin's hand was around your wrist.
You turned your neck, amused, seeing how his eyes showed desperation and his mouth was formed in a pout. "Please."
"Listen," you gently removed your hand from his soft touch, brought your fingers to his messy curls, and left a kiss on his forehead, making him complain. "This is an adult's party, but I promise you there will be lots of high school parties coming up and I'll take you to every single one of them, I promise."
You held out your pinky to him, and although he took a while to take it grudgingly, he linked his pinky with yours, and then your thumbs pressed together. You loved that secret language that you could only speak with your brother.
"Okay, have fun," he finally dropped his shoulders in surrender. You sketched a smile before opening your door.
"Hey," Dustin fixed his attention on you. "You can invite your friends if you want, I'll leave you money to order a pizza."
"Yes! You're the best," you smiled before closing the door behind you.
One of your friends, Hannah more specifically, had called you to let you know there was going to be a party at her house. You knew that only meant one thing, lots of people and alcohol. She and Steve used to compete over who threw the loudest party, but you never went to many parties. The trembling in your hands always returned when you remembered that red punch forcing its way into the white fabric of your blouse.
You approached your double cassette player and pressed play. The first chords of Too Good To Be Forgotten filled the room. Yes, that was exactly the mood. In front of the closet, there was no doubt: you took out the slate gray dress with black details. Short. Fitted. Perfect. Was disco attire allowed at a house party? Is there a fashion police at these parties? You hoped not.
You loved that the dress felt like a second skin, that it was light and clung to your skin. The white boots you had chosen came up to just below your knees, and you decided to wear your hair down.
"This is ridiculous," you complained, sitting in the chair in front of your desk. You looked at yourself in the mirror with a smile; if you looked back, you regretted letting yourself be intimidated by a stupid boy and missing out on these experiences.
This past year you had discovered that you loved the part of getting ready, feeling comfortable in your own skin, and listening to the music you liked in the background. There was something almost tender in how you had managed to love yourself, how you had accepted those wounds from the past and transformed them into learning.
You let your hand move gently so the thin, short eyeliner looked perfectly polished; with your fingertip, you applied a metallic gray eyeshadow. To the rhythm of Like a Virgin, you applied your mascara.
"Touched for the very first time," you sang softly to the beat of the song, your fingers searching inside your desk drawer for that creamy red lipstick your mother had given you two years ago, but you loved it because it smelled and tasted like strawberry.
The scent of the strawberry perfume you had just put on lingered in the air as your fingers grabbed the black leather jacket thrown on your bed. "You look good, girl," you told yourself when you finally saw yourself in the full-length mirror.
Your straight hair fell perfectly over your shoulders and moved with every step you took.
"I'm leaving!" You knocked on Dustin's bedroom door and then opened it. You smiled seeing him talking to his girlfriend on that giant machine he had managed to build at camp.
"Wait a second, pancake," you smiled happily, while Dustin let Suzie know you had entered his room. "You look... Incredibly cool."
"Thanks, Dus," you quickly took ten dollars out of your wallet and handed them to him. "Order a pizza or something." Your fingers affectionately ruffled his curls.
"Thanks, sis," he smiled softly at you and then returned to his seat. He looked at you with a raised eyebrow. "Go on, get out." You rolled your eyes with a smile.
As soon as you left the house, the warm summer air hit your face, the sun had already set and the heat that had previously been felt in the city had been replaced by this soft, warm breeze.
You had decided to walk (assuming you'd be drinking alcohol and it wouldn't be safe to drive). Your friend's house wasn't far and although the heels made the soles of your feet hurt, you felt comfortable spending time alone with yourself. You enjoyed the echo of each step you took against the sidewalk cement, how your dress moved slightly with the rise and fall of your steps, how your hair moved in the soft breeze.
Not many times in your life had you felt attractive.
No one had helped you feel attractive.
And from what you last remember, Steve Harrington had trampled any chance of self-love and confidence you might have built for yourself.
You hated how that name kept coming back to you, even more so remembering the last few days when you had discovered that he had magically become close to your brother and besides that, he seemed to have made it his goal to become someone your brother liked. But that wasn't the only thing that impressed you, it was the ease with which he seemed to have forgotten everything he had done before these two years.
As if every action he had committed against you was something so easy to discard, while for you it had meant therapy and rebirth.
You came out of your thoughts as soon as you heard laughter, chatter, and a crowd of people in the front yard of a house. The music was thumping, as if it were being contained only by the walls of the house.
"You came!" Hannah ran happily towards you, forgetting the conversation she had been having. The cigarette in her hand fell to the ground, you almost felt sorry for the loss of an almost whole cigarette.
"Of course I was coming," you let out a little laugh when her arms squeezed you tightly. "I'm tired of work."
"College is killing me with so much work," the smile immediately disappeared from your face as your friend guided you into her house.
You had left behind your dream of going to college when your mother practically begged you on her knees with tears streaming down her cheeks not to leave her alone, that she didn't know how to raise Dustin without you. You had everything to get out of this town, and here you still were.
"Come on, get yourself something to drink." The smell of sweat and alcohol was the first thing you noticed, besides the couples kissing in any space they could find. How did so many people fit in such a small house? "Careful with that vase, it's from London!"
You let out a little laugh when Hannah immediately let you go to rescue her parents' vase. You walked by yourself towards the kitchen, avoiding bumping into people who were dancing or kissing.
"Henderson?" Your eyes immediately went to the source of the voice. You felt small seeing Robin with a smile, while Steve quickly scanned you with his gaze, stopping momentarily on your legs.
"Oh, hi," you hated the shyness that quickly crept into your voice. You didn't expect to see them serving drinks. You took a few steps that had lost their previous confidence.
Every sound of your heel clicking against the ceramic tile sounded extremely loud to your ears, you could feel every heartbeat pulsing against your skin. And suddenly you weren't at Hannah's house anymore, you were at Steve's party, with your blouse drenched in punch.
"You look spectacular, wow," Robin smiled at you again. "And I'm sure Steve thinks the same." The girl nudged Steve's arm with her elbow. You noticed how his cheeks quickly flushed.
"Shut up," he quickly whispered to his friend, but it was totally audible to you. His eyes quickly fixed on you as he cleared his throat. "Want something to drink?"
"What's in that punch?" A timid smile settled on your lips as you looked at the bowl on the table.
"Want me to tell you a secret?" He gestured with his fingers for you to come closer, and you did, so easy it was to fall under his charm. "The punch was already here when we arrived."
A grimace settled on your lips, making him let out a little laugh. "I'll drink a glass of that mysterious potion."
"Alright, fair lady." Your cheeks flushed as the words left his lips.
His hands moved nimbly, grabbing a glass from the counter to start filling it with the coffee-colored punch that quickly filled the red plastic cup.
"Here you go," his fingers gently held the plastic cup, careful not to crush it. Your fingers brushed against his, sending a small current all the way up your spine.
"Thanks," your voice came out increasingly honeyed and soft, you were under the spell of those brown eyes with that greenish streak.
His eyes scanned every feature of your face in detail, your eyes seemed to stand out even more under the white light of the bulbs. His tongue came out to wet his pink lips as he scanned your outfit.
"You look gorgeous." Your lips parted slightly, letting out a sigh. Suddenly he seemed to return to reality and ran his fingers through his hair. "Don't tell Dustin I said that."
And you also seemed to remember where you were and who this handsome guy in front of you was. "Copy."
"Here you are!" Hannah quickly latched onto you, making you spill a little of the liquid inside the cup. "I love you so much, friend."
Robin let out a laugh when you shooed Hannah away. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here."
"Let's go!" Her fingers wrapped around your wrist. "To dance."
Your eyes connected one last time with Steve's before you were dragged by your friend into the living room.
𐙚⋆.˚
You'd lost count by the third cup of punch your friend had offered you. Your vision was clearly blurred and your head was spinning to the beat of some song you couldn't clearly recognize right now.
You didn't know how to drink. You rarely drank. That's why alcohol went straight to your head and completely clouded your judgment.
"Want another glass?" Your friend's voice sounded in the distance like a lost echo. Still, you looked her in the eyes and shook your head. "Okay, I'll go get myself another one."
You knew perfectly well there was no room for another glass in your system.
"Sure, I'll wait right here," you let out a little laugh while gently swaying your hips to the rhythm of the song.
Alcohol had always helped you have more courage and freedom, it helped you smile and feel more liberated when you felt like there were too many feelings trapped in a bubble inside you. Rarely had you been able to get drunk; you preferred spending afternoons with your brother watching ridiculously fantastical movies rather than at noisy parties where you almost never knew anyone.
You knew what awaited you tomorrow, a terrible hangover. The kind where you're kneeling in front of the toilet for more than three minutes and a headache that could make you think your skull might split at any moment. (Yeah, you weren't good with side effects).
"Henderson?" The worried voice snapped you out of the little conversation you were having with your subconscious and you quickly fixed your gaze on those honey-colored eyes.
"Harrington!" The exclamation came out strangely happy from your lips, making the guy smile too.
"Hey," he approached you softly.
You knew that in a normal situation without the influence of alcohol, you wouldn't let him near you, nor would you be the one to throw yourself against his chest. But right now, you weren't in a normal situation, so you weren't even surprised when you lunged at Steve, making him momentarily lose his balance but still holding your waist between his hands.
"I can tell that punch went to your head," a little laugh left Steve's lips and his hands gripped your waist to hold you against him.
"Not at all," your voice came out lazy, closing your eyes momentarily and burying your nose against the fabric of his shirt. "You smell good."
You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, how the irregular movement gradually increased. He had to tilt his neck slightly forward so his eyes could scan you.
So small and comfortable in his arms, as if you belonged there.
"Steve?" Robin's voice snapped him out of his thoughts and he turned his eyes towards her. Her playful look and raised eyebrow told him everything she was thinking. "Dustin won't like knowing about this."
"Shut up," his cheeks quickly flushed as he felt your fingers gripping his shoulders. "Just, wait for me in the car."
"Okay, Romeo. I'll leave you to flirt with Juliet." She let out another little laugh and turned away.
"Ridiculous," Steve grumbled in a whisper, returning his gaze to you. "Are you awake?"
His heart almost exploded when you looked up to meet his eyes. Your flushed cheeks, your shiny eyes, and your hair falling over your face made him let out a shaky sigh.
"Why do you hate me so much?" Steve's eyebrow rose in confusion, his eyes scanned every trace of your face to try to understand if you were serious or if it was because of the alcohol haze.
"What are you talking about?" Steve knew that answer wasn't what you expected because your eyes filled with unshed tears. "Hey, hey," he gently took your hand in one of his.
He didn't know there was such a strong instinct inside him that burned fervently to protect you.
He guided you away from the people dancing in the living room, away from the deafening noise, away from the heavy air and the smell of smoke and sweat. The breeze outside made your dress move softly and your hair wave.
You were beauty personified.
"I don't know what you're talking about, pretty," he sat you carefully on one of the benches in the front yard. He could feel Robin's gaze from her car. But he didn't care right now, he only cared about you and your unshed tears and your unspoken words.
"You hate me so much that you erased me from your memory," your words, though halting, were clear as day. "I liked you, I really liked you so much in high school that I dreamed about you." Steve's eyes widened at your words.
Every word that came from your lips was almost impossible for Steve's ears. You, who had treated him badly ever since you saw him standing at your door asking for Dustin.
"But then... You treated me so badly," your chin trembled slightly, causing a pout on your red lips. "You made my life a living hell, you made me hate everything I loved and you made me think I deserved all that mistreatment." Steve's lashes fluttered against his cheeks. "And the worst part is that... I never lost hope that you would love me."
Steve was screwed.
The words hit his chest like the dull impact of a fist. For an instant, he forgot his own name.
Tears began to fall from your eyes and he could only hug you tightly, stroking your soft, straight hair with his fingers. He could feel your tears soaking the fabric of his shirt but at that moment he didn't care. Because it was you, the prettiest girl he had seen in months and the one his heart had beaten strongly for in high school.
It was you. You were still you despite your style change, the makeup that now adorned your face, and your confidence that made him sigh.
"Come on, I'll take you home," he couldn't have this conversation with you in this state, he himself couldn't fully understand what was happening.
He held you gently in his arms while you continued to sob softly. He made sure to hold you against him to confirm you were real.
He opened the passenger door and looked at Robin. "Shit, I get it," she moved nimbly to the back seats.
Steve gently placed you in the passenger seat, securing you with the seatbelt. He let his eyes linger on your beautiful features and his hand involuntarily went softly to your face, letting his fingers push aside a strand that was over your face.
"Don't hurt me anymore," the words left your lips like a feather floating in the air, but to Steve it felt like a brick hitting his chest.
Robin looked at him with a raised eyebrow and the confusion devouring her eyes let him know a long conversation awaited him. He knew Robin could be nosy, but above all she shut him up when he was being a petty jerk, and that's what awaited him, not a sermon, a long conversation.
"I'll explain it to you later," Steve barely managed to whisper before closing your door to walk around the car and get into the driver's seat.
The ride to your house was short, extremely silent because he didn't dare move his fingers to turn on the radio, and he could feel Robin's constant gaze on the back of his neck. But he occasionally turned only to look at you, with your eyes closed and your long lashes against the start of your cheekbones.
How had he erased you so easily from his memory? Until now he had difficulty remembering you, he only had confused glimpses of you. Maybe your laugh in the hallway, your voice in some school presentations, how you smiled when the teacher said something silly in class, or how your perfume used to fill the classroom.
He stopped in front of your house and with trembling legs went to the passenger door to help you out.
"Come on, princess," he unbuckled the seatbelt and his fingers went softly to your waist, letting your feet leave the car and step onto the grass of your front yard.
"You're shaking?" you asked with a little laugh as your legs wobbled, making Steve hold you tighter and you cling closer to him.
"Probably," he let a smile slide across his lips, despite his internal confusion.
He held you by the waist while you put an arm around his neck. He gently turned his neck to look at you, still with your cheeks shining from your recent tears, your hair falling forward because of the way he was carrying you, your dress wrinkled under his touch and a silly smile on your lips.
He managed not to get dizzy from the sweet scent emanating from you and focused on getting you safely to your front door.
"I never thought Steve Harrington would ever bring me home," his eyes moved to you again, this time you already had your eyes on him. "I thought you only took the pretty girls home."
His lips tilted to one side, allowing a tender smile to settle on them. "You are pretty."
Steve didn't expect a laugh to escape your lips, but it did, you tilted your head back slightly to laugh at his words.
"You're hilarious," Steve's brow furrowed, but his internal confusion didn't last long when the house door opened revealing a rather furious Dustin.
"What are you doing with my sister?" the words came out more protective than Dustin himself expected.
"She was drunk and I wasn't going to let her walk home alone," Steve's hands were quickly replaced by Dustin's, who was already dragging you inside the house.
"I missed you so much!" your voice came out slow as you wrapped Dustin in a tight hug.
"Yeah, yeah," Dustin complained when you left a loud kiss on his cheek, but he still let you do it. "Thanks, Steve."
Steve watched you as Dustin was about to close the door. Your bright eyes and the silly smile that were only for him, and Steve really felt like he could lose his breath, at least that's how it felt.
Like when Jonathan slapped him that time in that alley, or when Billy hit him in the school gym, or like when Robin accidentally elbowed him in the bridge of his nose.
He could recognize that feeling, of course he had felt it before, with each of the girls he had dated, but it was completely different, because those girls were delighted to go out with him, whereas with you he had screwed up before even having the chance.
And he didn't understand why the idea of having lost you before even having the chance to have you hurt so much.
When he got in the car, Robin was already in the passenger seat looking at him with expectant eyes.
"I'm screwed, completely screwed."
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
taglist: @maddiedinosaur @dreamerjj @johnricharddeacy @mmmunson @autumn-phantomn @darlingharrington01 @zuncorvemi @xoxsupasparkly @soophieestars @chocorade @voldyslostnose05 @str8100zz @multifandombliss @onlyangel-444 @soobsdior @fallout-girl219 @littleemissperfecttt @micheledawn1975 @mrtonystark @blujaybirdy @taygrls @bluegardenn @daydreamerblues @witchingcove @selene-writes
Hi! Yes, I know... I've been missing, but the truth is I have a pretty reasonable explanation. Or maybe not.
I'm going through a huge writer's block, and also here in Chile it's summer, and honestly, summer and I don't get along especially well.
But trust me, I'm back and I have several things half-written and other ideas in my head, so I'll be posting stuff as soon as they're done. Thanks for waiting!!!
Come for me like a savior and I'd put myself through hell for you - chapter four
pairing: Steve Harrington x henderson!femreader
warnings: drunk reader, slow burn, Steve still doesn't remember (I swear there's an explanation for this), confessions, Dustin is overprotective, Steve is kinda in love.
word count: 5.1k
⟡ series masterlist
𐙚⋆.˚
March 1983
You liked to habitually sit in the row of seats by the window. When class bored you, you could easily focus your attention on something outside. Sometimes, in the middle of class, you'd find yourself tracing with your finger, on the desk, the Warrior symbol you used on your D&D character sheet.
But you also liked watching the birds that landed on some tree branches, you also liked seeing that lady who always walked her dog early in the morning so it could do its business.
At any other time, Mr. Abrams' science class would have kept you pretty focused, but right now you couldn't tear your thoughts away from that snowflake that had stuck to the window.
Miss Kelly had recommended you find new hobbies ("playing D&D with your brother and his friends doesn't count," she'd clarified). You were trying to leave years and years of bullying, mental wounds, and insecurities behind you, but no matter how hard you tried, your thoughts always returned to the person who had managed to destroy you, Steve Harrington.
You had built a personal geography to avoid him. A survival routine you didn't even know you could memorize. You no longer went to the cafeteria at the time he used to be there; you preferred the dusty silence of the library. If you saw him near the main exit, you'd take a detour through the east hallway or, sometimes, take refuge in the girls' bathroom, counting seconds until you were sure the coast was clear. You had emptied your locker and now carried everything in a bag that weighed more than it should.
You could only see him in the classroom, and even then you had made an effort to stay out of his sight, choosing to sit as far forward as possible and on the opposite end from him. You heard his voice when you weren't completely lost in your thoughts, you could hear his malicious laugh when you stopped focusing on the teacher's voice, and worse yet, you could feel his gaze when you did your best to stay out of his sight.
You didn't even make an effort to get up when the bell rang announcing the end of the school day. You kept your eyes on the snowflake that was slowly beginning to melt. The noise of backpacks and chairs scraping against the ceramic floor made your eardrums ache. By the time you moved your gaze from the tiny snowflake, no one was left in the classroom.
Can a person die of grief? You hoped not. You moved with heaviness, feeling every limb tightly clenched. The strap of your bag was heavier than ever against your shoulder.
"Miss Henderson," Mr. Abrams' voice stopped you as you were about to go out the door. You knew that sooner or later this moment would come, when you'd have to be questioned by him.
You turned on your feet to face him. He didn't seem angry, you could see the concern in his eyes and the way his eyebrows drew together upwards. "What's wrong?"
"I don't want to pry, really. But I couldn't help noticing your grades have dropped significantly." You looked at the worried man in front of you, you really wanted to be honest but... how do you explain that you'd lost motivation without sounding depressed? "I want to know if there's something affecting your performance, I can't help noticing how you seem to be everywhere but here."
"I haven't been sleeping well," you forced a smile, not wanting to worry the teacher in front of you even more.
"This seems like more than just not sleeping well, you've always been my best student and I'm worried about you. If you don't want to tell me what's happening, that's completely fine. But I need to know you'll be okay." You could feel the lump in your throat quickly forming, you didn't want to cry over something that made you feel miserable at night in the comfort of your room. You didn't want to tell him that Steve Harrington had ruined your life.
"They're just things that have happened to me. My mom says it's common at this age to feel..." you didn't know what to call this thing you were feeling.
"Depressed?" You nodded softly. "It's normal. What's not normal is getting stuck in that place. Don't let what you're feeling define who you are." A sincere smile formed on your lips when you heard that.
The sound of a chair scraping immediately brought you back to reality. Suddenly you were fully aware of where you were, in the classroom, and someone else was still here.
"Goodbye, Mr. Abrams." Your jaw tensed and the trembling in your hands became even more evident when that voice you knew made itself known in your moment of weakness. Suddenly you felt like your lungs were empty and you had to breathe much faster to compensate. You were breaking down in front of the teacher, without having noticed that the cause of it all was also present.
"Goodbye, Harrington." You felt the weight of his gaze on you. You realized that now he was fully aware, now he knew that he had achieved what he wanted, to hurt you.
You felt the teacher talking to you again, but now it was just background noise. You turned your neck slightly to see the door Steve was closing behind him, his eyes connected with yours. You hated how you still let your heart be affected by interactions with him, when most of your misery was because of him.
"I'm sorry, I have to go. But thanks for the conversation." You didn't even wait for a response before going out the door where Steve had previously exited. You didn't look around, you wanted to take all the time to leave this place and be at home, sheltered by your brother's laughter.
But you confirmed again that the world was against you when you saw Steve standing by the exit door. His gaze was already on you. He didn't seem annoyed, he didn't seem amused, he seemed... worried?
You quickly turned around to escape to your best-known place. The girls' bathroom. You could already hear Steve's heavy footsteps behind you trying to catch up.
"Sorry," you murmured as you bumped into a curly-haired girl, you didn't even stop to look at her properly because Steve's hand was already on your wrist. His hand wrapped around your wrist firmly, but his palm was sweaty. His expression wasn't triumphant, but one of intense, almost anguished concentration, as if he were holding onto something that was slipping away.
"Easy..." you didn't want to hear him, you felt panic running through your body alerting your nervous system. You yanked your wrist with a sudden, desperate movement. A sharp pain, like a ring of fire, ran through your wrist and made you catch your breath. His grip, however, didn't loosen. "Stop, you'll hurt yourself."
His voice, unusually low, managed to cut through the roar of your own panic. You looked up. His eyes, now stripped of their usual arrogance, were fixed on yours.
"I'm sorry," Steve whispered, and his thumb traced an unconscious circle on your skin, a gesture that belied the hardness of his grip. Then, as if he'd caught himself, he went rigid. "I didn't mean to cause you pain..."
His whisper was so low it was almost lost in the echo of footsteps in the hallway. You didn't want to hear him. You wanted to scream at him that the pain you felt wasn't in your wrist, but in a much deeper place, a place he had ransacked over and over again.
"Leave me alone," you said with the last bit of willpower you had left. "I'm so tired of you, really. I don't know what I did to deserve this from you..." you lowered your gaze to let silent tears fall, which you quickly wiped away with your free hand. "I'll get completely out of your life, just leave me alone."
You finally burst into tears, in the school hallway with some curious glances already noticing the scene. Steve Harrington holding your wrist. But you didn't care when you finally felt like you'd hit rock bottom.
"Just please... stop." Steve gently released your wrist. You didn't waste time, and though tearful, you moved away from him without looking around so you could go out the main door.
You took the long way home. You walked aimlessly, letting the snow—the same snow you'd watched through the glass hours earlier, untouched and pure—melt into the salty heat of your tears. There was no longer a window to protect it.
You hated the idea of Dustin seeing you like this. But, for the first time, beneath the shell of shame, another feeling emerged: a tiredness so deep it felt solid. You had hit bottom. You had cried in front of everyone. You had said "enough." There was nothing left to protect.
𐙚⋆.˚
1986
"Please," you refused again as Dustin chased you again as soon as you came out of the bathroom. "Help me convince Mom."
You pushed him gently with your shoulder to move towards your room. The feeling of the plush carpet under your damp feet from your recent shower bothered you a little. Hearing Dustin begging behind you made you feel especially irritable.
"Let me go to that party with you," you rolled your eyes again, letting out a pretty loud groan.
"You're 14, they won't let you into any party." Before you could grab your doorknob, Dustin's hand was around your wrist.
You turned your neck, amused, seeing how his eyes showed desperation and his mouth was formed in a pout. "Please."
"Listen," you gently removed your hand from his soft touch, brought your fingers to his messy curls, and left a kiss on his forehead, making him complain. "This is an adult's party, but I promise you there will be lots of high school parties coming up and I'll take you to every single one of them, I promise."
You held out your pinky to him, and although he took a while to take it grudgingly, he linked his pinky with yours, and then your thumbs pressed together. You loved that secret language that you could only speak with your brother.
"Okay, have fun," he finally dropped his shoulders in surrender. You sketched a smile before opening your door.
"Hey," Dustin fixed his attention on you. "You can invite your friends if you want, I'll leave you money to order a pizza."
"Yes! You're the best," you smiled before closing the door behind you.
One of your friends, Hannah more specifically, had called you to let you know there was going to be a party at her house. You knew that only meant one thing, lots of people and alcohol. She and Steve used to compete over who threw the loudest party, but you never went to many parties. The trembling in your hands always returned when you remembered that red punch forcing its way into the white fabric of your blouse.
You approached your double cassette player and pressed play. The first chords of Too Good To Be Forgotten filled the room. Yes, that was exactly the mood. In front of the closet, there was no doubt: you took out the slate gray dress with black details. Short. Fitted. Perfect. Was disco attire allowed at a house party? Is there a fashion police at these parties? You hoped not.
You loved that the dress felt like a second skin, that it was light and clung to your skin. The white boots you had chosen came up to just below your knees, and you decided to wear your hair down.
"This is ridiculous," you complained, sitting in the chair in front of your desk. You looked at yourself in the mirror with a smile; if you looked back, you regretted letting yourself be intimidated by a stupid boy and missing out on these experiences.
This past year you had discovered that you loved the part of getting ready, feeling comfortable in your own skin, and listening to the music you liked in the background. There was something almost tender in how you had managed to love yourself, how you had accepted those wounds from the past and transformed them into learning.
You let your hand move gently so the thin, short eyeliner looked perfectly polished; with your fingertip, you applied a metallic gray eyeshadow. To the rhythm of Like a Virgin, you applied your mascara.
"Touched for the very first time," you sang softly to the beat of the song, your fingers searching inside your desk drawer for that creamy red lipstick your mother had given you two years ago, but you loved it because it smelled and tasted like strawberry.
The scent of the strawberry perfume you had just put on lingered in the air as your fingers grabbed the black leather jacket thrown on your bed. "You look good, girl," you told yourself when you finally saw yourself in the full-length mirror.
Your straight hair fell perfectly over your shoulders and moved with every step you took.
"I'm leaving!" You knocked on Dustin's bedroom door and then opened it. You smiled seeing him talking to his girlfriend on that giant machine he had managed to build at camp.
"Wait a second, pancake," you smiled happily, while Dustin let Suzie know you had entered his room. "You look... Incredibly cool."
"Thanks, Dus," you quickly took ten dollars out of your wallet and handed them to him. "Order a pizza or something." Your fingers affectionately ruffled his curls.
"Thanks, sis," he smiled softly at you and then returned to his seat. He looked at you with a raised eyebrow. "Go on, get out." You rolled your eyes with a smile.
As soon as you left the house, the warm summer air hit your face, the sun had already set and the heat that had previously been felt in the city had been replaced by this soft, warm breeze.
You had decided to walk (assuming you'd be drinking alcohol and it wouldn't be safe to drive). Your friend's house wasn't far and although the heels made the soles of your feet hurt, you felt comfortable spending time alone with yourself. You enjoyed the echo of each step you took against the sidewalk cement, how your dress moved slightly with the rise and fall of your steps, how your hair moved in the soft breeze.
Not many times in your life had you felt attractive.
No one had helped you feel attractive.
And from what you last remember, Steve Harrington had trampled any chance of self-love and confidence you might have built for yourself.
You hated how that name kept coming back to you, even more so remembering the last few days when you had discovered that he had magically become close to your brother and besides that, he seemed to have made it his goal to become someone your brother liked. But that wasn't the only thing that impressed you, it was the ease with which he seemed to have forgotten everything he had done before these two years.
As if every action he had committed against you was something so easy to discard, while for you it had meant therapy and rebirth.
You came out of your thoughts as soon as you heard laughter, chatter, and a crowd of people in the front yard of a house. The music was thumping, as if it were being contained only by the walls of the house.
"You came!" Hannah ran happily towards you, forgetting the conversation she had been having. The cigarette in her hand fell to the ground, you almost felt sorry for the loss of an almost whole cigarette.
"Of course I was coming," you let out a little laugh when her arms squeezed you tightly. "I'm tired of work."
"College is killing me with so much work," the smile immediately disappeared from your face as your friend guided you into her house.
You had left behind your dream of going to college when your mother practically begged you on her knees with tears streaming down her cheeks not to leave her alone, that she didn't know how to raise Dustin without you. You had everything to get out of this town, and here you still were.
"Come on, get yourself something to drink." The smell of sweat and alcohol was the first thing you noticed, besides the couples kissing in any space they could find. How did so many people fit in such a small house? "Careful with that vase, it's from London!"
You let out a little laugh when Hannah immediately let you go to rescue her parents' vase. You walked by yourself towards the kitchen, avoiding bumping into people who were dancing or kissing.
"Henderson?" Your eyes immediately went to the source of the voice. You felt small seeing Robin with a smile, while Steve quickly scanned you with his gaze, stopping momentarily on your legs.
"Oh, hi," you hated the shyness that quickly crept into your voice. You didn't expect to see them serving drinks. You took a few steps that had lost their previous confidence.
Every sound of your heel clicking against the ceramic tile sounded extremely loud to your ears, you could feel every heartbeat pulsing against your skin. And suddenly you weren't at Hannah's house anymore, you were at Steve's party, with your blouse drenched in punch.
"You look spectacular, wow," Robin smiled at you again. "And I'm sure Steve thinks the same." The girl nudged Steve's arm with her elbow. You noticed how his cheeks quickly flushed.
"Shut up," he quickly whispered to his friend, but it was totally audible to you. His eyes quickly fixed on you as he cleared his throat. "Want something to drink?"
"What's in that punch?" A timid smile settled on your lips as you looked at the bowl on the table.
"Want me to tell you a secret?" He gestured with his fingers for you to come closer, and you did, so easy it was to fall under his charm. "The punch was already here when we arrived."
A grimace settled on your lips, making him let out a little laugh. "I'll drink a glass of that mysterious potion."
"Alright, fair lady." Your cheeks flushed as the words left his lips.
His hands moved nimbly, grabbing a glass from the counter to start filling it with the coffee-colored punch that quickly filled the red plastic cup.
"Here you go," his fingers gently held the plastic cup, careful not to crush it. Your fingers brushed against his, sending a small current all the way up your spine.
"Thanks," your voice came out increasingly honeyed and soft, you were under the spell of those brown eyes with that greenish streak.
His eyes scanned every feature of your face in detail, your eyes seemed to stand out even more under the white light of the bulbs. His tongue came out to wet his pink lips as he scanned your outfit.
"You look gorgeous." Your lips parted slightly, letting out a sigh. Suddenly he seemed to return to reality and ran his fingers through his hair. "Don't tell Dustin I said that."
And you also seemed to remember where you were and who this handsome guy in front of you was. "Copy."
"Here you are!" Hannah quickly latched onto you, making you spill a little of the liquid inside the cup. "I love you so much, friend."
Robin let out a laugh when you shooed Hannah away. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here."
"Let's go!" Her fingers wrapped around your wrist. "To dance."
Your eyes connected one last time with Steve's before you were dragged by your friend into the living room.
𐙚⋆.˚
You'd lost count by the third cup of punch your friend had offered you. Your vision was clearly blurred and your head was spinning to the beat of some song you couldn't clearly recognize right now.
You didn't know how to drink. You rarely drank. That's why alcohol went straight to your head and completely clouded your judgment.
"Want another glass?" Your friend's voice sounded in the distance like a lost echo. Still, you looked her in the eyes and shook your head. "Okay, I'll go get myself another one."
You knew perfectly well there was no room for another glass in your system.
"Sure, I'll wait right here," you let out a little laugh while gently swaying your hips to the rhythm of the song.
Alcohol had always helped you have more courage and freedom, it helped you smile and feel more liberated when you felt like there were too many feelings trapped in a bubble inside you. Rarely had you been able to get drunk; you preferred spending afternoons with your brother watching ridiculously fantastical movies rather than at noisy parties where you almost never knew anyone.
You knew what awaited you tomorrow, a terrible hangover. The kind where you're kneeling in front of the toilet for more than three minutes and a headache that could make you think your skull might split at any moment. (Yeah, you weren't good with side effects).
"Henderson?" The worried voice snapped you out of the little conversation you were having with your subconscious and you quickly fixed your gaze on those honey-colored eyes.
"Harrington!" The exclamation came out strangely happy from your lips, making the guy smile too.
"Hey," he approached you softly.
You knew that in a normal situation without the influence of alcohol, you wouldn't let him near you, nor would you be the one to throw yourself against his chest. But right now, you weren't in a normal situation, so you weren't even surprised when you lunged at Steve, making him momentarily lose his balance but still holding your waist between his hands.
"I can tell that punch went to your head," a little laugh left Steve's lips and his hands gripped your waist to hold you against him.
"Not at all," your voice came out lazy, closing your eyes momentarily and burying your nose against the fabric of his shirt. "You smell good."
You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, how the irregular movement gradually increased. He had to tilt his neck slightly forward so his eyes could scan you.
So small and comfortable in his arms, as if you belonged there.
"Steve?" Robin's voice snapped him out of his thoughts and he turned his eyes towards her. Her playful look and raised eyebrow told him everything she was thinking. "Dustin won't like knowing about this."
"Shut up," his cheeks quickly flushed as he felt your fingers gripping his shoulders. "Just, wait for me in the car."
"Okay, Romeo. I'll leave you to flirt with Juliet." She let out another little laugh and turned away.
"Ridiculous," Steve grumbled in a whisper, returning his gaze to you. "Are you awake?"
His heart almost exploded when you looked up to meet his eyes. Your flushed cheeks, your shiny eyes, and your hair falling over your face made him let out a shaky sigh.
"Why do you hate me so much?" Steve's eyebrow rose in confusion, his eyes scanned every trace of your face to try to understand if you were serious or if it was because of the alcohol haze.
"What are you talking about?" Steve knew that answer wasn't what you expected because your eyes filled with unshed tears. "Hey, hey," he gently took your hand in one of his.
He didn't know there was such a strong instinct inside him that burned fervently to protect you.
He guided you away from the people dancing in the living room, away from the deafening noise, away from the heavy air and the smell of smoke and sweat. The breeze outside made your dress move softly and your hair wave.
You were beauty personified.
"I don't know what you're talking about, pretty," he sat you carefully on one of the benches in the front yard. He could feel Robin's gaze from her car. But he didn't care right now, he only cared about you and your unshed tears and your unspoken words.
"You hate me so much that you erased me from your memory," your words, though halting, were clear as day. "I liked you, I really liked you so much in high school that I dreamed about you." Steve's eyes widened at your words.
Every word that came from your lips was almost impossible for Steve's ears. You, who had treated him badly ever since you saw him standing at your door asking for Dustin.
"But then... You treated me so badly," your chin trembled slightly, causing a pout on your red lips. "You made my life a living hell, you made me hate everything I loved and you made me think I deserved all that mistreatment." Steve's lashes fluttered against his cheeks. "And the worst part is that... I never lost hope that you would love me."
Steve was screwed.
The words hit his chest like the dull impact of a fist. For an instant, he forgot his own name.
Tears began to fall from your eyes and he could only hug you tightly, stroking your soft, straight hair with his fingers. He could feel your tears soaking the fabric of his shirt but at that moment he didn't care. Because it was you, the prettiest girl he had seen in months and the one his heart had beaten strongly for in high school.
It was you. You were still you despite your style change, the makeup that now adorned your face, and your confidence that made him sigh.
"Come on, I'll take you home," he couldn't have this conversation with you in this state, he himself couldn't fully understand what was happening.
He held you gently in his arms while you continued to sob softly. He made sure to hold you against him to confirm you were real.
He opened the passenger door and looked at Robin. "Shit, I get it," she moved nimbly to the back seats.
Steve gently placed you in the passenger seat, securing you with the seatbelt. He let his eyes linger on your beautiful features and his hand involuntarily went softly to your face, letting his fingers push aside a strand that was over your face.
"Don't hurt me anymore," the words left your lips like a feather floating in the air, but to Steve it felt like a brick hitting his chest.
Robin looked at him with a raised eyebrow and the confusion devouring her eyes let him know a long conversation awaited him. He knew Robin could be nosy, but above all she shut him up when he was being a petty jerk, and that's what awaited him, not a sermon, a long conversation.
"I'll explain it to you later," Steve barely managed to whisper before closing your door to walk around the car and get into the driver's seat.
The ride to your house was short, extremely silent because he didn't dare move his fingers to turn on the radio, and he could feel Robin's constant gaze on the back of his neck. But he occasionally turned only to look at you, with your eyes closed and your long lashes against the start of your cheekbones.
How had he erased you so easily from his memory? Until now he had difficulty remembering you, he only had confused glimpses of you. Maybe your laugh in the hallway, your voice in some school presentations, how you smiled when the teacher said something silly in class, or how your perfume used to fill the classroom.
He stopped in front of your house and with trembling legs went to the passenger door to help you out.
"Come on, princess," he unbuckled the seatbelt and his fingers went softly to your waist, letting your feet leave the car and step onto the grass of your front yard.
"You're shaking?" you asked with a little laugh as your legs wobbled, making Steve hold you tighter and you cling closer to him.
"Probably," he let a smile slide across his lips, despite his internal confusion.
He held you by the waist while you put an arm around his neck. He gently turned his neck to look at you, still with your cheeks shining from your recent tears, your hair falling forward because of the way he was carrying you, your dress wrinkled under his touch and a silly smile on your lips.
He managed not to get dizzy from the sweet scent emanating from you and focused on getting you safely to your front door.
"I never thought Steve Harrington would ever bring me home," his eyes moved to you again, this time you already had your eyes on him. "I thought you only took the pretty girls home."
His lips tilted to one side, allowing a tender smile to settle on them. "You are pretty."
Steve didn't expect a laugh to escape your lips, but it did, you tilted your head back slightly to laugh at his words.
"You're hilarious," Steve's brow furrowed, but his internal confusion didn't last long when the house door opened revealing a rather furious Dustin.
"What are you doing with my sister?" the words came out more protective than Dustin himself expected.
"She was drunk and I wasn't going to let her walk home alone," Steve's hands were quickly replaced by Dustin's, who was already dragging you inside the house.
"I missed you so much!" your voice came out slow as you wrapped Dustin in a tight hug.
"Yeah, yeah," Dustin complained when you left a loud kiss on his cheek, but he still let you do it. "Thanks, Steve."
Steve watched you as Dustin was about to close the door. Your bright eyes and the silly smile that were only for him, and Steve really felt like he could lose his breath, at least that's how it felt.
Like when Jonathan slapped him that time in that alley, or when Billy hit him in the school gym, or like when Robin accidentally elbowed him in the bridge of his nose.
He could recognize that feeling, of course he had felt it before, with each of the girls he had dated, but it was completely different, because those girls were delighted to go out with him, whereas with you he had screwed up before even having the chance.
And he didn't understand why the idea of having lost you before even having the chance to have you hurt so much.
When he got in the car, Robin was already in the passenger seat looking at him with expectant eyes.
"I'm screwed, completely screwed."
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
taglist: @maddiedinosaur @dreamerjj @johnricharddeacy @mmmunson @autumn-phantomn @darlingharrington01 @zuncorvemi @xoxsupasparkly @soophieestars @chocorade @voldyslostnose05 @str8100zz @multifandombliss @onlyangel-444 @soobsdior @fallout-girl219 @littleemissperfecttt @micheledawn1975 @mrtonystark @blujaybirdy @taygrls @bluegardenn @daydreamerblues @witchingcove @selene-writes
sweet nothin'
summary: You're a simple Brooklyn florist when Bucky Barnes enters your shop and changes your life forever. word count: 34.1k+ pairing: mafia!bucky barnes x fem!reader notes: DON'T ASK HOW IT'S 34K WORDS I DON'T KNOW HOW THAT HAPPENEDDDDD this is technically the prologue to he was chaos, he was revelry, but you do not have to read that to understand this! i merely liked that short fic i wrote and wanted to write more of them warnings/tags: no use of y/n, mafia au, sweetheart!reader, shy!reader, bucky is the mafia boss and rich, fluff, slow burn - once again i am who i am you can pry slow burn out of my cold dead hands, reader may be shy be she is not someone who bucky can just control or claim as his, mentions of blood but no violence, bucky is soft only for you, possessive!bucky, yearning!bucky, so much fluff
The bell above the shop door chimed, the sound bright and ordinary against the quiet hum of the rain outside. You glanced up from the counter, half-expecting to see one of your regulars—Mrs. Kowalski with her weekly lilies, or the young man who always bought roses on Thursdays.
But instead, a stranger stepped inside. He didn’t look like he belonged here. The small, cozy flower shop was all pastel blooms and the faint scent of lavender soap, but the man at the door was sharp black and steel. Broad shoulders filled out a tailored suit, dark hair slicked back from a face that looked carved from stone. One gloved hand tugged the door shut behind him, the other slipped casually into his coat pocket.
His eyes swept the shop once, quick and assessing, before they landed on you. You froze under the weight of his stare. He wasn’t handsome in the way movie stars were handsome. He was… something heavier. Older. His presence pressed at the air like thunder waiting to break.
“Hi,” you managed, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Welcome.”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just watched you from across the shop with those sharp blue eyes, as if you were the only thing in the room worth noticing. Then, slowly, he stepped forward. The sound of his boots against the wood floor was too loud, even over the rain.
You forced yourself to smile, tucking your hands against your apron. “Looking for anything in particular?”
His gaze flicked to the flowers around him—the rows of tulips, daisies, carnations—but came back to you almost instantly. “No.” His voice was low, rough-edged. “Just looking.”
Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. You nodded quickly, reaching for the small bouquet you’d put together that morning—bright daisies and sprigs of baby’s breath, wrapped in soft brown paper. You always kept a few by the counter, little gestures for the shy customers. “Here,” you offered, holding it out. “On the house. For the rain.”
He stared at the bouquet like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Then at you. The silence stretched until your hand began to tremble, and you almost pulled it back—when he finally reached out. A black leather glove brushed your fingers as he took the flowers from you, and you had to bite down on a startled gasp. “Thank you,” he said, the words careful, deliberate. He pulled a roll of bills from his coat pocket and slid one across the counter. A hundred-dollar bill for a five-dollar bouquet.
“Oh, no—you don’t have to—”
His gaze cut into yours again, silencing you. Not cruel, not harsh. Just… final. “Take it.”
Your throat tightened, and you nodded, tucking the bill away quickly. “Alright. Thank you.”
He didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, flowers in hand, watching you like he was committing every detail to memory—the tilt of your head, the nervous twitch of your fingers, the way you couldn’t hold his gaze for long. Finally, he gave a small nod, turned, and left. The bell chimed again, the rain swallowing him whole. You stood frozen for a long time, the shop suddenly too quiet, the hundred-dollar bill burning in your apron pocket. You thought it was a one-time thing. Just a stranger passing through on a rainy afternoon.
---
The bell chimed again the next morning, bright against the quiet rustle of petals you were arranging on the counter. You looked up—and nearly dropped the stems in your hands.
It was him.
The man from yesterday. The one who’d filled the shop with his thunderstorm presence, left with daisies and a hundred-dollar bill. He stepped inside like he owned the space, though he said nothing at first. His suit was different today—charcoal instead of black—but the gloves were the same. His eyes swept the shop in that same quick, assessing way before settling on you. You found yourself smiling automatically, though your voice wobbled. “Hello again.”
He nodded once, moving closer. “Morning.”
You fiddled with the ribbon in your hands. “Back for more flowers?”
His mouth twitched, just barely, like the question amused him. “Something like that.”
The air felt charged. You cleared your throat and reached for a bouquet of tulips. “These are fresh today. Spring colors. They’re lovely.”
He didn’t even glance at them. His eyes stayed on you, steady and unreadable. “I’ll take them,” he said.
You wrapped them quickly, fingers fumbling with the paper under the weight of his stare. He laid another bill on the counter—another hundred—for a bouquet worth maybe fifteen.
Your cheeks burned. “Sir, this is too much—”
“Keep it.” His voice left no room for argument.
You tucked the bill away, heartbeat quickening, and slid the bouquet toward him. “Alright. Thank you.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just stood there, flowers in hand, gaze lingering on you. It was different from yesterday—less curious, more deliberate. As if he’d come here with a purpose, and the tulips were only an excuse. Finally, he asked, “what’s your favorite?”
You blinked. “Favorite?”
“Flower.”
“Oh. Um…” You glanced around the shop, suddenly flustered. “Gardenias, I think. They’re… simple, but beautiful.”
He nodded once, filed it away. You could see it in the set of his jaw. Then he turned and left, the bell chiming in his wake. You stared after him, unsettled but oddly warm. The next morning, there was a box of white gardenias sitting on the shop counter when you arrived, no note. But you already knew who had left them.
---
The gardenias weren’t the end. They were the beginning. The next time he came in, he didn’t go straight for the counter. He lingered. Walked slow between the rows of flowers, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting something delicate.
You pretended to be busy, fussing with the stems in a vase, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. He didn’t look like anyone else who came through here—too sharp, too dangerous, too… magnetic. He stopped at the counter at last, resting one gloved hand on the polished wood. “You like gardenias.”
You startled a little. “I do.”
“They suit you.”
Your cheeks warmed. “They’re… simple.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he didn’t agree with the word. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned in just a little, his presence heavy and steady. “What else do you like?”
You blinked. “What else?”
“Food. Music. Where you go when you’re not here.”
Your stomach flipped. The questions weren’t casual, not the way he asked them. His voice was too low, too intent, as though he planned on remembering every answer. You swallowed. “Um… I like reading. I usually just go home after work. I’m… not very exciting.”
Something flickered in his eyes then—something sharp, almost dangerous. “Good.”
You frowned softly. “Good?”
“Means you’re not wasting your time on people who don’t deserve it.” He pushed a bouquet of pale roses toward you. “These. Wrap them.” You obeyed, fingers fumbling with the paper, conscious of his eyes on you the entire time. He paid, again far too much, and lingered a second longer before he finally said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And he did. The days bled into weeks. He became part of your routine, though you never said it out loud. You’d unlock the shop in the morning, set out the displays, and brace yourself for the moment that bell chimed and he walked in.
Sometimes he bought flowers. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just stood there, leaning against the counter, asking you quiet questions about your day. And slowly, the questions became instructions.
“Don’t walk home alone tonight.” “Eat more than just a muffin for lunch.” “Don’t talk to the men who loiter outside.”
You told yourself he was just being kind. Just looking out for you. But when you spotted his black car parked across the street one night, headlights off, and realized he was watching—waiting until you got safely into your apartment—your chest tightened with something you didn’t want to name. The scariest part wasn’t that he was watching. It was how safe you felt knowing he was there.
---
The office smelled like you. Not you exactly—he wasn’t that lucky—but the flowers you touched every day, the ones you told him you loved. Gardenias, roses, tulips, bundles of wild lavender tied up in neat twine. They crowded the corners of his office, spilling over in vases and pitchers, climbing along windowsills that used to be bare.
It was ridiculous. He knew it. The head of the Barnes Syndicate didn’t decorate with flowers. His men were already whispering, smirking behind their hands when they came in for orders and found the place looking more like a garden than a war room.
But he didn’t care. Every stem reminded him of your hands. The way you handled them so gently, trimming, arranging, never rushing. He’d caught himself staring more than once, smiling faintly as if the flowers were your private secret. He wanted to burn the image into his skull.
“Boss?” Bucky glanced up from the papers on his desk. Natasha stood in the doorway, sunglasses hooked on her shirt, one brow raised. Her eyes flicked over the room—the gardenias on the shelf, the tulips by the window, the roses near his chair. “You planning on opening your own shop?” she asked dryly.
“Shut up.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple with his metal hand.
Natasha smirked, stepping inside and dropping a file on his desk. “You’re getting soft. All this for a girl who sells daisies.”
His jaw tightened. “Careful, Romanoff.”
“I’m not saying it’s bad,” she countered, folding her arms. “I’m saying you’re obvious. Half the crew knows you’ve got a flower girl now.”
He stilled. The words hit something sharp in his chest. “She’s not—” He stopped. His voice dropped low, darker. “She’s mine.”
Natasha tilted her head. “Does she know that?”
His eyes narrowed, blue hard as ice. “She will.” The room went quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside.
Bucky reached over, plucked one of the gardenias from the vase, and turned it slowly in his fingers. He remembered the way your face lit up when you told him they were your favorite. That soft smile. The little stammer in your voice when he leaned too close.
The world was chaos, betrayal, blood. He’d spent his whole life building walls of steel and shadow. But you—your shop, your quiet, your kindness—were untouched by it. And he wasn’t about to let anyone, anything, change that.
“Make sure the shop’s covered,” he said finally, voice flat with command. “No one bothers her. Not a single soul.”
Natasha studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Understood.”
When she left, Bucky leaned back in his chair, the flower still turning in his hand. He should’ve felt stupid, surrounded by petals and stems. But all he felt was calmer, steadier, knowing some piece of you was in his world now. He wanted more. He’d take more.
---
The bell chimed, right on time. You were bent over the counter trimming stems when his shadow crossed the shop. You didn’t even need to look up anymore—you knew the weight of his presence, the way the air seemed to shift when he walked in. “Morning,” you said softly, glancing up with a small smile.
His eyes warmed just enough for only you to notice. “Morning, doll.” The nickname slipped out as if it had been waiting on his tongue. You blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t correct him. That alone sent something hot curling in his chest.
He moved toward the display of carnations but didn’t so much as glance at them. He was looking at you—always you. The flowers were a thin excuse by now, and you both knew it. “What’d you eat for breakfast?” he asked suddenly, voice low, casual only on the surface.
You hesitated, trimming another stem. “Just… coffee.”
He frowned, a line cutting between his brows. “That’s not breakfast.”
“It’s fine—”
“No.” His voice had that edge again, quiet steel that brooked no argument. He leaned on the counter, closer than before. “You need more than that.”
You bit your lip, looking down at the stems. “I wasn’t really hungry.”
His jaw flexed. He straightened, pulling out his phone. “What do you like? Pastries? Eggs?”
“Bucky, you don’t have to—”
“I asked what you like.” His tone softened, but it was no less insistent.
You murmured something about croissants before you could stop yourself, and he was already typing. Ten minutes later, a man you’d never seen before slipped inside, dropped off a white bag with a bakery logo, and left without a word. Bucky nudged it toward you. “Eat.”
You blinked. “You… you just had someone bring this—?”
“Of course I did.” His eyes softened again, watching you like you might vanish if he looked away. “You think I’m gonna let you starve?”
Your cheeks burned. You opened the bag and pulled out a still-warm croissant. His gaze followed every movement as you took a shy bite. “Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, but you heard it, and the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Later, in his office, Natasha raised an unimpressed brow when another delivery came in—this time boxes of delicate pastries stacked beside the flowers. “You feeding her now too?” she asked, smirking.
Bucky didn’t look up from his paperwork. “She doesn’t eat right.”
“You checked?”
“I asked.” His pen stilled. He glanced at the gardenias on the windowsill, the new croissant bag on his desk. His voice dropped, quiet, certain. “She’s mine to take care of.”
Natasha leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching. “You sure it’s not the other way around?”
But Bucky didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his phone again, thumb hovering over your number he hadn’t even asked for—but had anyway.
---
The bell had barely gone silent when you heard it: the click of heavy footsteps against the wet sidewalk. You turned the shop’s sign to closed and reached for your keys, glancing out through the window. He was leaning against a lamppost across the street, hands in his coat pockets, suit jacket darkened slightly at the shoulders from the drizzle. Your breath caught. Bucky didn’t wave. He didn’t call out. He just waited. The way a mountain waits—immovable, unbothered by the storm.
You stepped outside hesitantly, locking the door behind you. “Are you… waiting for someone?”
“For you,” he said simply, pushing off the lamppost.
Your fingers tightened around your keys. “Bucky, you don’t have to—”
“Doll,” he interrupted, falling into step beside you before you could finish. “It’s dark. You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of his presence swallowed the words. He wasn’t touching you, but somehow he filled the space around you completely. The streets were quiet, rain slicking the pavement. You tried to ignore the way his stride matched yours, the way his eyes scanned every shadowed alley and passing car like they were threats only he could see. “Do you do this often?” you asked softly.
“Do what?”
“Walk women home.”
His jaw tightened. “No. Just you.”
Your heart skipped a beat. At your building, you fumbled with the keys, aware of his eyes on the back of your neck. When you finally got the door open, you turned to him. “Thank you. But really… you don’t need to go out of your way.”
He leaned one hand against the doorframe, caging you in without touching. His gaze held yours, steady and unyielding. “This is my way,” he said quietly. “You’re not out here without me again. Understand?” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even harsh. But there was no mistaking them for anything but a command. You swallowed hard, nodding before you could think better of it. His eyes softened then, the steel melting to something warmer. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against your temple, a ghost of a kiss. “Good girl.”
And just like that, he stepped back into the rain, leaving you breathless in the doorway, your heart pounding too hard to ignore.
It became a ritual. You didn’t even question it anymore—when the bell above your shop chimed closed for the night, he would be there. Always. A dark figure leaning against the lamppost, waiting to fall into step beside you. He didn’t ask if you wanted the company, and you didn’t ask why he bothered. The silence between you was enough.
That night, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and glowing under the yellow streetlights. You walked side by side, the only sound the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement.
You tried not to look at him too often, but it was impossible not to notice the way his hand would occasionally flex at his side—as if itching to touch you but holding back.
As you passed a small boutique on the corner, something in the window caught your eye. You slowed without meaning to, gaze snagged by the display: a delicate glass lamp, its shade painted with tiny pressed flowers. Soft light glowed inside, warm and golden, spilling petals and stems across the glass like a garden frozen in time.
It was beautiful. For half a second, you let yourself imagine it on your nightstand. The way the light would spill across your room, soft and comforting. The way you could fall asleep beside it, safe. But the thought made your chest ache. You dropped your gaze quickly and kept walking, quickening your pace until you matched him again. He said nothing, just glanced once at the boutique window before his eyes slid back to you.
At your building, he stopped as always, waited until you were safely inside. You whispered a soft “goodnight,” and he lingered a moment longer before vanishing back into the shadows.
You thought nothing more of it. The next morning, when you opened your shop, the lamp was waiting on the counter. The exact same one. You froze in the doorway, keys clutched in your hand. There was no note, no explanation. Just the lamp, plugged in and glowing faintly in the early light, casting warm petals across the shop walls.
Your breath caught, throat tight. The bell chimed, and he walked in. Calm. Steady. Like he hadn’t done anything at all. Your eyes snapped to him. “Bucky… did you—”
He set a paper bag on the counter. You caught the smell before you even peeked inside—croissants, still warm. He leaned one hand on the wood, watching your face. “You liked it,” he said simply. Not a question. A fact.
Your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” His eyes softened, but there was steel in them too—an unwavering certainty that made your heart stutter. “You want something, doll, you get it. That’s how this works.”
You swallowed hard, glancing at the lamp again. Its soft light seemed to fill the whole shop with a kind of warmth you didn’t know how to accept. “I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can.” His voice lowered, a command wrapped in velvet. He reached across the counter, brushing his fingers against yours just long enough to make your pulse trip. “Don’t hide from me. If you want something, I’ll know.”
He left you standing there, the lamp glowing at your side, the croissants still warm in the bag, your heart pounding too loud for the quiet shop. And you realized something terrifying and undeniable, he was watching. Always watching.
---
The lamp glowed soft and golden on the counter, petals painted across its glass shade, when you finally found the courage to speak. He was there again, leaning his weight into the wood as if the whole shop belonged to him. His gloves were off this time, thick hands resting easily against the surface, blue eyes pinned to you in that steady, unblinking way that always left you a little breathless.
But today, the warmth in your chest twisted into something sharper. “You can’t keep doing this.”
His head tilted just slightly. “Doing what, doll?”
“This.” You gestured to the lamp, to the bag of pastries he’d brought without asking. “Showing up every day. Buying things I didn’t ask for. Acting like…” Your voice wavered, but you forced it out. “Like you own me.” Silence dropped between you, heavy and sudden.
No one ever told him no. No one ever raised their voice to him, not his men, not the people who feared his name. He could see your fingers trembling where they gripped the counter, but you still held his stare. The corner of his mouth twitched—something between amusement and disbelief. “Own you?”
“Yes.” Your throat felt tight, but you pushed on. “You don’t ask me out. You don’t… talk to me like a normal person would. You just decide things. You decide to walk me home. You decide I don’t eat enough. You decide I want a lamp. And I—” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t agree to any of it.”
For the first time since he’d stepped into your life, he looked caught off guard. Just for a flicker of a second, his eyes widened, like the ground beneath him had shifted. Then the surprise hardened into something else. His voice dropped, low and even. “You think I don’t know how to ask? You think I don’t know how to take a girl to dinner, buy her flowers, wait for her to say yes?”
You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, leaning closer, his gaze like ice and fire all at once. “I don’t do that with you because I don’t want to give you the option to say no. I don’t want you to walk away. I couldn’t stand it if you did.”
Your breath hitched. He exhaled slowly, raking a hand back through his hair. For a moment, he looked almost… raw. “You don’t get it. You’re already mine. Always were, the second you looked at me with those soft eyes and handed me daisies like I wasn’t a monster.” His gloved hand brushed the lamp, a subtle reminder. “You think I do all this because I don’t know how to court you? I do it because I can’t stand the thought of you needing something and not having it. Because I want to see you safe. Fed. Smiling.” His voice broke on that last word, just barely.
Your heart pounded so hard you swore he could hear it. You should’ve been terrified. And maybe you were. But under the steel in his voice was something else—something aching and desperate. Still, you held your ground, even if your voice shook. “Then ask me. Like a person. Not like… this.”
The room went still again. He studied you for a long, tense beat, and you could see the war in his eyes—control versus obsession, command versus care. Finally, his lips curved into something softer, almost rueful. He leaned in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. “Fine, doll. I’ll ask.” His voice was rough, but there was a flicker of something new in it. “Dinner. Tonight. With me.”
The way he said it still didn’t sound like a question, but for the first time, you knew he was trying. And that unsettled you more than anything else.
---
Dinner with Bucky wasn’t what you expected. He came to the shop just before closing, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair combed back, his usual gloves on. He didn’t wait for you to lock up—he did it himself, sliding the key from your fingers with a quiet, “I’ll take care of it.”
The car waiting outside wasn’t the same sleek black one you’d seen lurking near your building before. This one was even darker, windows tinted, the kind of vehicle that made people cross the street when it pulled up. He opened the door for you, and his hand lingered on your lower back as you climbed inside.
The restaurant was one of those places you’d only seen in magazines—low lights, white tablecloths, the quiet murmur of money in every corner. The maître d’ didn’t even ask for a name; he bowed and led you straight to a private table at the back.
You shifted uncomfortably as you sat, smoothing the fabric of your dress. You hadn’t had time to change, still in the simple sundress you wore to work. Compared to the glittering couples around you, you felt out of place. But Bucky leaned back in his chair, eyes on you like there was no one else in the room. “You look perfect.”
Your cheeks warmed. “You didn’t even let me change.”
His mouth curved in that faint, dangerous smile. “Didn’t want to give you the chance to run.”
You frowned, half-playful, half-serious. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.” He poured you a glass of wine himself, ignoring the hovering waiter. “If I let you walk away, you’d start thinking too much. You’d talk yourself out of me. And I can’t have that.”
You looked at him, really looked. The way his metal fingers tapped lightly against the stem of his glass. The way his eyes stayed fixed on you, hungry and unblinking. “Bucky…” you whispered. “You don’t even know me.”
His jaw tightened. “I know enough.”
“That’s not the same.”
He leaned forward then, voice dropping. “I know you hate crowds but love little kids buying flowers for their moms. I know you hum to yourself when you sweep up the petals at night. I know you wear that same sundress every Wednesday because it makes you feel put-together.”
You blinked, startled. “You—”
“I pay attention.” His gaze softened, but the edge in his voice stayed. “More than anyone else ever has. Tell me I’m wrong.” You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your pulse raced under your skin. He reached across the table, taking your hand gently but firmly in his, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “I might not have asked the right way before. But I’m asking now. Let me have this. Let me have you.”
Your breath caught once again. The waiter appeared with menus, but Bucky didn’t even look at his. His eyes stayed on you, unwavering, as if the answer was the only thing that mattered. “Order something,” he said, tone clipped, smooth, the way he probably gave orders to his men.
You blinked, lowering your gaze to the menu. “You could say please, you know.”
His brows furrowed slightly. “I just did.”
“No, you told me,” you said quietly, the edge of a shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Telling isn’t asking.” That made him still. His head tilted, studying you as if you’d just spoken in another language. No one corrected him. No one pushed back. Certainly no one teased him. You turned a page in the menu, forcing your shoulders to stay loose, though your pulse hammered. “If you want me to do something, maybe try asking. Like a normal person.”
For a long beat, his eyes stayed locked on you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. You thought you’d pushed too far—until the corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Normal, huh?” His voice dropped low, velvet-dark. He leaned across the table just slightly, one hand resting near yours. “Alright, doll. What would please you tonight? Salmon? Steak? Or do you want me to ask sweeter?”
Your cheeks heated instantly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Sure it is.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles, light but deliberate. “You want me to say the words. ‘Please, sweetheart, pick something so I can watch you enjoy it.’ That what you want?”
You swallowed hard, caught between flustered and indignant. “It wouldn’t kill you to try it.”
For a long moment, he just watched you, silent, eyes burning into yours. Then, softly, deliberately, “please, doll. Order something. For me.”
Your lips parted in surprise. The weight of the words, the fact that he’d said them—not barked, not commanded—hit you harder than it should have. You ducked your head quickly, hiding your flush in the menu. “Okay,” you murmured, finally pointing to something on the page.
His grin widened, wolfish, triumphant. He sat back in his chair, content now, as if coaxing that small concession from you meant more than anything else on the table. But you caught the way his eyes lingered, sharp and possessive, even when his voice had softened. Like no matter how politely he phrased it, he still thought the end result was the same: you, bending to him. And part of you wondered if you minded as much as you should.
The dinner stretched on in a haze of soft light and low voices. The waiter came and went, but Bucky barely acknowledged him—every ounce of his attention stayed fixed on you. He did try, though. You could see it in the way he caught himself before giving another clipped order, the way he reshaped his words into something that almost sounded like a request. “Try the wine, doll,” he started to say, then stopped himself. His eyes softened, a little sheepish for once. “Would you… please try the wine?”
You bit your lip to hide a smile, lifting the glass to your lips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
He chuckled low in his chest, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it.”
But he kept doing it. Through dinner, through dessert, through the awkward-lovely rhythm of you teasing and him adjusting. He was clumsy at it, but he tried—for you. When the plates were cleared and the check was slipped onto the table, and ignored by him, you expected him to take you straight home. Instead, he offered his hand as you slid from your chair, steady and warm at the small of your back as he guided you out into the cool night. The city hummed around you—cars hissing down wet streets, neon signs buzzing faintly in the dark. You walked together in silence for a while, his stride matching yours, his hand never quite leaving your back.
Finally, you glanced up at him. “You really don’t ask for things, do you?”
He looked down at you, brow furrowing slightly. “I do now.”
“You tell me what I’m eating, what I’m wearing, when I should go home—”
“Because you don’t look after yourself the way you should,” he cut in, voice steady, but softer than usual.
“That’s not the same as asking,” you insisted, your tone gentle but firm. “You keep saying I’m yours. But you never asked me if I wanted to be.”
That stopped him cold. His steps slowed, then stilled entirely. He turned to face you fully, the glow of a nearby streetlamp carving hard shadows across his jaw. No one ever pushed him like this. Not his men. Not his enemies. And yet here you were, standing there in your simple dress, looking at him with those soft eyes that had undone him from the start—and daring to tell him no.
For a moment, he didn’t speak. His jaw worked, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand. His voice was low, rough-edged, but stripped of command. “Do you?”
You blinked. “Do I what?”
“Want to be mine.”
The words were plain. Honest. Asked, not ordered. Your heart lurched, caught between fear and something warmer, heavier. You didn’t answer right away, and you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip on your hand tightened as if bracing for rejection. But you didn’t pull away. You held on. “I don’t know yet,” you admitted softly. “But if you keep asking instead of telling… maybe I’ll figure it out.”
The silence between you stretched, charged and alive. Then, for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bucky let out a breath that wasn’t weighted with control or calculation. He brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles once, reverent. “Then I’ll ask,” he murmured. “As many times as it takes.” And when he walked you home that night, he didn’t touch your back, didn’t cage you in with his presence. He just walked beside you, his hand holding yours, as though that was enough.
The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual. His hand stayed in yours, heavy, grounding, but he didn’t say anything more after that promise. The city’s neon glow flickered across the wet pavement, painting the silence in color. At your building, you stopped at the door, fingers brushing the keys in your pocket. He didn’t reach for them this time, didn’t lean against the frame and cage you in. He just stood there, watching you. You hesitated, then looked up at him. “Are you… coming in?”
His jaw worked once. You saw the war in his eyes—possession urging him to say yes, control telling him to wait. For the first time, he looked almost… uncertain. “I want to,” he admitted, voice low, rough. “But I’ll ask. Do you want me to?”
Your chest tightened. The way he said it—like the words were foreign, dragged out of him against instinct—made something inside you ache. You shook your head gently. “Not tonight.”
For a flicker of a second, you thought he’d argue. That steel-blue stare locked on yours, intense enough to burn. But then he nodded once, sharp and deliberate, like it cost him something. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”
You slipped inside, heart pounding, and leaned against the door after you closed it. His shadow lingered on the other side, unmoving, until you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.
The next morning, the bell chimed right on time. You looked up from the counter and there he was again—sharp suit, gloves, eyes only for you. But there was something different about him. The usual possessive certainty was still there, but now it was tempered, measured. He set a small bundle on the counter—gardenias again, perfectly fresh. But this time, he didn’t say take them. Instead, he watched you closely, voice low. “Do you want them?”
Your lips parted. You blinked, then smiled softly, shy but certain. “Yes.”
His shoulders eased, just barely. He nodded once, satisfied, though the glint in his eyes still promised he’d never stop wanting to give you more than you asked for. And as you placed the gardenias in a vase by the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He was still the storm hovering over your quiet life—but now he was learning how to ask before he struck.
---
The bell chimed when you left the shop that Sunday morning, keys tucked into your pocket and your bag over your shoulder. The sun was out for once, the kind of warm golden light that made the city feel softer, less sharp around the edges. You’d planned on wandering down to the farmer’s market, picking up fresh bread and maybe some fruit for the week.
You weren’t surprised when you felt him before you saw him. Bucky fell into step beside you like he always did, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the street. He didn’t say he’d been waiting, but he didn’t have to. “Going somewhere?” he asked, voice low and even.
“The farmer’s market,” you said. “Do you… want to come?”
It slipped out before you could stop it. You weren’t sure why you offered—maybe because it felt strange to keep pretending you didn’t see him watching you. Maybe because part of you wanted to see what he was like outside your shop, outside dim restaurants and shadowed sidewalks. His lips twitched, just slightly. “Yeah. I’ll come.”
The market was buzzing with people—kids tugging at their parents’ hands, couples wandering between stalls, vendors calling out prices. The air smelled of warm bread and herbs, the kind of scent that made you feel like the city wasn’t so heavy after all. Bucky stuck close, but not in the looming, possessive way he usually did. Today he just walked beside you, his broad frame making space for you in the crowd. He looked… normal. Or as normal as a man like him could look.
You stopped at a bakery stall, eyeing the fresh loaves stacked high. “These are always gone by the afternoon,” you explained, pulling a bill from your bag. Before you could hand it over, Bucky passed cash to the vendor instead, his gloved hand steady.
“Bucky—”
“Don’t argue,” he said softly, almost smiling. “Consider it me asking.”
You rolled your eyes but accepted the bread, and his smile deepened like he’d won something. At the flower stall—of course there was a flower stall—you noticed his gaze linger on you as you inspected the bouquets. For once, you didn’t feel self-conscious. You just let yourself enjoy it. Then you spotted a row of little jars at another table a few stalls away—local honey, the labels hand-painted with tiny bees. Without thinking, you grabbed his arm, tugging him along. “Come on, look at these—”
You let go as soon as you reached the stall, too focused on the honey jars to notice the way he froze for half a second when your hand touched him. His gaze dropped to where your fingers had been, his jaw tightening. He didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. But the weight of that touch lingered in his chest, hot and heavy, long after you’d pulled away. You picked out a jar, holding it up with a little smile. “Isn’t this cute?”
He nodded slowly, but his eyes weren’t on the honey. They were still on you, watching the way your face lit up in the sunlight, the way you smiled without thinking. And for once, he didn’t feel like the man everyone feared. He just felt like a man walking through a market with a girl who made him want things he’d forgotten he could have.
The market felt different with him beside you. Normally, you drifted through the stalls without much notice—just another face in the crowd—but with Bucky there, people stepped out of the way. Vendors straightened. Conversations dipped quiet for a moment before picking up again. You pretended not to notice, but you did. And so did he. His hand brushed the small of your back once or twice, subtle but guiding, as though keeping you in his orbit. At a food stall, the scent of frying dough pulled you in. You lingered over the handwritten sign—fresh fritters dusted in sugar—and before you could even reach for your bag, Bucky was already paying. “You don’t have to keep buying everything,” you said, exasperated but a little amused.
He handed you the warm paper bag, eyes steady. “I know. I want to.”
You bit into a fritter, the crunch giving way to soft, sweet warmth. A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. Bucky’s eyes softened. He didn’t take one for himself—he just watched you, like the sight of your smile was enough. You found a bench near the edge of the market, shaded by a tree. Sitting side by side, you let the crowd blur into background noise. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then you glanced at him, curious. “So… what do you do?”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Why?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve been… spending time together. You know a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you.”
His jaw tightened, as if weighing how much to say. Finally, he leaned back against the bench, gaze fixed on the crowd instead of you. “I run things. Businesses. Keep people in line.”
“That’s… vague,” you said carefully.
He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. Vague’s safer.”
You studied him for a moment, the sharp set of his shoulders, the way he scanned the people moving through the market like he was cataloging threats. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… something. Something real.”
His eyes flicked back to you then, and for a beat, the weight of his stare pinned you in place. “Something real?”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a long time, then finally said, “I don’t sleep much. When I do, I keep the lights on. Always have.”
You blinked, surprised at the intimacy of the admission. He hadn’t given you facts about his work, but he’d given you something raw instead. Something closer to the truth. You nodded softly. “That’s… real.”
His shoulders eased, just slightly. The silence stretched again, but it felt different this time—warmer, less guarded. You shifted, brushing sugar from your fingers, and without thinking, offered him the last fritter from the bag. He didn’t take it right away. He just looked at you, eyes flicking down to your hand, then back to your face. Finally, he reached for it, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. “Thank you.” The words were simple, but they carried weight.
As you sat there together, sharing sugared dough in the sunlight, you realized this felt almost like a normal second date. Almost. And though you didn’t notice it, he did—the way your shoulders leaned just slightly toward him, the way your knee brushed his. To anyone else, it was nothing. But to Bucky, it was everything.
The walk back from the market felt easier than you expected. Maybe it was the sunlight softening the edges of the city, maybe it was the paper bag of warm bread under your arm, or maybe it was simply that Bucky wasn’t looming as much as usual.
He carried most of the weight without asking—jars of honey, bundles of herbs, a carton of fresh eggs balanced in one hand. He hadn’t made a show of it; the moment you’d started to juggle too many things, he’d quietly relieved you of them. “You don’t have to carry everything,” you said, hugging the bread close to your chest.
“I want to,” he answered simply. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, “besides, you’re terrible at hiding how heavy it is.”
You ducked your head, a little embarrassed, but the teasing softened the moment instead of sharpening it. The streets thinned as you left the crowded stalls behind. For once, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop to admire the painted mural on a corner building, the stray cat curled in a sunbeam on the stoop. His gaze followed everything you touched with your eyes, memorizing it silently. “You seem… different today,” you said after a while, glancing at him.
“How so?”
“Less…” You searched for the word. “Commanding. More like…” You gestured at the bags in his hands. “This. Normal.”
He was quiet for a beat, then let out a low breath. “Maybe I just wanted to see what it feels like. Doing this with you.”
You blinked. “Feels like what?”
“Like I’m not who I am,” he said, eyes straight ahead. “Like I could just… be a man walking home from the market with his girl.”
Your steps faltered. He noticed immediately, his head turning, sharp blue eyes locking onto you. But he didn’t backtrack. He let the words hang there, bare and heavy. You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you shifted the bread under your arm and kept walking. As you reached your building, you touched the edge of his sleeve lightly, without thinking, to slow him. “Thank you,” you said softly.
“For what?”
“For coming with me. For trying.”
His gaze softened, more than you’d ever seen. He leaned down just slightly, his voice quiet, meant for you alone. “I’d try for you, doll. Always.”
He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t push. He just pressed the bags into your hands and waited until you were inside, standing guard in the shadow of your building until the door closed. And though you couldn’t see him, he stayed there for a long time, staring at the place where your fingers had brushed his arm, replaying it like a man clutching his first breath after drowning.
---
The weeks passed quietly, the rhythm of your little flower shop unchanged in all the familiar ways and altered in one very specific one. The bell still chimed at odd intervals, children still pressed coins into your palm for bouquets for their mothers, and old women still lingered at the counter to gossip. But now, James “Bucky” Barnes was a fixture.
He came every day. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes at closing, sometimes both. At first, he’d only bought flowers. Now, more often than not, he was simply there—watching, asking you questions in that low voice of his, or taking up a quiet corner of the shop where his looming presence managed to make the whole space feel smaller.
What surprised you most was how quickly he adapted to your routines. One evening, as you were dragging a heavy bucket of water toward the back room, you heard a faint scrape. When you looked up, Bucky was already carrying it with one hand, like it weighed nothing. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he said when you frowned at him.
“I’ve been doing this for years,” you reminded him.
“Not anymore,” he replied, setting the bucket down and fixing you with that firm stare that made arguments slip off your tongue.
After that, he just started doing things. Sweeping up petals after closing. Refilling water vases. Straightening displays. The strangest sight of all was him in his immaculate suit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully trimming stems with the clumsy concentration of a man who had never held shears before. You caught yourself smiling one evening when he leaned too hard on the broom and nearly knocked over a pail of carnations. “What’s funny?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.
“You’re… bad at this,” you admitted, covering your mouth with your hand.
His lips twitched as though fighting a grin. “Maybe. But I don’t mind being bad at something if it’s for you.”
That made your chest tighten. Later, when he tried to lock up the shop himself, you shook your head. “You can’t just decide things, Bucky. You have to ask.”
He paused with the key in his hand, blue eyes sharp on yours. “Ask?”
“Yes. Like a normal person.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, silent. Then, with the barest hint of a smile, “may I lock up for you, doll?”
You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks, before nodding slowly. “Yes.”
He turned the key with a satisfied twist, and though he said nothing more, the look in his eyes told you he was storing that moment away, filing it under things he would never forget.
And that became the new pattern. The man everyone else feared—the man you still didn’t fully understand—swept floors and carried buckets in your flower shop. Not because you asked him to, but because he wanted to. Because it meant being near you, being part of your world, even if it meant stumbling through tasks that had nothing to do with his.
---
The idea came to you while restocking vases one quiet afternoon. Bucky had settled himself on the stool by the counter, jacket draped over the backrest, sleeves rolled up as he trimmed stems with more concentration than skill. It was still strange seeing him like that—this man who radiated danger, carefully adjusting the angle of scissors to keep a daisy neat. “You’re free tomorrow, right?” you asked, keeping your tone casual.
His head lifted, blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”
You hesitated, fingers brushing water from your palms. “There’s an exhibit at the museum. I thought… maybe you’d like to go with me.”
Silence. You felt suddenly foolish. Of course a man like him wouldn’t want to wander through quiet halls, looking at paintings. You opened your mouth to take it back, but he spoke first. “When?”
You blinked. “Noon?”
He nodded once, decisive. “I’ll pick you up.”
The museum was quieter than the farmer’s market, but no less alive. Families moved from gallery to gallery, tourists snapped photos, students sat on the floor sketching. You bought tickets at the front desk, and when you glanced over, Bucky was already scanning the lobby like it was a threat he had to neutralize. “You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you teased gently.
“I don’t like crowds,” he admitted, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Too many hands. Too many eyes.”
You offered him a small smile. “Then just look at me instead.”
Something flickered across his face at that—something raw and unguarded—before his expression smoothed again. He followed you into the first gallery without a word. The space was filled with soft light and framed canvases, oil paintings that stretched from floor to ceiling. You paused before one, studying the brushstrokes, and realized after a moment that he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was watching you. “You’re supposed to look at the art,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.
“I am,” he replied.
Heat crept up your neck, and you busied yourself reading the plaque beside the painting. As you moved from gallery to gallery, he stayed close, his hand brushing your back whenever the crowd grew too thick. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it surprised you. He had opinions—sharp, quiet observations about color, about shadow, about how one painting seemed “lonely” while another looked like “noise trapped in a frame.” His voice was low, thoughtful, nothing like the clipped commands he usually gave.
You stole glances at him while he studied the paintings. He didn’t fidget, didn’t check his watch or his phone. He looked, really looked, the same way he looked at you in the shop—like he was memorizing every detail.
At one point, you wandered ahead into a side gallery where a massive sculpture stood under a skylight. You stopped, tilting your head, trying to make sense of the twisting stone form. A moment later, his shadow fell across yours. Without thinking, you reached back and caught his hand, tugging him closer. “What do you think this is supposed to be?”
His hand stayed in yours, warm and steady. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tease. He just let you hold him, his gaze dropping briefly to where your fingers curled against his before answering. “Doesn’t matter what it’s supposed to be,” he said quietly. “Matters what you see in it.”
You didn’t even realize you were still holding his hand until you let go to gesture at the sculpture, your cheeks heating. He didn’t comment, though his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary. By the time you stepped back into the sunlight outside, the afternoon was waning. He carried the museum’s little pamphlet in one hand, folded neatly, like it was something precious. “Thank you,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself. “For coming.”
He studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “You ask, I’ll come.” And though his voice was steady, you couldn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his side—like he was resisting the urge to reach for yours again.
The walk home after the museum felt different than any other evening you’d shared with him. Maybe it was the soft glow of the setting sun bouncing off the buildings, or maybe it was the quiet between you—comfortable, not weighted the way it usually was.
You carried a little bag from the gift shop, a postcard print of your favorite painting tucked inside. He’d insisted on buying it when you lingered too long at the rack, ignoring your protests. Now it swung lightly from your fingers as the two of you turned down your street. He stayed close, as always, scanning shadows and corners. But he wasn’t tense. Not like usual. His shoulders looked looser, his jaw softer, as if he’d finally let himself breathe for once. At your building, you stopped at the door. He reached for the key the way he always did, but this time you didn’t hand it over. Instead, you turned it yourself, then hesitated. When you looked up at him, he was watching you, waiting. “Do you…” You bit your lip, suddenly nervous. “Do you want to come in?”
For a flicker of a moment, something raw crossed his face—surprise, then hunger, then something softer. His eyes searched yours as though trying to find a trick hidden there. “You sure?” His voice was low, almost rough. He was asking, not telling.
You nodded, stepping inside and holding the door open. He followed, quiet as a shadow, and the door clicked shut behind him. Your apartment wasn’t much—small, cozy, smelling faintly of lavender and bread. A few books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the couch, a vase of flowers by the window. His eyes swept the space once, but not with the sharp calculation you were used to. This time it looked like he was… curious. Taking in the pieces of your life he hadn’t been able to reach until now. You slipped off your shoes and gestured awkwardly. “It’s not much, but… it’s home.”
He stepped further in, silent for a moment, before his gaze found the vase by the window. White gardenias, still fresh, but starting to droop a little. “You kept them,” he murmured.
“Of course,” you said softly.
Something shifted in his expression then, subtle but undeniable. His shoulders eased even more, and when he finally sat down on the couch—careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb anything—he looked almost human. Almost ordinary. You brought him a glass of water, and he accepted it with a quiet, “thank you,” fingers brushing yours deliberately. The lamp he’d given you glowed faintly in the corner, casting its warm petals of light across the room. He noticed, of course. His eyes lingered on it for a long moment before he turned back to you. “Feels like you,” he said.
You tilted your head. “What does?”
“This place. The light. The quiet. All of it.” He leaned back into the couch, watching you with that same intensity he always did, but softer now. “I like it.”
Bucky didn’t sit like a guest. He sat like he belonged there, broad shoulders sinking carefully into your couch, his hand resting heavy on his knee. The lamplight painted him in soft gold, blunting the sharpness of his jaw, but nothing could dull the intensity of his eyes. They tracked you as you moved—setting the bread on the counter, tidying the little bag from the museum gift shop, fussing with nothing at all just to give your hands something to do.
You finally settled across from him, tucking your legs under yourself. He was too large for your space, all dark edges against your quiet home, and yet… he didn’t look out of place. Not anymore. “You’re quiet,” you said softly.
“I like it here,” he answered simply. His gaze flicked around the room again—the flowers on the sill, the stack of books on your table, the blanket folded neatly over the back of a chair. “Feels like you.”
Your lips curved, though you tried to hide it. “That’s because it is me. It’s my space.”
He studied you then, blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You let me in.”
The weight of those words settled heavy between you. He didn’t sound surprised. More like he was… marveling at it. Testing the shape of the truth on his tongue. “I trust you,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.
His jaw tightened. His hand flexed once on his knee. “You shouldn’t,” he said, voice low, raw. “Not with me.”
The honesty in his tone chilled you, but it also pulled at something deeper. You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees. “Then tell me why.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, like he was deciding whether or not to let you see past the walls he kept so carefully built. Then he shifted, elbows on his thighs, leaning closer. “Because I don’t stop. Once I want something—once I want you—I don’t let go.”
Your breath caught, heat rising to your cheeks. But instead of recoiling, you held his gaze. “Then maybe you should ask me if I mind.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you?”
You hesitated, heart pounding, before whispering, “no.”
The silence that followed was thick, humming with unspoken things. He leaned back slowly, the tension in his body still coiled tight, but his expression softened—just barely. “Good,” he murmured.
You didn’t know what possessed you then, but you rose and crossed to the kitchen, pouring him another glass of water, setting it down beside him like it was the most natural thing. He accepted it without breaking eye contact, his metal fingers brushing yours deliberately.
The night stretched longer, the city outside dimming into quiet. At some point, you found yourself curled in the chair across from him, head resting against your hand, listening as he told you little things—not about business, never that, but about the food he liked, the places he couldn’t stand, the way he hated the sound of clocks ticking. Small truths, but truths nonetheless.
When he finally stood to leave, it was later than you realized. He lingered at the door, one hand braced against the frame. “Next time,” he said softly, “I’ll stay.”
You didn’t argue. When the door closed behind him, your apartment still felt full. Heavy with his presence. And when you went to bed, the lamp he’d given you cast its warm glow across the room, reminding you that letting him in once meant you’d never be rid of him again.
The next night, he didn’t wait on the street. You closed up shop, locked the door, and there he was—already leaning against the brick wall, arms folded across his chest. The way he looked at you made the air feel heavy, like he’d been waiting for this moment all day. “Come on,” he said quietly, falling into step beside you.
The walk to your apartment was silent, but not tense. His hand brushed yours once or twice, and though he didn’t take it, you felt the weight of restraint in every step he took. When you unlocked your door and pushed it open, you hesitated. He didn’t ask this time. He didn’t have to. The question was in his eyes, and the answer was already in yours. “Stay,” you said softly.
Something uncoiled in him at that word, something he’d been holding too tightly. He stepped inside without hesitation, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of your chair like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Your apartment filled with him—his size, his presence, the faint spice of his cologne. You made tea because it gave your hands something to do, and when you handed him a mug, his fingers brushed yours deliberately, lingering just long enough to make your pulse trip. He sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched. He drank the tea like he wasn’t used to it, sipping carefully, his eyes never leaving you. “Feels different,” he murmured after a while.
“What does?”
“This. Here. With you.” His gaze flicked around the apartment, then back to you. “It’s quiet. No one watching. No one waiting on me. Just… you.”
Your chest tightened. “Is that what you want?”
His jaw flexed. He set the mug down, metal fingers tapping once against the porcelain. “Yeah. More than I should.”
The silence stretched. You shifted under his stare, then finally leaned back against the couch, letting your shoulder brush his. He stilled at the contact, then eased, as if the world had just given him permission to breathe. The hours slipped by. You talked about nothing—books, music, the weather—and sometimes you didn’t talk at all. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, warm, almost domestic. When the clock ticked past midnight, you stifled a yawn. His head turned instantly, eyes narrowing. “You’re tired.”
“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice was drowsy.
He stood, towering over you, then offered his hand. “Bed,” he said.
You arched a brow, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Excuse me?”
His mouth curved faintly. “To sleep, doll. I’ll take the couch.”
You hesitated, then nodded, leading him toward the small bedroom. He didn’t linger, didn’t push. He just pulled the blanket up to your chin once you were settled, his hand brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your throat ache. “Sleep,” he murmured.
You closed your eyes, the glow of the lamp warm against the walls, and the last thing you felt was the weight of his presence just outside the door—silent, steady, keeping watch.
The smell of coffee pulled you awake before the sunlight did. For a moment, you thought you were dreaming—the rich, dark aroma, the soft clink of ceramic from your kitchen—but when you sat up, the lamp still glowed faintly on your nightstand, and the blanket tucked under your chin smelled faintly of his cologne.
You padded quietly to the doorway, pausing when you saw him. Bucky stood at the counter, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he poured steaming coffee into your favorite mug. His jacket was still draped over the back of the chair from last night, his sleeves rolled up again. On the counter beside him was a loaf of bread you’d bought at the market, neatly sliced into even pieces, and butter softening in a small dish. It looked… domestic. Almost ordinary. And it made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for. “You don’t have to do that,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe.
He looked up instantly, sharp as always, but his expression softened when he saw you. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Figured I’d make myself useful.”
You smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You’re really bad at pretending this is normal.”
“Maybe,” he said, setting the mug in front of you. His voice lowered. “But I like pretending with you.”
The warmth of the cup seeped into your palms. You took a sip, humming at the taste—it was stronger than you usually made it, but good. He watched your reaction like it mattered more than anything else. “See?” he said, almost smug. “Better than what you usually drink.”
You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “You think you can just take over my kitchen now?”
His grin widened, wolfish but soft around the edges. “If you let me.” For a long moment, you stood there, sipping your coffee while he leaned against the counter, watching you like the morning belonged to the two of you alone. When you finally set the mug down, he reached past you, brushing your wrist deliberately as he moved the butter closer to the bread. “Eat something,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes but picked up a slice anyway. “You know, most people say ‘please’ when they want something.”
He chuckled low, the sound warm and rough. “Please, doll. Eat something for me.”
You laughed then, quiet but real, and he looked at you like he’d just won a war without firing a single shot. And as you sat at your tiny kitchen table, him across from you with his coffee, you realized you weren’t just letting him into your apartment. You were letting him into your mornings, your routines, your life. He seemed to realize it too. Because when you reached for another slice of bread, he leaned back in his chair, eyes soft and possessive all at once, and said quietly, “get used to this. I’m not going anywhere.”
You thought he’d leave after breakfast—slip out the way he usually did, shadow heavy but fleeting. Instead, he stayed, long after the last crumb of bread was gone and your coffee had cooled. He didn’t hover, not exactly. He followed you with his eyes as you moved around your apartment, tidying plates, straightening cushions, feeding the little plant on your windowsill. Every small domestic motion seemed to hold his full attention, as if he were cataloging it all for later.
When you bent to pick up a book that had slipped under the table, he was suddenly there, crouched beside you. His metal fingers brushed the spine before yours could reach it. “Got it,” he murmured, handing it over. His eyes lingered on the cover—an old paperback, spine worn soft. “You like this one?”
“It’s a favorite,” you admitted, hugging it to your chest. “I’ve read it more times than I can count.”
He nodded slowly, eyes sharp, as though he were etching the title into his memory. You retreated to the couch, curling into the corner, and he sat at the other end—close enough that your knees brushed when you shifted. He leaned back, stretching an arm along the top of the couch, watching you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “You’re different here,” you said quietly.
“How?”
“Quieter. Softer.” You hesitated. “Like you’re not carrying the whole world on your shoulders.”
For a moment, something flickered across his face—something raw, almost vulnerable. “Maybe it’s because I’m with you.”
Your cheeks warmed. You turned your gaze toward the window, pretending to fuss with the flowers on the sill. “You say things like that too easily.”
“I don’t say anything easily,” he said, voice low, firm. “Not unless I mean it.”
The air grew heavier, thick with unspoken things. To break it, you stood and gathered the empty mugs. “I should wash these.”
“I’ll do it.”
Before you could protest, he was already in your tiny kitchen, sleeves pushed up, broad frame bent over your sink. The sight of him there—dangerous and untouchable to the rest of the city, carefully rinsing soap suds from your favorite mug—sent a strange ache through you. “You really don’t know how to act normal,” you teased gently, leaning against the counter.
He glanced at you, lips curving faintly. “This is normal. For me. If you let it be.”
You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how easily he was weaving himself into your space, your life. When the mugs were clean and drying on the rack, he returned to the couch, looking far too at ease in your home. As though the line between visitor and resident had already blurred. And when you finally told him, half-awkward, that you needed to open the shop soon, he only nodded, standing slowly. His eyes swept the room one last time before settling on you. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, not as a command but as a promise.
And when the door clicked shut behind him, your apartment still felt full.
The second time he stayed, it felt less like a choice and more like inevitability. He didn’t even ask if it was alright—he simply slipped off his jacket, folded it neatly over the arm of your couch, and stretched his long frame across it like it was a habit he’d been keeping for years.
You went to bed with the lamplight still spilling warm gold into the hallway, the faint hum of the city outside, and the comforting knowledge that he was only a few steps away. It was deep into the night when you woke. Thirst pulled you from sleep, groggy and heavy-limbed. Padding into the living room, you found him still on the couch, blanket pushed low around his waist, one arm draped over the edge.
For a moment, you thought he was sleeping peacefully. His chest rose and fell, steady. But then you noticed the twitch of his fingers, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the low, almost inaudible sounds escaping his throat—half-formed words, broken whispers.
You froze. A nightmare. Your first instinct was to leave him be, let him fight his shadows alone. But something in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his breath hitched, made your chest ache. “Bucky,” you whispered, stepping closer. “It’s alright. You’re safe.” You reached out, intending only to brush your fingers across his shoulder, to anchor him in the present. But the instant your skin touched his, his metal arm snapped up, lightning fast, clamping around your wrist.
The pressure was startling, firm enough to hurt, and you gasped softly. His eyes flew open—wild, unmoored, glassy with panic. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t here with you. He was somewhere else. Then recognition hit. His grip loosened instantly, his chest heaving. “God—doll—” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You sank down onto the edge of the couch, cradling his arm with your free hand, your voice low and steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You didn’t mean to.”
But he was already shaking his head, his flesh hand scrubbing hard over his face. “Shouldn’t—shouldn’t touch you. Not when I don’t know where I am. Could’ve hurt you. Could’ve—”
You caught his wrist before he could pull further away. “You didn’t. You didn’t hurt me.”
His metal fingers trembled against your skin, so different from the usual deliberate steadiness you knew. He kept repeating it, almost under his breath, like a mantra breaking apart. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” you whispered, sliding closer, resting your other hand lightly against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your palm. “Look at me.” It took a moment, but his eyes finally lifted to yours—blue and raw, stripped of every layer of command and control. “You’re here,” you said softly. “With me. You’re safe.”
The tension in his arm eased by degrees, until his grip was nothing more than a loose circle around your wrist. He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven. “You shouldn’t have to… deal with this.”
“I don’t mind,” you whispered. And you didn’t. Not when it was him.
For a long time, you just sat there, your hand still against his chest, his breath slowly steadying under your touch. When his grip finally fell away completely, it wasn’t because he pushed you—it was because he let go, trusting you not to move. You didn’t. You stayed.
And when he drifted back into sleep, your wrist still tingled from the weight of his arm, but it wasn’t fear that lingered. It was the way his voice had broken on your name, the way he’d clung to your presence like it was the only thing anchoring him in the world.
By the time the apartment grew quiet again, you hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You’d sat there with him, your hand still resting over his chest, listening as his breath evened out beneath your palm. You told yourself you’d move once you were sure he was settled.
But your eyes grew heavy. The couch was warm beneath you, his body warmer still, and before you knew it, you were sliding sideways, cheek pressed against his shirt. His heart was a steady thrum beneath your ear, his arm—flesh, not metal—loosely draped over your back as though even in sleep he couldn’t help but hold you close.
The couch was small, too small for the both of you, but you didn’t notice. Not with the weight of him grounding you, not with the lamp’s glow painting soft gold across the room.
When you woke, morning light was spilling through the curtains, pale and thin. It took a moment to realize where you were—why your pillow was too firm, why your blanket smelled faintly of his cologne. You shifted, groggy, and felt his chest move beneath you. He was awake. His breathing was shallow, controlled, the way he sounded when he was trying not to disturb you. “Morning,” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.
His chest rumbled under your cheek with a low, uncertain sound. “You shouldn’t… have stayed here.”
You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were sharp, but not cold. There was guilt there, deep and quiet. “Why not?”
“I could’ve hurt you,” he said. His metal hand flexed once against the blanket, as though the memory of gripping your arm was still burning through him. “I did hurt you.”
You shook your head, propping yourself on your elbow. “You didn’t. You scared me for a second, but… you didn’t hurt me.” His jaw worked, but he said nothing. You studied him for a moment—his hair mussed from sleep, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he looked so much younger like this, stripped of the armor he wore in daylight. “Bucky,” you said softly, “I wouldn’t have fallen asleep here if I didn’t feel safe with you.”
That silenced him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes flicking away for a moment as though he couldn’t bear the weight of what you’d just given him. Slowly, carefully, he brushed his knuckles across your cheek, his touch light, reverent. “You shouldn’t trust me that much.”
“Maybe not,” you whispered, leaning into his hand. “But I do.”
For the first time in longer than he could probably remember, his mouth curved into something almost fragile, almost grateful. You stayed like that for a long moment, the morning wrapping around you both like a secret. The couch was still too small, your neck was already sore, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Because for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were comforting him, or if he was comforting you.
---
The bell chimed as usual when he stepped into your shop, but today felt heavier somehow. Maybe it was the memory of the night before, of waking up in his arms on your too-small couch. Maybe it was the image of his wide, haunted eyes as he whispered apology after apology, and the way your chest had ached to soothe him.
You’d been thinking about that all morning. About how much he gave you—his presence, his protection, his steadiness—even if he never admitted it aloud. And for once, you wanted to give him something back. So you’d worked quietly before he arrived, hands steady even as your heart raced, trimming stems and tying ribbon. Now, as he approached the counter, you wiped your palms on your apron and brought the bouquet out from behind you.
It wasn’t like the ones you usually sold. This one was deliberate, personal. Deep blue delphiniums, soft cornflowers, pale forget-me-nots woven together in layers, all tied with a silver-gray ribbon. The colors matched his eyes perfectly—sharp and striking at the center, softer and gentler around the edges. You held it out shyly. “For you.”
He froze. For a man who seemed to always know what to do, what to say, he looked completely undone in that moment. His eyes flicked from the flowers to your face and back again, as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. “You made this… for me?” His voice was rough, low.
You nodded, your fingers twisting the edge of your apron. “You’ve brought me so much. I just thought—maybe you’d like to have something, too.”
He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and took the bouquet from your hands. His metal fingers brushed the ribbon with surprising gentleness, as though afraid he might crush the delicate stems. For a long moment, he just stared at it. Then his jaw worked, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “No one’s ever…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”
Your heart clenched. “Then I’ll just have to make sure it’s not the last time.”
His eyes snapped back to yours, something raw burning in them. He set the bouquet carefully on the counter, then reached across with his flesh hand, curling his fingers around yours. “Thank you, doll,” he said, voice unsteady. “You don’t know what this means to me.” But from the way he held your hand, from the way his thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of you, you thought maybe you did.
Bucky carried the bouquet back with him, cradled more carefully than the files his men handed him daily. When he entered his penthouse, the first thing Natasha noticed wasn’t the flowers themselves—it was the way he set them down gently on his desk, like they were priceless.
She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Boss, if you keep this up, you’re gonna need a bigger office. Between the vases and bouquets, it’s starting to look more like a conservatory than a headquarters.”
He shot her a sharp look, but it lacked real heat. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the bouquet, fingers brushing over the ribbon like he still couldn’t believe it was real. “You got a problem with flowers, Romanoff?” he asked, voice low.
Natasha’s smirk softened into something almost approving. “Not with flowers. Just with you hiding in here behind them.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m not hiding.”
“You’ve skipped the last three meetings,” she countered, stepping further into the room. “You can’t keep pushing them off. People are starting to notice. And this next one—you can’t get out of it.”
His eyes darkened, steel sliding back into his expression. “When?”
“Tomorrow night.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Seven o’clock. You’ll be there, and you’ll sit through it, whether you like it or not.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. His metal fingers tapped once against the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Then he let out a slow breath, eyes flicking back to the blue bouquet. “Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”
Natasha tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve got her making bouquets just for you now?”
His lips curved faintly—dangerous, but softer than usual. “Yeah. She did.”
Natasha’s brows lifted. “And you’re going to tell her where you’re going tomorrow?”
His gaze sharpened again, voice dropping low. “No.”
“Bucky—”
“She doesn’t need to know.” His eyes lingered on the flowers, something fierce burning beneath the calm. “Not yet.”
Natasha studied him for a long beat before finally sighing. “One of these days, Barnes, you’re gonna realize she’s not just another thing you can keep in the dark.”
But he didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the bouquet again, his hand steady, his mind already far from the meeting Natasha had chained him to.
The following evening, Bucky was restless. He’d shown up at your shop like he always did, the bell chiming as he stepped in, but his presence felt heavier than usual. He leaned against the counter, silent, eyes fixed on you while you arranged fresh stems in a vase. His gloves were still on—he hadn’t even rolled his sleeves the way he sometimes did when he helped close up. “Long day?” you asked, glancing up.
His jaw flexed once. “Not finished yet.”
Something in his tone told you not to press. But you noticed the way his gaze lingered on you a little too long, as though he were memorizing everything about you—the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your hands as you tied ribbon.
When you locked up for the night, he was there as usual, walking you home. His stride was slower, though, deliberate. Like he didn’t want the walk to end. At your door, instead of leaving with his usual “goodnight,” he lingered. His eyes traced your face with an intensity that made your heart race. “You’ll stay in tonight,” he said softly.
You blinked. “I was planning to, yes. Why?”
He exhaled, the faintest flicker of relief passing across his features. “Good. I need…” He hesitated, words sticking like they were foreign in his mouth. “I need to be somewhere. But I don’t want you worrying.”
Your brows furrowed. “Where?”
His eyes softened, but the steel never left them. “Not a place you need to know about.” It stung, a little, but before you could respond, his flesh hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin. His touch was warm, but his grip was firm, almost desperate. “Promise me you’ll stay here tonight,” he murmured. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”
“Promise me.” His voice was low, commanding, but under it was something raw. Fear.
Your heart twisted. “I promise.”
Only then did his shoulders ease, just slightly. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there longer than usual. When he pulled back, his eyes burned with something unspoken. “I’ll be back,” he said simply. And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the city.
You stood in your doorway long after he’d disappeared, the bouquet you’d given him still fresh in your memory. Whatever world he was going back to tonight, it wasn’t one you were part of—not yet. But the way he’d looked at you before he left made you wonder how long he could keep the walls up.
It was late when the knock came—so late the city outside had gone quiet, even the hum of traffic muted. You woke with a start, heart pounding, blinking against the faint glow of the lamp in your bedroom.
For a moment, you thought you’d dreamed it. Then it came again, firmer this time. Three heavy knocks that rattled the wood. You slipped from bed, pulling a sweater over your shoulders, bare feet whispering across the floor. When you peered through the peephole, your stomach dropped. Bucky. He stood close to the door, shoulders squared, hair mussed, suit rumpled. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with something fierce and unsteady. And his knuckles—flesh and metal both—were streaked with blood.
You unlocked the door quickly and pulled it open. “Bucky.” He exhaled your name like a prayer, his chest rising and falling hard. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, filling your small apartment with his presence, the door shutting behind him with a dull thud. You reached for his hand automatically, the blood stark against your skin. “What happened?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said roughly, pulling back just enough to keep the mess off you. “It’s done.”
“Bucky—”
“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” His voice cracked low, raw, like he’d used up every ounce of steel at that meeting and had nothing left to shield himself with now.
You guided him toward the couch anyway, ignoring his protest. “Sit.” He hesitated, then obeyed, sinking down heavily. His shoulders were still tight, coiled with tension, his fists flexing and unflexing as though he hadn’t yet come down from whatever storm he’d just walked out of. You fetched a cloth and warm water from the bathroom, kneeling in front of him. He tried to take the rag from your hand, but you shook your head. “Let me,” you said softly.
For once, he didn’t argue. He let you cradle his hand, your smaller fingers working gently over the bloodstains. His skin was rough under your touch, his palm scarred, but you treated it like something fragile, as if the violence hadn’t seeped into the lines of his hand at all. He watched you in silence, blue eyes intent, following every stroke of the cloth. “You shouldn’t…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “You shouldn’t want to do this for me.”
“Maybe I want to anyway,” you whispered.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark. “You’re gonna ruin yourself, doll. Being close to me.”
You wrung out the cloth, wiping gently at his other hand, this one colder, harder. His metal fingers twitched under your touch, then stilled. “Maybe you don’t get to decide that,” you murmured.
His chest rose sharply, his eyes snapping to yours. The intensity there was almost unbearable—possessive, desperate, aching. “I came here,” he admitted finally, voice hoarse. “Because after it was over, all I wanted was you. Just… you.”
You finished cleaning the last smear of blood from his knuckles, then set the cloth aside. Without thinking, you reached up and pressed your hand against his jaw, tilting his face toward you. “I’m here,” you said simply.
And for the first time that night, his shoulders dropped, the fight bleeding out of him. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing, as though your palm was the only anchor he had left.
You didn’t let go of him right away. Even when his shoulders eased, when the fury and tension in him finally started to drain, you kept your hand at his jaw, kept your body close enough that he could feel your steadiness. When you finally shifted to stand, he caught your wrist—not tight, not desperate, but firm enough to stop you. His eyes opened, and there it was again: that raw, unguarded fear. Fear of you walking away. “Stay,” he murmured.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly. “But you need to rest. You can’t keep carrying all of this on your own.” You tugged gently until he let you go, then stood and gestured toward your bedroom. “Come on. You take the bed tonight.”
His eyes narrowed immediately. “No.”
“Bucky—”
“I’m not putting you on the couch in your own home,” he said sharply, rising to his feet. “I’ll take it. Always.”
The finality in his tone made you hesitate, but then you stepped closer, meeting his intensity with your own. “You came here for comfort, didn’t you? Then let me give it to you. Please.”
The word hung between you. You almost never asked him for anything. His jaw worked. He glanced at the bedroom door, then back at you, his expression caught between resistance and something almost… longing. Finally, he exhaled slowly. “Fine. But only if you stay too.”
Your breath caught. “Bucky—”
“I won’t sleep otherwise,” he admitted, voice low, hoarse. “Not without you.”
The ache in your chest deepened. You nodded once, quietly, and guided him into the bedroom. He moved carefully, stripping off his bloodstained shirt and leaving it folded on the chair before slipping under the covers in just his undershirt and slacks. He looked out of place in your small bed, too large, too coiled with silent tension.
You slid in beside him, the lamp’s glow soft across both of you. At first, he kept to his side, stiff and deliberate, as though terrified of crowding you. But when you reached out—just the lightest brush of your fingers over his wrist—he shifted closer, inch by inch, until his forehead rested against yours. “Sorry,” he whispered again, the word barely audible. “For last night. For tonight. For all of it.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” you whispered back, eyes closing. “Not with me.”
His breath stuttered against your cheek, and then his arm—warm, heavy, trembling slightly—wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest. It was a long time before his breathing evened out, before the tension bled from his body completely. But when it did, he slept deeper than he had in years, anchored by your presence.
And you stayed there with him, awake for a long while, listening to the steady thrum of his heart and wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was learning how to let someone share the weight he carried.
---
You woke to the sensation of warmth. Not the sunlight—though that was spilling pale and soft through the curtains—but the solid weight of the man beside you. His arm was still around you, heavy and steady, his chest pressed to your back. For a moment you stayed perfectly still, afraid that moving would shatter the fragile quiet that had settled over him in the night.
Eventually, you stirred, stretching carefully. His arm slipped away immediately, as if he’d been awake already, holding himself too tightly so as not to trap you. “Morning,” you murmured, rolling to face him. He was lying on his side, head propped on his hand, blue eyes fixed on you. His hair was a little mussed, his undershirt wrinkled. But his gaze was sharp, searching, as though he were trying to read the truth in your expression. “You slept,” you said softly, surprised by how certain you were.
“Because of you,” he admitted.
Something in your chest squeezed. You brushed your thumb lightly across the back of his hand. “I’m glad.”
But he didn’t relax. His eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw flexing. “You don’t regret this? Letting me stay?”
You blinked, caught off guard. “No. Why would I?”
“Because you saw me last night.” His voice was rough, low, like he hated the words even as he forced them out. “Bloody. Angry. A mess. That’s who I am, doll. That’s what I do when I leave you here. And I don’t…” He trailed off, eyes flicking away for a moment. “I don’t want you to look at me different because of it.”
You pushed yourself up on your elbow, leaning closer, catching his gaze. “Bucky. I saw you. And I still asked you to stay.”
His throat bobbed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You shouldn’t have to comfort me.”
“Maybe I want to,” you whispered, echoing the words you’d spoken when you cleaned his bloodied hands.
The silence stretched, heavy but not unbearable. His hand lifted, brushing lightly over your head, fingers catching gently at the nape of your neck. “You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You shook your head. “Not even a little.”
His eyes closed briefly, as though the weight of that truth was too much to hold. When he opened them again, they burned with something softer than you’d ever seen in him, something dangerously close to hope. And though he didn’t say the words, you could feel them in the way he held your gaze, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin.
For once, he wasn’t just the man who haunted your shop, who walked you home, who carried storms in his chest. For once, he was just Bucky.
---
The day had been quiet, the steady hum of your little shop wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. You were working at the counter, arranging fresh lilies into a tall glass vase, humming softly under your breath. Bucky had slipped into the back earlier, muttering something about moving crates that were too heavy for you, though you hadn’t asked him to.
You balanced the vase carefully in your hands—just a little too tall, a little too slick with condensation—and then it happened. The glass slipped. You gasped, a sharp sound breaking the quiet as the vase hit the floor and shattered. Water splashed across your shoes, stems splayed in every direction, and shards of glass glittered in a jagged circle around your feet.
“Doll?” His voice was immediate, sharp, and then he was there, bursting from the back with all the force of a man expecting the worst. His eyes swept the scene in an instant—the water, the flowers, the glinting glass around your shoes—and then locked onto you.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, holding your hands up like surrender. “I just—”
“Don’t move,” he snapped, the command biting. But his eyes softened a heartbeat later, voice lowering. “Please. Don’t move.” You froze, biting your lip. Shards glittered dangerously close to your ankles, one sliver already catching at your sock. Bucky’s chest rose hard with a deep breath. Then he stepped closer, gaze flicking up to yours. “Do you trust me?”
The question startled you—so direct, so weighted. But your answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”
In one smooth motion, his hands found your waist, strong and steady, and he lifted you up out of the circle of broken glass. You startled, legs instinctively tightening around him as he held you against his chest, the strength in his arms effortless and certain.
Your heart hammered, breath catching as the world tilted. You could feel the hard lines of him through his shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat pressed to your chest. For a moment, you were frozen, caught in the intensity of his eyes as he looked at you—so close, so intent, like you were the only thing in the world. Then, before you could stop yourself, a quiet giggle slipped out. You ducked your head against his shoulder, cheeks warm. “You’re… really strong.”
The corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous, but softer than you’d ever seen it. His grip tightened just slightly at your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how easily he held you. “Damn right I am,” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “Strong enough to carry you as long as it takes.”
Your breath caught, the teasing words laced with something heavier, deeper. You clung to him just a little tighter, not because of the glass scattered on the floor, but because of the way he said it—as though he meant more than just this moment.
And when he finally set you down on the counter, out of harm’s way, his hands lingered at your waist, eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His hands lingered at your waist even after he’d set you safely on the counter, his eyes locked on yours like he was trying to convince himself you were unharmed. Only when you shifted slightly—cheeks warm, fingers fiddling with the hem of your apron—did he finally step back. “Stay there,” he ordered softly. It wasn’t harsh, but it brooked no argument.
You opened your mouth to protest, then caught the flash in his eyes, the steel under the softness. You nodded instead, watching as he crouched to gather the scattered stems first, setting them aside with almost comical care before he tackled the glass.
He worked in silence, broad shoulders bent, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he swept every shard into a neat pile with practiced efficiency. He didn’t let you come near—every time you shifted on the counter as if to hop down, his gaze snapped to you, sharp as a warning. “You’re acting like I nearly lost a limb,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.
“You could’ve cut yourself,” he muttered, scooping the last of the glass into the dustpan. “Slipped, fallen—”
“Bucky, it was a vase.”
He dumped the shards into the bin and straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t matter. Anything that touches you—anything that could hurt you—it matters to me.”
The words hung in the air, heavy, possessive. Your heart thudded in your chest. When he finally crossed back to you, he brushed his hands down, metal glinting faintly in the shop’s light. Then, to your surprise, he reached out and gently lifted your ankle, checking your sock, then the other. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he needed proof with his own eyes that you were unscathed. “I told you I was fine,” you whispered, heat curling in your chest.
“I had to see for myself,” he murmured. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing lightly against the bone, before he finally let go.
You giggled then, nervous and shy, but unable to hold it back. “You really are strong, you know. Picking me up like that…”
His lips curved into something sharp and slow, a smile that was equal parts dangerous and softened just for you. “You liked that?”
You ducked your head, embarrassed, but nodded faintly. “Maybe.”
His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped closer, caging you gently where you sat on the counter. “Good. Because I’m not done showing you how strong I am.”
The words made your breath hitch, your pulse skittering wildly. And though he didn’t touch you again, though he only lingered there in your space, the promise in his voice wrapped around you like a second heartbeat.
The shop closed later than usual that evening—the broken vase had set you behind, and you insisted on mopping every last drop of water yourself while Bucky loomed nearby, pretending to help while really just watching you like a hawk.
By the time you stepped out into the cooling night, the streets were already washed in shadow. He fell into step beside you, as always, but tonight felt different. The air between you was warmer, charged, still echoing with the memory of his hands lifting you clear of the glass, your legs around his waist, your breathless little laugh against his shoulder.
You stole a glance at him as you walked. His jaw was set, his gaze sharp on the street ahead, but there was something softer in the curve of his mouth, something unspoken simmering in his eyes when they flicked toward you. “Thank you,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.
He turned his head slightly. “For what?”
“For earlier. For making sure I didn’t… get hurt.” You smiled faintly, shy. “And for carrying me. Even if it was just across a puddle of glass.”
The corner of his lips curved, slow and wolfish. “I’d carry you farther than that, doll. Anywhere you wanted.”
Your heart thudded, and you ducked your gaze to the pavement. When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly reluctant to let the night end. He stood close, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin, close enough that the city noise faded into nothing. He studied you for a long moment, blue eyes intent, then lifted his hand. His knuckles brushed along your cheek, light as a whisper, before he leaned down. The kiss wasn’t on your lips. It was at the corner of your mouth, feather-light, lingering just long enough to steal your breath. When he pulled back, his gaze was burning, fierce and possessive but softened in a way you’d never seen before. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
You managed a quiet, flustered, “goodnight,” before slipping inside, leaning against the door once it clicked shut. Your pulse was still racing. The ghost of his touch still lingered on your cheek. And you knew, with startling clarity, that something between you had shifted again—deeper, closer, and far harder to resist.
---
The last customer had barely left when you flipped the little sign on the door to closed. The shop was quiet, petals scattered on the counter, the air still thick with the mingled perfume of roses and lilies. Bucky was already there, leaning against the wall near the register, sleeves rolled up, watching you sweep the last of the day’s mess into a neat pile.
It was almost habit now—him staying until you locked up, walking you home like a shadow no one could shake. But tonight, as you tied off the trash bag and wiped your hands on your apron, you found yourself blurting something out before you could second-guess it. “Do you… want to come grocery shopping with me?”
His head lifted, eyes narrowing as though you’d just offered him something strange and dangerous. “Grocery shopping?”
You nodded, a little shy. “Yeah. Just the corner store, nothing big.”
For a moment, he just studied you, unreadable. Then his mouth curved, the faintest tug at the corner of his lips. “You’re asking me on a date to a grocery store?”
Your cheeks warmed. “Not a date. Just… normal. Something normal.”
That seemed to strike something in him. The teasing faded, replaced with that sharp, focused look he always gave you when he was paying too much attention. Finally, he pushed off the wall, slipping into his jacket. “Alright. Let’s go.”
The store was half-empty when you arrived, aisles humming faintly under fluorescent lights. You grabbed a basket, but before you could even step forward, Bucky plucked it from your hands, carrying it himself without comment. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he said, same as he always did when you tried to argue.
You shook your head with a smile and wandered down the first aisle. The ordinary act of choosing bread, fruit, milk felt almost surreal with him beside you. People glanced your way—some because of his presence, some because of his sheer size—but he ignored them, his attention fixed entirely on you. You paused at the shelf of pasta, biting your lip as you compared prices. He frowned. “What’re you doing?”
“Deciding which one to get.”
“Just grab both,” he said flatly.
You laughed under your breath. “That’s not how grocery shopping works.”
He arched a brow. “When I’m here, it does.” And before you could protest, both boxes were dropped into the basket.
A few aisles later, you spotted a display of apples, glossy and red under the lights. You reached for one, but he plucked the apple from your hand. “Too bruised,” he muttered, discarding it for another. Then another. Until finally he chose one and handed it to you, his expression deadly serious.
You bit back a giggle, putting it into the basket. “You’re very picky.”
“I don’t want you eating anything that isn’t good enough for you,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Your heart gave a little squeeze.
At the checkout, the clerk gave you both a curious look, eyes flicking from the man built like a soldier to the flowers still faintly clinging to your apron. Bucky ignored it, pulling out a roll of bills before you could reach for your own wallet. “Bucky—”
“Don’t,” he warned softly, sliding the cash across the counter.
You sighed, but your lips curved despite yourself. When you stepped back into the night, bags in hand, he shifted most of them to his own arms, leaving you only one light sack to carry. As you walked back toward your apartment, you realized your chest felt strangely full—like the simple act of buying apples and bread with him meant more than any extravagant gift could. And when you glanced up at him, his eyes already on you, you wondered if he felt the same.
The bags rustled quietly between you as you and Bucky made your way back to your apartment. He carried almost all of them, his broad frame cutting through the dim streetlight glow like a shield. Every so often, you’d catch him glancing down at you, his gaze lingering on your smaller bag as if he were annoyed you had any weight at all to carry.
By the time you reached your door, he was already fishing the key from your pocket—something he’d made a habit of, though tonight he looked at you first, waiting. You smiled faintly and gave him a nod. He unlocked the door, nudging it open with his shoulder, and followed you inside.
The apartment felt warmer with him in it, crowded but not in a way that unsettled you. He set the bags on the counter, already rolling up his sleeves like this was second nature. “You don’t have to help put everything away,” you said, slipping off your shoes.
“Not letting you do this alone,” he countered, already unpacking a bag.
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re terrible at letting me do anything.”
“Only because you deserve better than doing it by yourself.”
The simple certainty in his tone made your chest flutter. You busied yourself with the pantry shelves while he stacked cans and jars, his movements precise, almost military. Every so often, he paused to ask where something went—not in his usual commanding tone, but softer, quieter, like he wanted to get it right. When you turned to find him awkwardly holding up a carton of milk, brows furrowed, you giggled. “That goes in the fridge, Bucky.”
He smirked, shaking his head as he set it inside. “Not my strong suit, doll.”
You tilted your head, teasing. “And here I thought you were strong at everything.”
His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and knowing, but softened quickly. “I am. Especially when it comes to you.” Heat crept up your neck. You ducked back toward the pantry, pretending to fuss with the bags.
When the last of the groceries were tucked away, he leaned against the counter, watching you tie the bags into a neat bundle. His presence filled the small kitchen, his eyes steady and unreadable. “This is…” He paused, exhaling. “Nice.”
You glanced at him, smiling softly. “It is.”
“I could get used to this,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, you brushed past him on your way to the sink, your arm grazing his, a tiny, wordless acknowledgment. The evening stretched out lazily, the two of you lingering on the couch after the groceries were tucked away. You’d made tea, steam curling faintly between you, and at some point your head had drifted to the back cushion, eyelids drooping while Bucky sat beside you, quiet and watchful. “You’re falling asleep on me,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and almost amused.
“M’not,” you mumbled, even as your head tilted a little to the side, threatening to nod off completely.
His lips curved, subtle but there. “Doll, go to bed.”
You groaned softly, rubbing your eyes, and gave a small pout. “Don’t wanna move. It’s too far.”
The faintest laugh rumbled from his chest. “Too far? It’s ten steps.”
You cracked one eye open, playful despite your exhaustion. “Then carry me.” You hadn’t expected him to take you seriously. But before you could blink, his hands were at your sides, sliding under you with practiced ease. You let out a startled little gasp as the world tilted, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. He gathered you up without effort, cradled securely against his chest in a full bridal carry. Your breath caught, a laugh bubbling out as your cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Bucky—”
“Don’t pout at me if you don’t mean it,” he murmured, his voice quiet but edged with satisfaction.
He carried you through the small apartment like you weighed nothing, each step steady and sure. You didn’t protest—you couldn’t, not with the warmth of him surrounding you, not with the way he held you like you were something precious. By the time he set you down gently on the bed, pulling the blanket up over you, your heart was racing too fast for sleep. He lingered at your side for a moment, his eyes soft in a way they rarely were. “Better?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, cheeks warm, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Much.”
He exhaled slowly, almost like relief, before straightening. “Sleep, doll. I’ll be right outside.” And as you drifted off, you could still feel the phantom weight of his arms around you, carrying you like you were the only thing in the world worth holding onto.
---
It started with a lightbulb. You were balancing on the edge of a chair, stretching on tiptoe to reach the fixture above your counter when Bucky walked in. He froze in the doorway, eyes narrowing like he’d caught you dangling off a cliff. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Changing a bulb,” you answered, squinting up at the socket. “It burnt out last night.”
He stalked forward, plucking the box from your hand. “Get down.”
You turned your head, giving him a pointed look. “It’s just a lightbulb, Bucky.”
“Get down,” he repeated, voice soft but firm, like the sound of a lock clicking shut.
You sighed dramatically but stepped down, brushing dust off your apron. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless,” he shot back, climbing onto the chair himself. It creaked under his weight, but he made quick work of the fixture, replacing the bulb in seconds before hopping down. He set the empty box on the counter like he’d just conquered something monumental. “See? No problem,” he said, smug.
You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched. “You act like you saved me from falling off a building.”
His gaze softened as he brushed a speck of dust from your shoulder. “Doesn’t matter how small it is, doll. I don’t like seeing you in danger.”
The habit stuck after that. A loose hinge on your cabinet? Bucky fixed it before you even realized it needed repairing. A crack in the paint near your window? He brought in supplies and patched it one evening, sleeves rolled and shirt clinging to his back while you tried not to stare too obviously. And it wasn’t just repairs. One night you came home with groceries, and before you could even set the bags down, he was unloading them, stacking cans with soldier-like precision. He held up a carton of tea, frowning. “You drink this?”
“Yes?” you said slowly, tilting your head.
He dropped it into the cupboard. “Not anymore. I’ll bring you something better.”
You crossed your arms, trying to look stern. “You can’t just replace my tea without asking.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Then I’ll ask. May I replace your tea with something that won’t taste like dishwater?”
You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. “Fine. You win.”
But the moment that stayed with you came later, when you offered something back. You’d picked up a box of his favorite pastries—something you’d noticed he always lingered over when you passed a certain bakery. When you handed it to him shyly at the shop, his expression faltered. He blinked down at the package, then at you, as if the gesture didn’t compute. “For me?” he asked, voice quiet.
“Of course,” you said, suddenly nervous. “You’re always helping me. I thought… you might like them.”
He opened the box, stared at the neat row of pastries, then at you again. His jaw worked, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. “No one does this for me.”
You reached out, brushing your fingers over his wrist. “They should.” His eyes darkened, burning with something fierce, something hungry—but instead of pulling you closer like you half-expected, he only nodded, as if committing the moment to memory.
---
It happened on an ordinary night, the kind where the city felt half-asleep and the shop was already dark behind you. Bucky walked you home as usual, his hand brushing lightly at your back whenever the sidewalk narrowed. The streets were quiet, the glow of the lamps stretching long shadows across the pavement.
You were telling him about a customer who’d come in earlier, half-laughing at their confusion between carnations and camellias, when your foot caught on an uneven crack in the sidewalk. You stumbled, breath catching as your balance tipped forward.
Before you could even react, his arm was around your waist. It wasn’t just a steadying touch—it was a full, protective pull, yanking you against his chest so hard your breath whooshed out. His other hand splayed across your shoulder, holding you there, shielding you as if the cracked pavement had been a bullet. “Careful,” he rasped, voice rough, too sharp for the small stumble.
Your heart raced, half from the fall, half from the intensity in his eyes when you looked up. He wasn’t just steadying you. He was possessing you, holding you so tightly you couldn’t have slipped away if you tried. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice wavered.
He didn’t let go right away. His grip stayed firm, the muscle in his jaw ticking as though he was fighting some deeper instinct. Finally, slowly, his fingers loosened, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering even as you stood straight again. “You scared me,” he admitted, voice low. The honesty in it startled you more than the stumble.
You swallowed hard, shy under his gaze. “It was just a crack in the sidewalk.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, the words sharp but weighted with something else—something you couldn’t quite name. “Anything that could hurt you… I won’t let it.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretched, heavy and electric, until you finally let out a small laugh to ease it. “Bucky,” you teased softly, “you act like you’re my personal bodyguard.”
His lips curved faintly, but his eyes never softened. “Maybe I am.” You didn’t argue. Not when your heart was still racing from the feel of his arms around you, not when the memory of his grip lingered like fire on your skin. And for the rest of the walk, his hand stayed at your waist, steady and sure, as if he didn’t trust the world not to trip you again.
---
It was late when you noticed it. The soft scrape of the couch, the low creak of springs shifting—quiet, but not quiet enough. You blinked awake in your bed, the faint glow from the lamp spilling into the hall. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d dreamed it. But then you heard the sound again, the unmistakable weight of someone moving restlessly.
You padded out into the living room, bare feet whispering on the floor. Bucky sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, elbows braced against his knees. His hands were clasped together so tightly the tendons stood out, and his jaw worked as though he was chewing back words. The blanket you’d given him earlier was pushed aside, rumpled like he’d tried to settle under it and failed. He looked up sharply when he heard you. His eyes softened, but only a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” you whispered. You took a step closer, watching him carefully. “Nightmare?”
His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer, but the silence was loud enough. Your chest ached. You crossed the small space and lowered yourself beside him. For a long moment, you just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the quiet settle. Then, slowly, you leaned into him, resting your head against his arm. He went very still. You could feel the tension thrumming through him, the way his breath hitched, the careful restraint in the way he didn’t move. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you murmured.
He exhaled, a shudder slipping out despite himself. His arm shifted—hesitant at first—then wrapped around your shoulders, drawing you closer. You let him, curling instinctively against his side, your body fitting against his with surprising ease. The silence stretched. His breathing steadied, slow and deep, but you could still feel the echoes of the storm lingering in him. So you stayed, quiet and warm, letting your presence do what words couldn’t.
At some point, your eyes grew heavy again. The steady rhythm of his chest beneath your cheek, the weight of his arm holding you—it was too much comfort to resist. Sleep pulled at you until you gave in, drifting off curled against him.
When you stirred again, it was to the strange awareness of being shifted. His arms were around you, lifting you easily. Your head lolled against his shoulder, and you blinked blearily up at him. “You should be in bed,” he murmured, voice low and rough, though his eyes softened when he saw you awake.
“M’fine here,” you mumbled, not fully conscious of the words.
His lips curved faintly, but he didn’t set you down. Instead, he lowered himself back onto the couch, letting you settle against him, your cheek pressed to his chest this time. His hand brushed down your arm, steady and grounding. You drifted again, half-asleep, your last hazy thought the realization that he was calmer now—his heartbeat steady, his breathing even—as though holding you was the only anchor he needed.
---
The first thing you noticed when you woke was warmth. Not the blanket—you realized quickly it had slipped down in the night—but the steady heat of a chest under your cheek, the quiet rise and fall of someone breathing. It took only a blink to remember where you were, who you were on top of.
The early light from the window cut across the room, spilling soft gold on his face. His head was tipped back against the couch, lashes low, jaw unshaven and rough. He looked younger like this, stripped of the sharp edges he carried in daylight. Vulnerable.
You shifted slightly, the motion enough to stir him. His arm—still heavy across your waist—tightened instinctively, pulling you back before you could move away. His eyes cracked open, blue and still hazy from sleep, but the moment he realized where you were, they sharpened. “Morning,” you whispered, your voice catching at how close you still were.
His gaze searched yours, careful, guarded. “You’re still here.”
You smiled faintly. “Of course I am.”
He swallowed, his throat working, but he didn’t release you. His fingers brushed lightly along your side, almost tentative, as if waiting for you to flinch. “You don’t… mind this?”
Your heart skipped. You shook your head, whispering, “No.” The silence that followed was thick with things neither of you were saying. You could feel his pulse against your palm where it rested on his chest, steady but a little too quick. He was waiting—waiting for a crack, a sign that you’d regret what happened. Instead, you curled closer, nestling against him. “You slept,” you murmured, half teasing. “Didn’t even wake me this time.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “That’s ‘cause you were here.”
The words landed heavy, unpolished and raw, and for a moment neither of you breathed.
You didn’t say anything, didn’t break it. You just stayed there, your cheek against his chest, his arm secure around you, until the sounds of the waking city crept through the window and the day forced you to move. But even then, when you finally pushed yourself up, he let his hand linger at your wrist, reluctant to let go.
The morning moved slowly, like it didn’t want to let go of the quiet night before. You padded into the kitchen first, hair mussed, blanket still slung around your shoulders. Bucky followed a moment later, barefoot, his undershirt clinging faintly to his chest. He looked out of place and yet so settled, as if he’d been here a hundred mornings before.
You went for the kettle, but his hand slid past yours, already reaching for it. “Sit,” he said simply. You gave him a look, but he was already filling it with water, movements efficient, deliberate. You sank into a chair at the table, hiding a smile as you watched him. His broad shoulders bent under your too-small cupboards, his frown of concentration as he searched through your cabinets until he found the tea. He set it down with a grunt, muttering under his breath about “organizing this better next time.”
By the time he brought you a mug, he’d also sliced a piece of the bread you’d bought together, setting it on a plate with a seriousness that made you bite back a laugh. “You don’t have to take care of me every second,” you teased, wrapping your hands around the warm mug.
“Yes, I do,” he answered without hesitation, pulling out the chair opposite you.
You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks. “That’s not very normal, you know.”
His gaze sharpened, then softened again, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t want normal. I want you safe. I want…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “…I want mornings like this.”
The honesty in his voice stilled you. Your throat felt tight, but you smiled anyway, shy and warm. “Then I guess I’ll let you keep making tea.”
For a long while, you just sat together in the small kitchen—the hum of the kettle, the creak of the chair under his weight, the soft sound of his breathing across the table. Ordinary, but not. Intimate in ways that left your chest aching. When you finally stood to rinse your mug, he was there instantly, taking it from your hands. “I said sit,” he reminded, his mouth curving faintly.
You rolled your eyes but went back to the table. Watching him wash the single mug at your sink, sleeves rolled, shoulders filling the space, you thought that maybe—just maybe—this was what he meant when he said he wanted mornings like this. And you thought, maybe, you did too.
--
It was one of those nights where the air felt restless, heavy with the promise of rain. The shop had closed hours ago, but Bucky lingered like always, walking at your side while the streets shimmered under the faint orange glow of the lamps. The first drop landed on your cheek just as you rounded the corner to your street. You brushed it away, glancing up at the dark sky. “Looks like we’re about to get drenched.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked upward, then back to you. “We’ll be fine. It’s not far.”
But by the time you reached the halfway mark, the drizzle had turned steady, cool drops soaking through your clothes. You let out a startled laugh, clutching the bag you carried tighter to your chest. “So much for fine.”
He caught the sound—the way you laughed, bright and unbothered—and something softened in his face. “You think this is funny?”
“A little,” you admitted, tilting your head back to the rain. “Feels kind of… freeing.” He watched you for a long moment, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense. The city blurred around you, people darting for cover, but he stayed rooted, unmoving, his eyes fixed only on you. “Bucky?” you asked, blinking the rain from your lashes.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until his hand lifted—hesitant, almost reverent—and cupped your cheek. The rain beaded across his glove, slid down his wrist, but his palm was warm, steady. You froze, heart hammering. “I shouldn’t…” His voice was low, strained, like he was fighting himself. “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want this.”
Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding. It was slow, careful, almost cautious, as though he was giving you every chance to pull away. His lips were warm against yours, tasting faintly of rain and something darker, something entirely him.
For a moment, you were too stunned to move. Then you melted into him, your hand curling lightly into his shirt, your body leaning closer without thought. His thumb brushed along your jaw, grounding, steady, while his other arm slipped around your waist, drawing you nearer.
The world narrowed to the rhythm of the rain and the steady thrum of your pulse, the rest of the city fading away. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged, eyes burning through the thin veil of water between you. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll,” he murmured, voice rough and reverent all at once.
Your lips curved, trembling but sure. “Maybe I do.” He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, brushing another kiss—softer, fleeting—against your lips before tucking you firmly against his chest. The rain poured harder, but you barely noticed. Not with his arms around you, not with the weight of that kiss still lingering between you.
The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual, but it wasn’t the silence of strangers or awkwardness. It was charged, heavy with something unspoken—like every step still echoed with the kiss you’d just shared.
Bucky kept you tucked firmly against his side, his arm secure around your waist as though the rain or the night itself might try to take you from him. His head bent closer than usual, his hair damp and curling at the edges, his jaw tight with something you couldn’t quite read.
You caught him looking at you more than once. Not in the way he always did—observant, calculating—but softer. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, that you’d kissed him back, that you hadn’t pulled away.
By the time you reached your door, the rain had soaked through your clothes, dripping onto the floor as you fumbled with the lock. His hand covered yours, steadying, guiding the key into place. When the door clicked open, you stepped inside, turning back to him.
For the first time since you’d met him, he hesitated on the threshold. His shoulders were squared, his expression composed, but his eyes betrayed him—something raw flickering there. “You should get dry,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse.
“So should you,” you countered softly. “Come in.” For a beat, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, the door shutting behind him with a soft finality.
Inside, the apartment felt smaller than ever, the air thick with rain and warmth and the weight of what had just happened. You peeled off your damp sweater, tossing it over the back of a chair, and glanced up to find him watching you, his own jacket hanging heavy in his hand. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Finally, you whispered, “Bucky…”
He crossed the space in two strides, his hand lifting again to your cheek. You froze, heart hammering, as his thumb brushed a drop of rain from your skin. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he murmured, though his voice betrayed no regret.
You tilted your face toward his palm. “But you did.”
His lips curved faintly, a hint of something dangerous and tender all at once. “And I’ll do it again if you let me.”
You didn’t answer with words. You rose on your toes, closing the small space between you, your lips meeting his once more. This kiss was different—hungrier, deeper, the careful restraint from before crumbling under the weight of what you both had been holding back. His arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand cradled the back of your head like you were something breakable.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, murmuring your name like it was a vow. And in that moment, with the rain still dripping outside and his heartbeat thrumming against your chest, you knew something had shifted for good.
The rain had stopped by morning, leaving the city washed clean, the air sharp and cool when you cracked the window above your sink. Your apartment, though, was warm—warmer still with the weight of what had happened the night before. You padded into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, still in the oversized shirt you wore to bed. The smell of coffee hit you before you even saw him. Bucky was already there.
He stood at your counter like he owned the space, sleeves rolled, steam curling from the pot he’d set on. His jacket hung neatly on the back of the chair, his damp clothes from the night before draped over the radiator to dry. He glanced up when you entered, and for the first time in all the mornings he’d lingered here, his gaze softened in a way that made your breath catch. “Morning, doll,” he murmured.
You sank into a chair, watching him pour a cup. “You’re getting comfortable.”
He set the mug in front of you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I am.”
You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, thick with everything that had changed between you. Every glance lingered a beat too long, every brush of his hand near yours deliberate. When you finished your coffee, you stood to rinse the mug, but his hand caught your wrist lightly. “I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have to,” you said, smiling.
“I want to,” he countered, voice steady, his thumb brushing once across your skin before he released you.
Later, you opened the shop as usual, but the rhythm of the day felt different with him around. He stayed longer than he usually did, claiming a spot in the back to “keep out of the way” but emerging whenever he thought you needed him—hauling a box, adjusting a display, even holding the ladder steady when you climbed up to reach a high shelf. “You know I’ve done this before,” you teased, glancing down at him.
“Not on my watch,” he muttered, knuckles white on the ladder. By the afternoon, he’d drifted closer, sitting on the counter while you arranged a bouquet for a customer. His eyes tracked every motion of your hands, and when you tied the final ribbon, he murmured, “blue suits you better than those roses.”
You blinked up at him, flustered. “That wasn’t for me.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low. “You’d make it look better.” Your cheeks warmed, and you quickly turned back to the flowers.
That evening, after you locked the door, he walked you home again. The air was still damp, the sky clear now, but his hand stayed at your back the entire way. At your door, instead of pulling back like usual, he lingered. “Let me in,” he said softly. Not a command this time, not quite. You hesitated only a moment before opening the door. Inside, you both shed your coats and shoes, the small apartment wrapping around you in its familiar warmth. He stood close, too close, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
For the first time, you didn’t look away. And though he didn’t kiss you again right then, you both knew it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. It was because the night before had changed everything—and you were both still learning how to live in that new space.
---
The first time he left, it felt strange. Bucky had woven himself into your days without question—closing the shop with you, carrying groceries, claiming the corner of your couch like it was his by right. He didn’t linger on the edges of your world anymore; he stepped directly into it.
But then one morning, he kissed your forehead at the door and said quietly, “I’ve got business I can’t put off any longer.” His eyes lingered on you like he hated the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ll be gone a while.”
You didn’t ask how long. You’d learned by now that some answers weren’t yours to demand. You only nodded, letting him go. When Bucky walked back into his penthouse, the silence struck him like a fist. It was too still, too immaculate, the air faintly cold from being shut up for days. Natasha was already there, perched on the arm of a chair like she’d been waiting. “Thought you’d moved out,” she said dryly, arching a brow.
He shrugged off his coat, dropping it onto the back of the sofa. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs.”
She tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the fresh bouquets lined along the window ledge. Some were old—petals curling, stems leaning—but the colors still painted the room in soft life. Your flowers. “Hard not to notice,” she said. “Your fortress looks like a greenhouse.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered on the fading blooms, something tight twisting in his chest. He’d meant to bring them home, to replace them, to keep them fresh—but the shop, the walks, your laugh, your soft hands pressing tea into his grip… it had been easier to stay in your world than return to this empty one. Natasha’s voice pulled him back. “The meeting last week—you missed it. Again.”
He grunted. “Send them my apologies.”
“You don’t have apologies big enough for the people you’re brushing off.” She stood, crossing her arms. “You’re slipping, Barnes.” He shot her a look, sharp enough to silence most. But Natasha only raised a brow, unshaken. “What happened to you?” she asked, quieter now. “You used to live for this. Now I have to drag you back here by the collar.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He poured himself a drink instead, his eyes drifting once more to the flowers. One in particular caught his attention—a small blue bloom tucked into a vase. You’d given it to him, shy and smiling, saying you’d picked it because it matched his eyes. His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the glass. “I’m not slipping.”
“Then what do you call it?” Natasha pressed.
He looked at her then, his expression sharp, dangerous—but his voice was low, certain. “I call it finally having something worth more than this.”
Natasha studied him for a long beat, then huffed a quiet laugh. “God help her if she doesn’t know what she’s getting into.” Bucky said nothing. His eyes lingered on the blue flowers, softer now, before he turned back to the empty penthouse.
Bucky didn’t last the night. He’d tried—sitting in the penthouse office, staring at the stack of reports Natasha had dropped on his desk, the kind of paperwork he used to burn through without blinking. But the silence pressed in, suffocating. The city sprawled below him, restless and alive, but all he could think about was the warmth of your little apartment. The way your voice softened when you teased him, the way your hand lingered on his wrist when you passed him tea, the way you’d kissed him in the rain.
He set the pen down, unfinished page abandoned, and leaned back in his chair. His eyes found the vase on the windowsill again—the flowers you’d given him. The petals were curling now, the blue fading, but the sight of them punched straight through the cold shell he wore in this place. “Fuck this,” he muttered. Ten minutes later, he was gone.
It was well past midnight when the knock came at your door. You blinked awake, heart thudding, but you knew who it was before you even checked. The weight of his presence pressed through the wood like it always did.
You opened the door to find him there—damp from the mist outside, hair mussed, eyes burning with something fierce and restless. He didn’t say a word at first, just looked at you, drinking in the sight of you like he’d been starved. “Bucky?” you whispered, confused but soft. “It’s late.”
“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, voice rough. The honesty in it knocked the air right out of you.
You stepped aside without thinking, and he slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. He stood in your living room like he was both too big for the space and yet exactly where he belonged. His jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, but his gaze was only on you. “I thought you said you had business,” you murmured.
“I did.” He exhaled, a sharp sound, shaking his head. “But none of it mattered. Not when all I could think about was you.”
Your breath caught, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your chest. “You came all this way in the middle of the night… just to see me?”
His jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I came because I needed to know you were here. Safe. Real.” The vulnerability under his words left you starstruck. For once, the weight he carried wasn’t hidden behind commands or possessive glares—it was just him, raw and unguarded, standing in your apartment like the man he didn’t show the world. And when you stepped closer, reaching out to brush the damp from his sleeve, his hand caught yours, holding it against his chest like an anchor. “I don’t care how late it is,” he said, voice low. “If you’ll have me, I’ll come back every night.”
The clock on your wall ticked quietly, the only sound filling the space between you. Bucky still hadn’t let go of your hand, his thumb brushing absently against your skin as though he couldn’t stand to stop touching you. His presence was steady, grounding—but you could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the way his shoulders slumped despite his stubbornness. You rubbed at your eyes, fighting the pull of sleep. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice small, rough with drowsiness.
He tilted his head, gaze softening instantly. “Yeah, doll?”
“Carry me back to bed?” The words slipped out before you could second-guess them, half a murmur, half a plea.
For a heartbeat, his expression flickered—surprise, something darker, something warmer. Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, into the kind of smile that always made your heart stutter. “You got it.” Before you could say anything more, his arms were around you. He scooped you up easily, strong and certain, bridal style once again. You gave a sleepy little sound of protest, more out of instinct than anything else, your arms looping around his neck as you curled against him. “You like makin’ me do this, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, almost teasing as he carried you through the dim apartment.
“Maybe,” you whispered, smiling faintly against his shoulder.
The bedroom door creaked open, and he nudged it wider with his foot. The room was still warm from earlier, the blankets rumpled. He lowered you onto the mattress with infinite care, like you were something fragile that might break if he wasn’t gentle enough.
But when you caught his wrist before he could pull back, your voice soft but certain, his entire body stilled. “Stay with me?”
His eyes flicked to yours—blue, burning, conflicted—and then he nodded once. “Always.”
He toed off his boots, shed his jacket, and slid onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the space between you vanishing when his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.
You sighed, nestling into him, your hand curling around his forearm where it lay heavy across you. His breath was warm against your hair, steady and sure, but you could still feel the tension in him, the way he held you like he was afraid you might disappear. Sleep tugged at you again, and just before you slipped under, you whispered, “feels right… when you’re here.”
He pressed his lips to the back of your head, a kiss so soft you almost missed it. “Good,” he whispered. “’Cause I’m not going anywhere.” And for the first time in a long time—for both of you—you fell asleep without a trace of fear.
The morning crept in soft and unhurried, sunlight spilling across your bedroom in pale strips. You stirred slowly, awareness tugging at you in waves—the warmth pressed against your back, the steady weight of an arm looped around your waist, the faint tickle of breath brushing against your hair. For a moment, you simply lay there, cocooned in the quiet. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against you, solid and reassuring, his arm heavy but comforting, like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep.
When you shifted slightly, he made a low sound in his throat, not quite awake but not fully asleep either. His arm tightened, pulling you closer, his face burying against the curve of your neck. The bristle of his jaw grazed your skin, and you bit back a laugh. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice still husky from sleep.
“Mm,” he rumbled, voice low, heavy with drowsiness. “Stay still. Too early.” You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into him. But when you wriggled again—just to tease—he huffed, pressing a kiss against your shoulder, lazy and soft. “Thought I told you to stay put,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin again, this time slower.
Your breath caught, warmth spreading through you. “You’re not usually this… affectionate in the morning,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.
He gave a faint laugh, the sound vibrating against your back. “Don’t usually get mornings like this.” Another kiss followed, lower along your shoulder. Then another, featherlight at the back of your neck.
You giggled quietly, tucking your chin as if you could hide from the press of his lips. “That tickles.”
“Good,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your skin just enough to make you squeak. His arm tightened again when you shifted, holding you flush against him. “You’re not getting away.”
Your cheeks warmed, but you let out a breathy laugh, turning your head slightly to glance back at him. His eyes were half-lidded, blue softened by sleep but burning with something tender. The sight made your stomach flip. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, smiling despite yourself.
“Maybe,” he said easily, brushing his nose against your hair. “But you’re mine.”
The words should’ve sounded possessive, but in his voice—low, almost reverent—they were softer, gentler, like a confession instead of a claim. You didn’t argue. Not when his lips found yours a moment later, lazy and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to kiss you. And for once, maybe he did.
The lazy morning stretched long, unhurried, as though the world outside had decided to pause just for you. Bucky didn’t let you go right away. Every time you shifted like you might get up, his arm cinched tighter, his lips brushing your temple in silent protest. Eventually, though, your stomach growled loud enough to make you both laugh. “Fine,” he muttered, finally loosening his hold. “But only because you’re hungry.”
You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging him along behind you by the hand, which he allowed with surprising docility for a man who barked orders at everyone else. He leaned against the counter while you rummaged through the cupboards, watching with that intent gaze that always made you feel both flustered and oddly cherished. “Eggs, toast… maybe fruit?” you mumbled.
“I’ll do it,” he said, already reaching for the pan.
You tried to argue, but he shot you a look over his shoulder—the kind that dared you to push back. You rolled your eyes but smiled, sinking into a chair as he worked. He wasn’t polished, but he was efficient, moving with the kind of quiet precision that said he’d cooked for himself far too many times in silence.
When he set a plate in front of you—scrambled eggs, toast buttered just the way you liked—you blinked, warmth spreading in your chest. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he cut in, his voice soft but firm.
The meal wasn’t fancy, but you couldn’t stop smiling as you ate together at your tiny table. He asked about your week, listened with rapt attention as you rambled about flowers and customers, and even smirked when you teased him about hogging the pepper.
The rest of the day unfurled lazily. You cleaned the shop’s ledger at the table while he stretched out on the couch, half-reading, half-watching you. At some point, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with tea, setting the mug by your elbow without a word. Later, you both ended up tackling laundry, and you laughed when he insisted on folding with military precision. “You’re ridiculous,” you teased, holding up a perfectly squared shirt.
“Efficient,” he corrected, lips twitching.
By mid-afternoon, sunlight spilled through the windows, and you both ended up back on the couch. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest while his arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He pressed the occasional kiss to your hair, to your temple, slow and lazy, as though he couldn’t help himself. One kiss landed just behind your ear, ticklish enough that you giggled, turning to nudge at him. “Bucky…”
He smirked faintly, kissing you again, this time softer, lips lingering against your skin. “What?”
“You’re… distracting.”
“Good,” he murmured, nuzzling lightly against your hair before kissing you again, this time catching your lips in a slow, lazy press that left your cheeks warm.
You tried to hide your smile against his chest, but he felt it anyway, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your arm. The day melted into evening like that—quiet, ordinary, yet threaded with something so tender it made your chest ache.
Evening settled gently, the last of the sunlight fading from your windows, and for a while it felt like the day might slip into night without disturbance. You and Bucky lingered on the couch, your head nestled on his shoulder, his arm looped comfortably around you. His thumb traced lazy arcs against your arm while your favorite show played faintly in the background.
It was quiet. Too quiet, maybe, because the knock at your door startled both of you. Bucky’s arm tightened around you instantly, his body going taut beneath your cheek. The easy warmth that had colored the whole day dropped from his face, replaced by sharp alertness. “Stay here,” he murmured, voice low, already rising to his feet.
You frowned, but before you could protest, he’d crossed the room. He opened the door a crack, blocking the entrance with his body. Natasha’s voice slipped in, calm but cutting. “You’ve been hard to reach.”
Your brows shot up, but you stayed where you were, listening. Bucky didn’t move aside, didn’t open the door further. “Not an accident.”
“You’re expected tonight,” she said, and though her tone was casual, there was no mistaking the weight behind it. “You’ve dodged the last two. That’s not an option anymore.”
“I said I’d handle it,” Bucky bit out, jaw clenched.
From your angle on the couch, you could see Natasha tilt her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You can’t handle it from here.”
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. For the first time, you realized just how little you knew about what “business” meant in his world. Bucky’s body blocked you from the door, but the tension in his shoulders told you enough. “I’ll come,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Tomorrow night.”
Natasha arched a brow, then glanced past him toward you. Just for a second, her eyes softened with something unreadable before she nodded once. “Tomorrow,” she confirmed, and then she was gone.
Bucky shut the door with a quiet finality, leaning against it for a moment before turning back to you. His expression had softened again, but not all the way. There was still a shadow there, still a reminder of the part of him you didn’t see when he was folding laundry or kissing your shoulder in the morning. You sat up a little, hesitant. “Was that… work?”
He crossed the room, his jaw tight, and sank back onto the couch beside you. His hand found yours almost instinctively, like he needed the contact to ground himself. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Work.”
You studied him, unsure whether to push, but the look in his eyes stopped you. Not because it was cold—but because it wasn’t. It was protective, desperate, like he’d do anything to keep you from the parts of his life that led Natasha to your door.
So instead of asking, you curled against him again, letting your fingers twine with his. “Tomorrow,” you murmured softly, repeating his promise. His arm wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing your temple. “Tomorrow,” he echoed. But the way he held you, fierce and unwilling to let go, told you that if it were up to him, he’d never leave your apartment again.
The night he finally went, the shift in him was immediate. You’d gotten used to a certain softness around him—the lazy mornings, his arm around your waist as you drifted through the farmer’s market, the way his mouth curved when you teased him. But when he stepped out of your apartment that evening, dressed sharp and dark, there was nothing soft about him. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, his whole body coiled tight like a man walking into battle.
You tried not to worry. He’d promised he would be back. Still, when you finally drifted to sleep on the couch, the clock ticking toward midnight, the sound of a knock at your door jolted you awake. You knew it was him before you even opened it.
Bucky stood in the hall, shoulders broad, coat collar turned up against the chill. His hair was damp with mist, but it wasn’t the weather that made your heart lurch—it was his hands. His knuckles were split raw, streaked with blood, some dried, some fresh. His face was drawn, exhaustion and something darker carved deep into his features. “Bucky,” you whispered, reaching for him before you could stop yourself.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past you into the warmth of the apartment. But the words rang hollow.
You shut the door quickly and followed him into the living room. He dropped heavily onto the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head bowed. For a moment, he just breathed, the weight of the night settling on him like armor he couldn’t shed. You crouched in front of him, your hand hovering near his without quite touching. “You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”
His eyes lifted, blue and tired, searching yours. Something in them softened, cracked, and for a moment he looked less like the untouchable man everyone feared and more like the one who’d spent the morning teasing you with kisses. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”
“It matters to me.”
He closed his eyes, jaw tight, but he didn’t pull away when you reached for his hands. Carefully, gently, you guided them into your lap, your thumbs brushing over the torn skin. You fetched the first aid kit you’d kept tucked away since the first time you’d seen him like this. As you worked, dabbing at the blood, his gaze never left you. His eyes followed every movement of your hands, every soft touch, every careful breath. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he murmured after a long silence.
You looked up at him, meeting his gaze steadily. “Maybe not. But I want to.”
His breath hitched, something raw flickering across his face. He leaned forward then, his forehead resting against yours, the distance between you vanishing. “Sweetheart…” His voice broke low, rough. “I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.”
Your fingers tightened around his, careful not to hurt him but unwilling to let go. “That’s not your choice to make, Bucky.”
For a long moment, you stayed like that—forehead to forehead, his battered hands in yours, the room hushed around you. And though he never said what had happened out there, the way he clung to you told you enough.
Bucky was quieter than usual after you finished bandaging his knuckles. His eyes tracked every movement you made, like he was memorizing them, but he didn’t speak. Not when you cleaned up the kit, not when you coaxed him toward your bedroom. When you tugged gently at his hand, he followed without resistance. His shoulders looked heavier than they had all week, but the set of his jaw eased the moment you reached the bedroom door.
You crawled into bed first, expecting him to take his usual place at your side, but when you looked back, he was still standing there. His eyes softened, shadows clinging to the edges of his expression. “C’mere,” he said quietly.
You frowned. “I’m already here.”
He shook his head once, low and deliberate. He sat on the mattress, leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out. His hand patted his chest. “Here. Want you here.” Your breath caught, heat rushing to your cheeks. The request was tender, almost vulnerable, but it was also so very him—not asking, but needing, like the idea of you saying no had never crossed his mind. Still, you didn’t hesitate. You climbed up, settling carefully between his legs, your back against his chest at first. But when his arms wrapped firmly around you, pulling you closer, you shifted, turning just enough to lay half across him, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, faster than it should’ve been for a man trying to rest. His chin dipped, lips brushing your hair as he murmured, “That’s it. Stay right there.”
You shifted shyly, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “You’re comfortable like this?”
His arms tightened, pressing you flush against him. “More than comfortable.”
For a long while, neither of you spoke. You just breathed together, your body melting into his, his warmth sinking into you until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. The tension in his frame slowly unwound, his muscles relaxing bit by bit as though your weight anchored him back to the earth.
When you tilted your head slightly, you found his eyes already on you, blue and intent even in the dim light. Without a word, he dipped down, his lips brushing yours in the gentlest, laziest kiss you’d ever felt—more a question than a demand, more a sigh than a claim. You smiled against his mouth, shy and soft, and he kissed you again, this one lingering, his thumb tracing idle circles at your waist. You giggled when his stubble scratched your cheek, and his lips curved faintly against yours.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low and rough, “don’t giggle when I’m trying to kiss you.”
You flushed, hiding your face against his chest, and he chuckled quietly, his mouth pressing into your hair instead. It wasn’t long before your breaths synced again, the weight of the day pulling you toward sleep. But this time, when his body stilled beneath you and his chest rose and fell in the deep rhythm of rest, you knew he was holding you not out of fear, but because—for once—he could.
---
The fight started small—like most things between you and Bucky did. It was late afternoon, and you’d decided to run down the block to grab milk before closing the shop. Harmless, ordinary. When you returned, juggling the bag in one hand, Bucky was already waiting at the door, his expression sharp, his shoulders rigid. “Don’t do that again.”
You blinked, startled by the clipped tone. “Do what?”
“Leave without telling me.” His voice was low, edged, the kind that made most people freeze.
You frowned, setting the bag down on the counter. “Bucky, I was gone ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes is long enough for something to happen,” he shot back, stepping closer. “You can’t just walk out without me knowing where you are.”
Your chest tightened—not with fear, but with frustration. You’d had this conversation with him before. The way he framed things like orders, the way he seemed to assume he had the right to tell you what you could and couldn’t do. You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. “You didn’t ask me, Bucky. You told me.”
His brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “So? I don’t want you at risk. I’m not gonna apologize for that.”
“That’s not the point.” You stepped closer too, your voice rising just slightly. “I’ve told you before—I need you to ask me. Not command me like—like I don’t have a choice.” For the first time, he faltered. His mouth opened, then shut again, his jaw tightening. You could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to push back this hard. Your heart hammered, but you pressed on, quieter now, more vulnerable. “If you want me to tell you where I’m going… then ask me. I’ll tell you. Gladly. But don’t bark orders at me, Bucky. That’s not how this works.”
The silence stretched, thick with tension. His hands flexed at his sides, metal fingers clenching once before he exhaled slowly. “No one talks to me like that,” he admitted finally, his voice rough. “No one pushes back.”
You softened, your frustration edged with something gentler. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need someone who will.”
His eyes locked on yours, something raw flickering there—anger, yes, but also respect. And maybe, just maybe, a trace of relief. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful. “…Will you at least tell me next time?”
You bit back a smile, though your cheeks warmed. “See? Was that so hard?”
His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. And though the tension didn’t vanish completely, you knew you’d broken through something important—that he’d actually heard you. And Bucky, for all his control, didn’t know what to do with that.
The shop was already locked for the night, the ledger closed, and the soft glow of your single lamp lit the room. You’d expected Bucky to be restless after your argument—brooding, maybe even distant—but instead he lingered in the doorway, watching you curl up on the couch with a book.
When you looked up, you caught that same flicker from earlier—the one that said he’d actually listened. He crossed the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the couch. For a moment he just sat there, silent, his hands flexing once on his knees. Then, in a voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him, he asked, “can I hold you?”
Your breath caught. The simple question, asked instead of commanded, made your chest warm. You set your book aside and smiled softly. “Yes.” Relief flickered in his eyes. He shifted back, opening his arms. You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees bracketing his thighs, your arms looping around his shoulders. He drew you in immediately, strong arms banding around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’d been starving for this.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just curled into him, your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His breath stirred your hair, slow and deep, as though the tension had finally bled from him.
His hand slid up and down your back, not possessive now, but gentle, grounding. When he tilted his head down to press a kiss to your temple, you giggled quietly, shyer than you meant to be. “What?” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin.
“Nothing,” you whispered, though your cheeks warmed. “Just… it tickles.”
His lips curved against your hair. “Good.” He kissed you again, lower this time, at your cheekbone. “You’re sweet when you giggle.”
You hid your face against his shoulder, and his low laugh rumbled through his chest. “Don’t hide from me, doll,” he said softly, shifting to tip your chin up with his finger. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. “I like seeing you happy.”
The moment stretched, warm and quiet, until your lashes fluttered and you leaned forward, brushing a quick kiss against his jaw. His arms tightened, his breath catching, but instead of claiming more, he held you steady, letting you settle against him again. And there, curled in his lap, you realized that maybe—just maybe—he’d heard you after all.
---
It was a quiet afternoon in the shop, the kind where the sun streamed lazily through the front windows and you could hear the faint hum of the city outside. You were trimming stems at the counter when Bucky walked in, his presence filling the room the way it always did—solid, steady, magnetic.
But instead of his usual lean against the counter or wordless offering of help, he paused. His hands slid into his pockets, his eyes scanning the flowers before finally settling on you. There was something different in his gaze—not sharp or commanding, but hesitant. “Doll,” he said quietly, and when you looked up, you noticed the faint tension in his jaw. “Can I ask you something?”
You smiled faintly, setting down the shears. “Of course.”
He shifted, almost like he wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “There’s a gallery opening. Tomorrow night. I was thinking…” He trailed off, then forced the words out, softer now. “Would you come with me?”
The question caught you off guard—not because of the invitation itself, but because of the way he asked. Not a command, not an expectation. A question. You tilted your head, curious. “A gallery?”
“Yeah,” he said, lips twitching faintly. “Art. Paintings. You like that kind of thing, don’t you?”
Your chest warmed. “You remembered.”
“Of course I remembered.” His voice was low, steady, but his eyes flickered away for a moment, almost shy. “It’s… not really my scene. But I figured maybe you’d like it. And I’d like to take you.”
Your heart skipped. For all his power, his control, this moment felt different. Vulnerable. Human. You stepped closer, brushing your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I’d love to.”
Relief flashed across his face, subtle but undeniable. His hand covered yours, warm and solid, and he exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. We’ll make a night of it.”
The promise in his voice lingered long after, and for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about keeping you safe or close. This was him trying—awkwardly, earnestly—to give you something that felt like a real date. Something normal. Something yours.
---
The night of the gallery opening, the city felt different—brighter, sharper, like it was holding its breath. Bucky picked you up just as he promised. You’d taken care with your appearance—clean lines, a favorite dress, a touch of perfume—but as soon as you stepped out of the car and saw the crowd, you realized it wasn’t the same kind of “dressed up.”
Everyone else glided past in tailored suits, glittering jewelry, gowns that looked like they’d cost more than your entire rent. The women’s heels clicked against the marble entrance, men’s watches caught the light, champagne flutes sparkled in elegant hands. They looked polished, untouchable. A different world entirely. And you? You felt… small. Pretty, yes, but simple.
You faltered just a little at the entrance, but Bucky noticed immediately. His hand slid firmly into yours, anchoring you. “You’re perfect,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. His eyes caught yours, steady and unflinching. “Don’t even think about it, doll. They’ve got nothing on you.”
Heat crept up your neck, but you nodded, letting him lead you inside. The gallery itself was stunning—high ceilings, gilded light fixtures, and walls lined with canvases that demanded silence. The crowd murmured in low, cultured tones, laughter muffled behind polite smiles. It felt like stepping into another universe.
You noticed quickly how people looked at him. Heads dipped in acknowledgment, eyes flicking toward him as he passed. A few men approached with polite greetings, their voices threaded with deference. Women gave him longer looks, curious, measuring.
You didn’t know their names, but you could feel it: he belonged here. Even if he stood a little apart from the crowd, he carried himself with an authority that made people move out of his way without realizing they had.
And then there was you, clinging to his hand. For a moment, you worried you looked out of place—until you caught him watching you. His gaze softened, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. The look in his eyes made you forget the polished crowd, the crystal chandeliers, the undercurrent of wealth and power humming through the room.
“This one,” you whispered after a while, pausing before a painting of blue-gray waves crashing against dark rocks. The colors pulled you in, fierce and haunting, yet strangely calm. “I like it.”
Bucky leaned close, his hand still around yours, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Because it looks like my eyes?”
You flushed instantly, glancing up at him in surprise. The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you he’d said it on purpose. “Maybe,” you admitted shyly, but your smile gave you away.
He chuckled softly, his arm sliding around your waist. And just like that, the crowded room, the expensive clothes, the stares—they all faded. Because no matter what world he belonged to, in that moment, he was looking at you.
The gallery opening stretched on, the crowd shifting like a tide of silk and crystal. Every so often, someone approached Bucky—men in sharp suits, women draped in jewels, people who clearly knew who he was. Their greetings were subtle, respectful, often accompanied by a dip of the head or the briefest handshake. You noticed how quickly their eyes slid to you afterward, measuring, curious, but no one dared to say much beyond polite murmurs.
Bucky’s arm stayed around your waist through it all, his touch steady, grounding. He answered their greetings in clipped tones, a man who knew he didn’t need to waste words. The difference between how they treated him and how you knew him in the quiet of your apartment made your head spin.
At one point, a server passed with a tray of champagne. You hesitated, unsure if you should take one, but Bucky plucked a glass easily and offered it to you, his lips twitching faintly at your shyness. “Go on, doll. You’re allowed.” You took it, fingers brushing his, and felt oddly proud when you managed a small sip without feeling out of place. He leaned down, his voice low and meant only for you. “You doing okay?”
Your heart fluttered—not just at the words, but at the way he asked them. Quiet, careful, not assuming. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”
For a while, you walked together through the halls, pausing before a few pieces of art. He didn’t say much about them, but you could feel his eyes on you as you spoke, listening as though your thoughts mattered more than the art itself.
And then, almost before you knew it, he was steering you away from the noise, out onto a balcony strung with soft lights. The city sprawled below, glittering, alive. Out here, the hum of conversation dimmed, replaced by the quiet night air. You set your half-empty glass on the railing, exhaling slowly. “They all know you,” you said softly, more observation than question.
Bucky glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “They know of me.”
The correction made your stomach flip. You turned toward him, searching his face. “And what should I know?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand reached for yours instead, fingers lacing with deliberate slowness. “Just that I wanted you here with me. That’s all that matters tonight.”
The way he said it—firm, certain, yet soft enough to make your chest ache—kept you from pressing further. You squeezed his hand, letting the quiet stretch between you, filled only by the glow of the city lights. When you finally left the gallery, his hand never let go of yours.
The car ride home was silent but not heavy. His hand rested over yours the entire drive, his thumb brushing absentminded circles against your skin, and every so often his eyes flicked to you, as if reassuring himself you were still there.
It wasn’t until he walked you upstairs, the city hushed around you, that he finally broke the silence. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he said simply, voice low, the words meant only for you.
Heat flooded your cheeks, but you smiled shyly, your fingers tightening around his. “Thank you for bringing me.” His lips curved faintly, and for once, the powerful, untouchable man from the gallery was gone. It was just Bucky—your Bucky—looking at you like you’d given him more than he’d ever thought to ask for.
---
Bucky’s office was dim, the blinds drawn against the daylight. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, though a closer look would’ve shown smudges of ink on his knuckles where he’d signed contracts and notes. He’d spent the whole morning hunched over the desk, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp and clipped as he handled one matter after another. The work never stopped; it simply waited for him to return.
Natasha leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her gaze steady on him as he hung up the latest call. She’d been patient—quiet even—but her silence was its own kind of weight. When he finally looked up, she pushed off the wall. “You’ve been slipping,” she said, matter-of-fact.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been managing.”
“Managing?” Her brow arched, cool and unimpressed. “You’ve been avoiding meetings. You skipped the last sit-down with the heads. You didn’t show up to the import check. That’s not managing, Bucky. That’s negligence.”
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the shift of his weight. “Everything that needed to be handled was handled.”
“Not by you.” Natasha’s tone sharpened. “And people notice. You can’t disappear into that flower shop every other day and expect them not to talk.” At the mention, his eyes flickered, a spark of something softer breaking through. Natasha caught it instantly. “There it is,” she said, quieter now. “You’ve been different. Lighter. Hell, even I noticed. But you can’t keep living in both worlds without one swallowing the other.”
Bucky’s hand curled into a fist against the desk. “She doesn’t know.”
“And she shouldn’t,” Natasha countered. “Not unless you’re ready to bring her in. Because if she stays in the dark, she’s a liability. Not because she’s weak—because she’s unprepared. And unprepared means vulnerable.”
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The thought of dragging you into his world, of letting you see the blood and steel behind the quiet moments you shared—it twisted something in his chest. He wanted to keep you untouched. Untouched and his.
Natasha’s voice softened, though it never lost its edge. “You’re at a crossroads, Bucky. Either you pull back, or you let her see who you really are. But you can’t keep her in the middle. That’s where it gets dangerous.”
His eyes narrowed, jaw working, but he didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t have an answer. Because she was right. The silence stretched, heavy as the air between them. Then finally, his voice came out rough, low. “I can’t let her go.”
Natasha tilted her head, unreadable. “Then you’d better figure out how to keep her safe. Before someone else decides she’s the best way to get to you.” The words hung in the room like smoke, impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt something he didn’t allow himself often: fear. Not for himself, but for you.
That night, you noticed something was different the moment Bucky walked through your apartment door. Usually, when he came to you after a day of work, there was a rhythm—sometimes tired, sometimes sharp-edged, but always softened the moment he saw you. Tonight, though, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual. His coat stayed on, his posture stiff, his eyes shadowed in a way that made your chest tighten. “Hey,” you said softly, trying to draw him in. “Long day?”
“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough. He shut the door quietly, almost too quietly for a man who usually moved with certainty. His gaze flicked over you—like he was making sure you were really there—before he crossed the room.
When he pulled you into his arms, it wasn’t like before. Not just affection, not even just need—it was desperation. His grip was tight, almost crushing, his face buried in your hair. You froze for a moment, startled, before sliding your arms around him, holding on just as firmly. “Bucky,” you whispered, trying to lean back enough to see his face. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed against your temple, and you could feel his heart hammering through his chest. Finally, in a low rasp, he said, “you don’t understand how dangerous it is.”
Your breath caught. You’d always known, in some quiet corner of yourself, that there was more to him than the man who carried your groceries and folded your laundry with military precision. But hearing it now, in that tone—it was different. “Dangerous… for me?” you asked carefully.
“For you,” he confirmed, his hands tightening on your waist as though to prove his point. “Being with me… it paints a target on you. And if anyone ever—” His words cut off, sharp, like the thought itself was unbearable.
You stayed quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then, softly, you said, “and if you left? If you pulled away?”
He finally lifted his head then, his eyes finding yours. They were raw, unguarded, and the sight of them nearly broke you. “I can’t,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’ve tried to think about it. Tried to imagine it. But I can’t, doll. I can’t stay away from you.”
Something in you cracked open at the confession, equal parts fear and tenderness. You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over the stubble there. “Then don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t stay away. Just… let me be here. With you.”
His breath shook, his metal hand lifting to cover yours where it rested against his cheek. He leaned into your touch like a starving man, his eyes shutting for a moment. When he opened them again, his voice was steadier, though still low. “If I do this—if I keep you close—it means you’ll see things. Parts of me, parts of my life… I’ve kept them from you on purpose.”
You swallowed hard but nodded. “Then show me. I’d rather see than be left in the dark.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, searching, as if weighing the truth of your words. And then, finally, he exhaled, pulling you back against his chest. “Alright,” he whispered into your hair. “But once you’re in, sweetheart… there’s no going back.”
And though his tone carried warning, his arms held you like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.
---
It started with a question you hadn’t expected. A few days had passed since that night in your apartment—the night Bucky had admitted he couldn’t let you go. He hadn’t said much more about it, but you felt it in the way he hovered a little closer, in how often his hand found yours, in the quiet determination that lingered in his eyes.
So when he showed up at your shop one afternoon, leaning against the counter with that intent look of his, you thought he was there just to keep you company. Instead, he said, “there’s a gala this weekend. I want you to come with me.”
You blinked. “A gala?”
“Big one. Everyone who matters will be there.” He didn’t elaborate who everyone was, but the weight behind his words made it clear. Then, softer, “I want them to see you with me.” The warmth in your chest almost made you forget to breathe. Official. That’s what it sounded like.
He didn’t waste time. The next day, you found yourself swept into a world you’d never touched before. The tailor’s boutique looked more like an art gallery than a store—marble floors, velvet curtains, rows of gowns shimmering under soft lights. You hovered near the entrance at first, your fingers twitching nervously at your sides. The place smelled faintly of leather and perfume, expensive in a way that made you want to keep your hands tucked safely away.
Bucky, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease. He guided you forward with a hand at the small of your back, his voice steady as he spoke to the attendant. “Something for her. For Saturday night.”
The attendant’s eyes widened just slightly, recognition sparking as she nodded quickly. Within minutes, you were being ushered into a fitting room with armfuls of gowns in every shade and style. The first dress was sleek, dark, clinging in ways that made you self-conscious. You stepped out hesitantly, smoothing your hands over the fabric. Bucky’s eyes lifted instantly. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even breathe for a moment. His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, before he finally said, “beautiful.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. “It’s… too much, maybe?”
“Not enough,” he countered smoothly, his voice rougher than usual.
You ducked back into the fitting room, your pulse racing. The next dress was brighter, softer, with delicate embroidery along the bodice. When you stepped out this time, he leaned forward slightly in his chair, his elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. “This one’s good,” he said, but his tone wasn’t casual—it was thoughtful, assessing, almost protective. “But I want something that makes them stare.”
You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “That sounds… intimidating.”
“Good,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “They should be intimidated.”
By the third dress—a deep navy that shimmered when you moved—you felt the air change. Bucky stood this time, crossing the room in a few strides. His hand lifted, brushing along the fabric at your waist, not quite touching you, but close enough to make your breath catch. “This one,” he said, voice low and certain. “Matches your eyes. And when you walk in with me wearing this, no one’ll dare forget it.”
You giggled softly, nerves twisting with warmth. “Bucky… it probably costs more than my whole apartment.”
His lips curved faintly, but his gaze stayed steady. “You let me worry about that.” And in that moment, as the silk whispered around your legs and his hand hovered at your side, you realized: this wasn’t just a dress. This was a declaration.
The attendant had just whisked the navy gown away to be pressed and boxed when something caught your eye. Off to the side, away from the racks of shimmering evening wear, hung a small collection of lighter dresses—soft fabrics, airy shapes. The kind of thing you’d wear in the shop on a warm day, not at some glittering gala.
One in particular made you pause. A simple sundress, pale with little embroidered details along the hem. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t dripping with jewels or stitched with silk. It was… sweet. Something you could actually see yourself wearing, not just trying on for someone else’s world. The attendant followed your gaze. “That’s from a quieter line,” she explained with a professional smile. “Not evening wear, but if you’d like to try it, you can.”
You startled slightly, glancing back at Bucky, who was still flipping idly through a lookbook the attendant had left with him. He looked up at the hesitation in your posture. “Try it,” he said simply. Not a command this time, but a suggestion—an invitation.
You hesitated. “I couldn’t… it’s not—”
His brow arched, the faintest curve of a smirk playing on his lips. “Doll, if you want to try it, you try it.”
So you did. The fabric was soft against your skin, the cut loose but flattering. When you stepped out, you felt lighter somehow, less like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s world and more like yourself. Bucky’s gaze lifted immediately. For once, he didn’t move, didn’t speak right away. His eyes roamed slowly over the dress, then back to your face. You fidgeted under the weight of it, tugging gently at the skirt. “It’s simple. Too simple, probably. Not for…” You gestured vaguely to the opulent boutique around you. “This.”
Still, he didn’t say anything. Just stood, crossing the room with quiet steps until he was right in front of you. His hand reached out, brushing the edge of the fabric at your hip, his thumb pressing lightly into the material. “You look…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, almost frustrated with himself. “You look like you.”
Your cheeks warmed. “That’s… good?”
“It’s perfect.” His voice was rougher than usual, sincere in a way that left no room for doubt. “The gala needs the navy gown. But this one? This one’s for me.”
Your heart fluttered, and before you could argue—before you could even tell him you couldn’t possibly afford something like this—he was already glancing over his shoulder at the attendant. “We’ll take both.”
Your mouth fell open. “Bucky—”
His hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, silencing the protest before it could fully form. His eyes softened, that steady, unyielding gaze fixed only on you. “Let me.”
And standing there, wrapped in a simple sundress in a boutique that reeked of money and power, you realized it wasn’t about the price. It was about him wanting you to have something that made you feel yourself, even in his world.
Bucky didn’t let you change out of the sundress. The attendant had neatly packaged the navy gown, slid it into a garment bag, and made a note of the transaction, but Bucky had waved her off when she offered to take the sundress back to the fitting rooms. “She’s keeping it on,” he’d said, casual but with the kind of finality no one ever argued with.
And so you found yourself leaving the boutique hand-in-hand with him, the evening air brushing against your legs as the hem of the simple dress swayed with each step. It felt strange—like you were supposed to be polished and expensive after a store like that, but instead you felt like yourself. More than that, you felt like his.
He opened the car door for you, but instead of giving the driver an address for home, he leaned down and murmured, “let’s take a walk first.”
The driver pulled away a few blocks later, leaving you and Bucky in a quieter part of the city. The streets were lined with little shops and cafés, the kind that glowed warmly in the evening. He guided you toward one tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall, the kind of place you might’ve gone with friends—if you’d had the time.
Inside, the café smelled like coffee and sugar, the hum of conversation gentle and low. No one looked twice at you. No one cared that you weren’t in glittering gowns or pressed suits. And Bucky—your Bucky, who had filled a marble-floored boutique like he owned the world—looked almost out of place here. His broad shoulders crowded the small table, his hands too large around the delicate porcelain cup. But the way he watched you, leaning forward as though you were the only thing that mattered, made the rest fade away. “You like it here?” he asked, his voice softer than the quiet jazz playing in the background.
You smiled, stirring your drink absently. “It feels… normal.”
“Normal,” he repeated, like the word was foreign on his tongue. His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Guess I could get used to that.”
For a while, you sat together in that small café, talking about nothing and everything. He asked you about your favorite flowers—not the ones that sold best, but the ones you secretly kept for yourself. You teased him about how he never drank his coffee until it was practically cold. He listened, his hand finding yours across the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in steady circles.
And when you left, walking slowly down the street, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop at the little bookstore window, linger at the flower stall, laugh at the sight of a dog sticking its head out of a taxi. At one point, you tugged his hand without realizing, pulling him closer to something that caught your eye—a display of postcards painted with watercolor scenes of the city.
He didn’t comment on the gesture, but you felt the weight of his gaze as you flipped through them, your fingers brushing over the colors. When you finally slipped back into the car, the sundress soft against your skin and a paper bag of postcards in your lap, Bucky leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You looked beautiful in the gowns,” he murmured, his tone low, almost possessive. “But this? This is what I’ll remember.”
And you realized it wasn’t the marble floors, or the glittering chandeliers, or the navy silk that made the night feel important. It was him. It was this.
---
The gala was nothing like the gallery. From the moment you stepped into the ballroom, it was clear this was a different level of opulence entirely. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light across the space, polished marble gleamed beneath your heels, and the air hummed with the low thrum of strings from a live orchestra. Guests glided past in gowns stitched with gemstones, tuxedos pressed to perfection, diamonds glittering at throats and wrists.
You’d taken extra care tonight, wearing the deep navy gown Bucky had chosen for you, the one that shimmered with every movement. It hugged you in ways that made you nervous at first, but when you saw the way his gaze lingered on you before you left your apartment—sharp, reverent, possessive—you knew you didn’t regret saying yes.
At first, you kept to his side, your fingers woven with his, your steps perfectly matched as he led you through the crowd. His presence was magnetic; people parted for him instinctively, their eyes darting toward you with open curiosity. Some smiled, others whispered, but all of them looked.
The first introductions came quickly—men with quick, firm handshakes, women with perfectly painted smiles. They greeted Bucky with respect, almost deference, and then turned their attention to you. The questions came in polite tones—your name, how long you’d been in the city, whether you enjoyed the gala.
You answered as best you could, but each new set of eyes made your chest tighten. You weren’t used to being the center of attention, and in a room like this, the stares felt heavier than silk gowns and diamond necklaces combined.
So you inched closer. It was subtle at first—your hand tightening on Bucky’s, your shoulder brushing his arm as someone else struck up a conversation with him. He didn’t move, didn’t draw you in, just let you settle where you wanted. But as the night stretched on and more people gathered, you found yourself tucking yourself closer and closer into his side.
By the time he was cornered by a trio of older men discussing investments, you were practically pressed to him, your arm sliding around his. His body was solid against yours, steady in a way that kept you grounded. He shifted slightly then, not pulling you in but adjusting just enough that you fit more comfortably against him. You realized you were hiding. And that he was letting you.
Between conversations, he leaned down just once, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, “you okay, doll?”
Your breath caught, but you nodded quickly, whispering back, “Just… a lot of people.”
His hand slid down, resting against the small of your back, warm and firm. “Stay close, then.” And you did. Through introductions, through polite laughter, through glasses of champagne that you barely sipped. You stayed tucked into his side, your cheek brushing his shoulder once when you leaned in to whisper something shyly, and his answering smirk told you he didn’t mind in the slightest.
It was overwhelming, yes. But the whole night, Bucky’s presence wrapped around you like armor. You weren’t just there as a guest—you were there as his. And judging by the way people looked at him, then at you, that message was loud and clear.
The gala bled into night, the golden chandeliers giving way to the hush of the city as you and Bucky slipped into the car. The door shut, muting the noise behind you, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and the faint rustle of your gown as you shifted against the seat.
For the first time in hours, you exhaled, your shoulders slumping slightly. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself until now. Bucky’s hand found yours almost immediately, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady rhythm. “You did good,” he murmured, his voice quiet but certain.
You smiled faintly, though your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t really do anything.”
His eyes slid to you, blue and intense even in the low light. “You were with me. That’s everything.”
The words settled heavy in your chest, warm and strange, like they meant more than you knew how to hold. The car turned, and instead of heading toward your apartment, you noticed the streets getting sharper, quieter, the buildings taller and glinting under the city lights. You glanced at him, curious. “This isn’t the way home.”
He didn’t look away, didn’t let go of your hand. “No. I want to show you something.” When the car pulled up to a gleaming tower, you felt your breath hitch. This was the kind of place you’d walked past before but never imagined entering. The doorman nodded the instant Bucky stepped out, opening the door like it was second nature. No questions, no hesitation. Just respect.
He offered his hand to help you out of the car, steady and sure, and guided you inside. The lobby was marble and glass, understated yet impossibly expensive. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to shout. The elevator ride was silent except for the low hum of the machinery and the sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears. His hand stayed at the small of your back, grounding you. When the doors opened, you stepped directly into his penthouse.
It was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, the city sprawled out beneath like a living map of light. The furniture was sleek, dark, carefully chosen—luxury without clutter. A bar lined one side of the space, glassware gleaming faintly under soft recessed lighting. There was a piano, too, its polished surface reflecting the skyline. You turned slowly, taking it all in. “This is… yours?”
“Mine,” he confirmed simply, watching you carefully as you moved further inside.
It felt surreal, like stepping into the part of him he’d kept hidden. The part that wasn’t coffee shops and farmer’s markets, but glass towers and quiet power. You drifted toward the windows, resting a hand against the cool glass as you looked out over the city. Behind you, you heard his steps, deliberate and steady, until his reflection appeared beside yours. “Why tonight?” you asked softly. “Why show me now?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Because after tonight, there’s no pretending. Everyone saw you with me. They’ll keep seeing you. And I don’t want you walking into this blind.”
You turned, looking up at him. The shadows in his eyes were still there, the weight of his world, but so was something else—something softer, rawer. “I told you I’d rather see than be left in the dark,” you whispered.
His hand lifted, brushing lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s what scares me.”
And then, before you could answer, he bent his head and kissed you. Not the shy, tentative kisses of your apartment, but something deeper, firmer, threaded with everything he hadn’t said aloud. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he needed to remind himself you were really there. The city stretched endlessly below, but in that moment, all you could feel was him.
Bucky didn’t stop at the kiss. When he finally drew back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand slid down to lace with your fingers. “C’mere,” he murmured, tugging you gently away from the windows. “Let me show you around.”
The penthouse unfolded like something out of a dream. He guided you first through the living space—sleek lines, soft lighting, and a bar stocked more like a high-end lounge than a home. Past that was a dining area, the table long enough for ten but polished to a shine that suggested it wasn’t often used.
Then he took you down the hall to the master suite. The bedroom was spacious but not ostentatious, anchored by a bed large enough to swallow you whole. It was softened by details you hadn’t expected—heavy curtains, a worn leather chair in the corner, books stacked neatly on a nightstand. Not the kind of impersonal room you imagined in a man like him.
But it was the closet that stopped you cold. The space was larger than your entire bedroom at home, walls lined with dark wood shelves and neatly arranged clothing. His suits, pressed and orderly, filled one side. On the other, though—where you expected emptiness—were rows of neatly folded soft fabrics in your size. Pajamas. Sweaters. Undergarments in delicate lace and cotton, still with tags. Even shoes, flats and slippers and a pair of heels you knew you hadn’t bought. Your steps faltered. “Bucky…”
He watched you carefully, his hands tucked in his pockets, his jaw tight. “I didn’t want you to come here and not have anything.”
You turned slowly, looking at him. “You… bought all this?”
“I had someone pick it up,” he admitted, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing. But the way his eyes never left your face told you it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.
Your throat tightened. It wasn’t just that he’d thought of it—it was that he’d prepared for the possibility of you being here long before you ever were. You smiled softly, shy but earnest. “Thank you.”
His shoulders eased just slightly, and he stepped closer, brushing his knuckles along your arm. “Just want you comfortable, doll. Always.”
Before you could answer, a voice carried from down the hall, low but sharp. “She’s here, then?”
You turned, startled, as Natasha appeared in the doorway. She was different from how you’d pictured—tall, poised, her red hair a striking curtain around a face that gave nothing away. She leaned casually against the frame, though her eyes, green and assessing, flicked over you in a way that made you straighten unconsciously. Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah. She’s here.”
Natasha’s gaze lingered on you another beat before she gave the faintest of nods. “Good. Better she’s here than in the dark.”
You weren’t sure what to say, so you offered a small, polite smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Her lips curved, just barely. “We’ll see if you still think that later.” Then, with a glance at Bucky, “she’ll need to know more. Sooner rather than later.”
Bucky’s jaw worked, but he nodded once. Natasha’s gaze softened—if only slightly—before she slipped away as quietly as she’d come. The silence left behind felt heavier than the closet full of clothes, heavier than the glittering view outside. But when Bucky turned back to you, his eyes softened, grounding you once more. “You okay?” he asked. And this time, he phrased it like a question.
You let out a shaky breath, smiling faintly. “Yeah. I think so.”
Once Natasha’s footsteps faded, he tugged you gently back into the hall, his hand warm and steady around yours. “C’mon,” he said, softer now. “There’s more.”
The penthouse was larger than you’d realized. He showed you the kitchen first—polished stone counters, state-of-the-art appliances, cabinets so tall you wondered if he ever actually used them. But there were signs of him here too: a coffee mug left out near the sink, a half-empty bottle of scotch on the counter, a dish towel folded with military precision.
From there, he led you to a smaller sitting room, tucked away from the sweeping skyline. It felt more lived in than the main space—cozier, with a blanket folded across the back of the couch, a chessboard set up mid-game. You wondered if he played with Natasha, or if the board had been waiting for an opponent he hadn’t found until you.
He showed you a study too, lined with dark shelves and heavy books, the scent of old paper lingering faintly. A few leather-bound journals lay stacked neatly on the desk, a fountain pen resting perfectly parallel beside them. You didn’t ask, but part of you wondered what he wrote in them.
By the time you circled back to the master suite, the nerves that had knotted your stomach earlier had softened into something else—curiosity, warmth, and the quiet awe of realizing this was his space. And now, in some way, yours too. He paused at the bedroom door, his eyes flicking to you. “You should get ready for bed. The pajamas are in the closet.”
You bit your lip, shy but smiling, before disappearing into the walk-in again. The set you chose was simple—soft cotton, a pale color trimmed with delicate lace. It fit perfectly, hugging you without clinging, comfortable in a way that made your breath catch. He hadn’t just guessed. He’d known.
When you padded back into the bedroom, barefoot, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the pajama top, Bucky was already waiting. He sat at the edge of the bed, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, the city lights spilling across him through the windows. His gaze lifted the moment he heard you. And it lingered.
You froze for a moment under the weight of it, heat rushing to your cheeks. “They… fit,” you murmured.
His lips curved faintly, but his eyes stayed intent, almost reverent. “Told you. I just want you comfortable.”
You crossed the room slowly, and when you stopped in front of him, he reached for your hand, pulling you gently between his knees. His metal thumb brushed over your knuckles, his touch careful, grounding. “Stay here tonight,” he said quietly. Not a command. A request.
You nodded, your chest tight, your heart racing. “Okay.”
He exhaled softly, his hand sliding to your waist as he pressed a kiss against your stomach through the thin cotton. Then he looked up at you, his eyes blue and raw. “You look like you belong here.” And for the first time, standing barefoot in silk-soft pajamas in his penthouse bedroom, you believed him.
---
The bed was cold when you rolled over, your hand brushing against rumpled sheets where Bucky should’ve been. For a moment you thought maybe you’d imagined it—the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest pressed to your back—but the faint indentation in the mattress told you he’d only slipped away recently.
You sat up slowly, tugging the pajama top tighter around you, and padded out into the hall. The penthouse was hushed, the city beyond the windows muted in its endless glow. You followed the faintest sound—paper rustling, a pen scratching—to the study.
There he was. Bucky sat behind a heavy desk, sleeves rolled up, a lamp casting sharp shadows across his face. Papers were spread across the surface, neat columns of numbers, ledgers, notes scrawled in his firm hand. He didn’t look up at first, but the moment your bare feet padded against the rug, his gaze lifted. “Doll,” he murmured, his voice softening instantly. He set the pen down and held out a hand. “C’mere.”
You crossed the room, shy but certain, and when you reached him, he tugged you gently onto his lap. You settled sideways across his thighs, your head resting against his shoulder. His hand smoothed along your back, slow and steady, grounding you. “You should’ve eaten first,” he said, brushing his lips against your temple. “I’ll text Natasha, have her send something up.”
You hummed, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I didn’t come looking for food.”
His brow furrowed slightly as he angled his head to see you. “No?”
You shook your head, cheeks warming. “…I missed you. In bed.”
For a moment, the silence stretched. Then his chest rumbled with a low exhale, almost a laugh but not quite. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re gonna kill me saying things like that.”
You smiled shyly against him, and after a moment, curiosity tugged at you. You shifted just enough to glance at the papers scattered across the desk. Numbers, neat rows and totals, some underlined, some circled. “What’s all this?”
“Work,” he said simply, but when you didn’t look away, his mouth softened. “Keeping track of everything. Shipments, money in, money out. Making sure it all balances.”
You blinked, surprised. “You do the books yourself?”
“Trust’s hard to come by,” he said dryly, though his thumb traced idly over your hip. “Don’t like letting anyone else touch the numbers.”
Your lips curved faintly. “I do my shop’s books too. Every night before I close.”
That earned you a glance, one brow raised, a flicker of amusement breaking through his guarded expression. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not as complicated, but… numbers don’t lie. You can see the whole picture if you know where to look.”
His smirk deepened just slightly. “Smart girl.” He tapped one of the ledgers with a calloused finger. “Wanna help me, then?”
You looked at him in surprise, then back at the papers. The idea of being folded into this part of his world, even in something as simple as numbers, made your heart beat faster. Slowly, you nodded. “Alright,” you whispered. “Show me what you’ve got.”
And for the next hour, you sat curled on his lap while he walked you through the ledgers, his voice low and steady, his arm always around you. It was strange—intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not just the touch of him, but the trust of it.
Bucky’s voice had become a low murmur in your ear, patient as he explained the rows of numbers. You tried to keep up, scribbling a few notes in the margin of his ledger, but the warmth of his chest and the steady rhythm of his hand tracing circles over your thigh slowly lulled you. Your head grew heavier until it finally settled against his shoulder. He noticed the shift instantly. Your pen slipped from your hand, rolling across the desk. Bucky caught it without looking, setting it aside, his gaze softening when he realized your breaths had evened out. You’d fallen asleep on his lap, curled up like you belonged there.
For a while, he just let you rest, one arm wrapped around you protectively, the other turning pages with a deliberate quiet. Every so often, he brushed his thumb over your side or adjusted the blanket he’d pulled down from the back of the couch. A knock broke the silence. Sharp, precise. He didn’t even raise his voice when he answered, “come in.”
The door opened, and Natasha stepped inside, a tray balanced in her hands. Steam rose from a pot of tea, plates neatly covered. Her sharp gaze flicked over the scene in front of her—you asleep, Bucky’s arm wound firmly around you—and her lips curved just slightly. “She’s out,” she said softly, setting the tray down on the corner of the desk.
“Mm,” Bucky grunted in agreement, his hand still smoothing idly along your back.
Natasha straightened, crossing her arms. “You should put her in bed.”
His jaw tightened, and he shook his head once. “She’s fine here.”
The redhead studied him for a beat longer before nodding. “I’ll leave you two, then.” She turned to go, but paused at the door, glancing back with a raised brow. “You’re softer than I thought you’d be, Barnes.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He just shifted slightly, holding you a little closer, his gaze fixed on your sleeping face. Natasha’s faint chuckle followed her out of the room. The penthouse grew quiet again. He leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the curve of your cheek against his chest. His hand stilled over your side as he bent to press the gentlest kiss to your hair. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so quiet you didn’t stir. “I’ll keep you safe. Always.”
The breakfast tray sat untouched on the desk, the tea growing cooler by the minute. But Bucky didn’t care. You were warm, you were breathing steady, and you were here.
And for him, that was enough.
everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005
bucky barnes taglist: @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu @averyhotchner @umbreoni
@sleepysongbirdsings
i wanna cry because this was beautiful
🕊 Nadin’s Hope: A Mother, A Memory, A Future
Hello, my name is Nadin. I’m from Gaza. I’m a graphic design graduate, a wife—and now, a mother.
I finished my design studies just before the war began. I had dreams of starting a small studio, of creating art that told stories. I used to think about colors and fonts and the future.
Then, the war came. And the future became something we tried to hold onto, moment by moment.
On October 22, 2023, I learned I was pregnant when a missile destroyed my husband’s family home, killing 25 members—his mother, siblings, nieces and nephews—entire branches of our family in seconds.
We were displaced twice. Everything was gone—home, safety, routine, rest.
A few weeks later, I gave birth to our daughter. There was no crib, no celebration—not even stillness. But she arrived, quietly and beautifully. In her eyes I saw something I hadn’t felt in weeks: life that still wanted to grow.
Now, our days are shaped by decisions that could dismantle the future we are trying to build together.
Today, Israel’s government is discussing plans for a full military occupation of the Gaza Strip, including Gaza City and southern regions. The stated aim: to eliminate Hamas and later hand governing control to allied Arab forces—not Israel—but with no clear path to peace or normalcy.
The humanitarian fallout is devastating. More than 61,000 Palestinians have died in this war; hunger and malnutrition are rising sharply. Hospitals in north Gaza have shut down, and 193 people have now died of starvation, nearly half of them children.
Aid remains blocked, water is scarce, and many risk dying of hunger or disease long before future promises arrive.
We Don’t Know What Comes Next There’s no clear path forward—only uncertainty for our daughter’s life and our ability to survive another day.
My name is Nadin, and I’m a mother from Gaza.
How You Can Help I’m asking for support—not for comfort, but for survival:
Help us meet basic needs so we can breathe, heal, and preserve a world for our daughter.
Support us as I try to stand again on my own feet—even a glimmer of stability matters.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you can give—thank you. If you can’t—just sharing this post is a lifeline I will never forget.
