the bachelorette detour
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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader
Summary: What was supposed to be your bachelorette trip becomes a girls getaway after your fiancé’s betrayal leaves you single, heartbroken, and unsure how to move forward. But when the trip is non-refundable and your friends refuse to let him ruin one more thing, you find yourself along the coast, trying to laugh through the ache. Then you meet Bucky Barnes: quiet, careful, unfairly handsome, and somehow exactly where you need him to be.
Warnings/Tags: Cheating Ex-Fiancé, Cancelled Wedding, Heartbreak, Post-Breakup Grief, Self-Doubt After Betrayal, Alcohol/Hangover References, Anxiety Around New Romance, Protective Friends (Original Characters), Flirting, Romantic Tension, Bucky Barnes Being Dangerously Respectful
Word count: 10.9k
Music:
I Can Do It With A Broken Heart - Taylor Swift
Feather - Sabrina Carpenter
Ocean Eyes - Billie Eilish
Begin Again - Taylor Swift
Kiss Me - Sixpence None The Richer
Delicate - Taylor Swift
Notes: hi hello!! This is going to be part one of a three part series!! I will link each part together once they’re all posted, I’ve been working on this for a while after being inspired by a TikTok a few months ago and well… I’ve really flushed it out for sure 😅 I hope you all love this as much as I do!
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The hotel suite was beautiful in the kind of way that felt almost offensive.
All white linen and gauzy curtains that shifted with the ocean breeze, polished tile cool under bare feet, a wide balcony overlooking water so blue it barely looked real. There was a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket on the counter that none of them had opened. Matching gift bags still sat in a neat row by the door where they’d dropped them on the first day, each one stuffed with things that had been chosen months ago, back when this trip had meant something else. Back when the cheap satin sashes and heart-shaped sunglasses and ridiculous little ring-shaped drink stirrers had been funny instead of cruel.
Someone (Mia, probably) had turned the sash around so the glittering BRIDE TO BE faced the wall.
You stood in front of the bathroom mirror with one earring in, one hand braced against the counter, staring at your reflection like she belonged to somebody else.
There was nothing objectively wrong with the girl in the mirror. Your makeup was soft and glowy, your hair falling in careful waves over one shoulder, your dress the color of sea glass and cut just enough to make all your friends whistle when you’d stepped out earlier. You looked exactly like the kind of woman who should’ve been on a bachelorette trip in a beach town with four of her closest friends, buzzing with excitement, cheeks warm from laughing too much, texting her fiancé blurry selfies with the caption miss you already.
Instead, you looked like a woman who had learned, six weeks ago, that the man she’d nearly married had been sleeping with someone from his office for almost five months.
You still remembered the way the apartment had smelled that day. Coffee gone cold. Laundry detergent. The sharp citrus of the dish soap because you’d been standing at the sink when the messages lit up his iPad one after another, stupidly ordinary in their cruelty. You still remembered how your body had gone cold first and then violently hot, like your skin didn’t know how to hold what had just happened. You remembered him trying to explain. Trying to cry. Trying to touch your arm.
You remembered saying, very quietly, “Don’t.”
That had been the end of it.
No dramatic reconciliation. No begging worth hearing. No grand speech that fixed the unforgivable fact of it. Just the sick collapse of a life you’d already started arranging furniture in.
The venue had been canceled. The dress returned. Some deposits lost, some salvaged, some too humiliating to deal with until later. The bachelorette trip, however, had been stubbornly, stupidly non-refundable.
So your friends had done what best friends do when your life explodes in your hands. They had shown up with snacks and wine and righteous fury. They had boxed up his things while cursing creatively. They had taken your phone when you were at your weakest and blocked his number for you. And when you’d tried to tell them you didn’t want to go on the trip anymore, that it would be embarrassing, pathetic, that the whole thing would feel like one big neon sign flashing she got cheated on, they’d looked at you like you’d lost your mind.
“He ruined a relationship,” Mia had said flatly, stuffing sandals into a suitcase for you because you’d been too numb to pack. “He does not also get to ruin a beachfront villa.”
So here you were.
A former bride on what had become, through sheer force of friendship and denial, a girls’ trip in denial.
There was a knock on the bathroom door before it pushed open an inch. “You decent?”
“Depends on who’s asking.”
Lena slipped through the gap, already dressed in a red wrap dress that made her look like trouble in the best possible way. She took one look at your face in the mirror and softened. “Hey.”
“I’m fine,” you said automatically.
“Liar.”
You laughed, but it came out thin. Lena stepped behind you and rested her chin lightly on your shoulder, both of you looking at your reflections.
“You don’t have to go out tonight,” she said. “We can stay in. Order room service. Watch terrible reality TV. I’ll even let Jess pick the movie and you know what a sacrifice that is.”
From the other room, right on cue, Jess yelled, “I heard that, and for the record, my taste is immaculate.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Lena squeezed your shoulder. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” You swallowed. “I just… I don’t want this trip to become some sad little memorial service to my canceled wedding.”
“It won’t.”
“It already kind of is.”
“It was,” she corrected gently. “The first night was. Yesterday was weird because we all kept almost saying things and then not saying them. But tonight?” She lifted one brow in the mirror. “Tonight, we get drunk, dance badly, and remind you that your life didn’t end because one mediocre man had the self-control of wet cardboard.”
You barked out a real laugh at that.
“There she is,” Lena said softly.
You looked down, blinking hard. “I hate that I’m still this upset.”
“Of course you’re still upset.”
“It’s been weeks.”
“And?”
“And I should be…” You gestured helplessly at yourself, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. “Better.”
Lena’s voice went very quiet. “You were going to marry him.”
That landed in the room with all the weight you’d been trying not to feel.
Not just date him. Not just love him. Marry him. Build a life with him. Wake up next to him for years and years and years, and trust that the future you were stepping into was solid beneath your feet. He hadn’t just cheated on you. He’d made you question your own memory, your own judgment, your own ability to know when you were loved honestly and when you were being made a fool.
Lena turned you gently on the stool until you were facing her. “You do not have to be over it on anyone’s schedule,” she said. “Especially not yours.”
Your throat tightened. “I really, really hate crying with mascara on.”
“So don’t cry.” Her mouth curved. “Come let me put obnoxious lip gloss on you and tell you how hot you are.”
From the bedroom, Mia called, “We are going to miss the dinner reservation if you two keep having a feelings summit in there.”
“And I’m starving,” Tori added.
“Tragic,” Jess deadpanned. “Thoughts and prayers.”
Lena held out a hand. “C’mon.”
You stared at it for a second, then took it.
The restaurant was loud in the pleasantly expensive way only vacation places seemed to perfect.
Warm lights strung across the open-air terrace cast everyone in gold. Music drifted from somewhere near the bar, something upbeat and rhythmic that mixed with the crash of distant waves and the low murmur of a hundred overlapping conversations. The air smelled like salt, grilled meats and citrus, sunscreen, and the faintest hint of tequila.
Your table overlooked the marina, all bobbing lights on black water. Your friends had done what they did best: formed a protective wall of normal around you without making it obvious. Nobody mentioned him. Nobody made pitying faces. They just ordered too many appetizers, argued over cocktails, stole bites off one another’s plates, and dragged you into conversation until the tension in your shoulders slowly, almost reluctantly, began to loosen.
By the second drink, you were laughing more easily.
By the third, Mia had somehow gotten the whole table ranking celebrity breakups by messiness.
“Absolutely not,” Jess said, pointing with a french fry. “Public cheating scandals are bad, yes, but nothing tops a man leaving his wife for a woman he met while making a movie where they play soulmates. That is psychotic.”
“That is unfortunately a classic,” Tori agreed.
Lena tilted her head at you. “Your thoughts, wounded party?”
You swirled your drink, pretending to consider it deeply. “I think men should have to apply for licenses before speaking to women.”
“Renewed annually,” Mia said.
“With references,” Jess added.
“And an essay portion,” Tori said.
You grinned. “Minimum one thousand words.”
The table erupted, and for one soft, golden moment, it almost felt easy. Not fixed. Not fully healed. But easy enough to breathe inside.
Then a group at the bar started cheering over some birthday shot ritual, and the sound hit you wrong—too close to celebration, too adjacent to the thing this trip was originally supposed to be—and the air seemed to thin.
It was sudden, stupid, and so incredibly unfair.
You set your glass down too carefully.
Lena noticed first because of course she did. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, already halfway out of your chair. “I just need a second.”
Nobody tried to stop you. Another kindness. Mia only squeezed your wrist as you passed, and Jess said, “Text if you need me to come glare at strangers.”
You slipped away before they could see your face fully give you away.
The terrace opened into a quieter walkway that curved along the side of the restaurant toward the beach access path. The noise softened there, blunted by wind and distance. A line of palms swayed overhead, their fronds whispering against the night. Somewhere below, the tide moved in and out with steady, indifferent patience.
You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking until the music and voices behind you were little more than a blur.
This was the part no one told you about heartbreak, how it could ambush you in the middle of a good moment. That you could be laughing one second and then wrecked the next because someone popped champagne two tables over or because a song came on or because your brain remembered, without your permission, what was supposed to be happening instead.
You pressed the heel of your hand briefly to your sternum like it might steady the ache there.
“Not your night either, huh?”
The voice was low and rough-edged, threaded with something almost like humor. Not invasive. Just there.
You turned.
He was leaning against the white stucco wall a few yards away, one boot braced behind him, a beer bottle loose in one hand.
Your first ridiculous and entirely involuntary thought was that he looked unfair.
Not just handsome. Plenty of men were handsome. This was something more disruptive than that. Tall in a way that made the space around him seem smaller, broad-shouldered, dressed simply in dark jeans and a black henley with the sleeves shoved to his forearms. There was silver at one wrist from a watch, dark hair pushed back carelessly, a beard that softened the hard lines of his jaw only enough to make you wonder what he looked like clean-shaven and then immediately resent yourself for wondering that at all.
But it was his face that kept you there a second too long.
Something in his expression was watchful, steady. Not the eager opportunism of a man who’d spotted a woman alone and decided to try his luck. He looked like someone who knew what it was to need air.
His gaze flicked once to your face, then away again with deliberate politeness. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “I was just…”
“Escaping?”
A faint laugh caught in your throat. “That obvious?”
He took a small sip from the bottle. “You’ve got the same look I do.”
“And what look is that?”
“Like if one more person asks if you’re having fun, you might throw yourself into the ocean.”
You stared at him.
Then, to your own surprise, you laughed. Really laughed. Sudden and bright and helpless enough that you had to press your lips together after. The man’s mouth tipped at one corner, not smug, just pleased to have earned it.
“Okay,” you said. “That was kind of funny.”
“Kind of?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
His eyes, startlingly blue even in the low light, settled on you again. “Too late.”
There it was. Chemistry. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A live wire.
You felt it in the curious little pause after your laughter faded. In the way the air between you changed shape. In the way he seemed perfectly still and yet somehow entirely attentive.
He straightened off the wall and held out his free hand, not too close, not presumptuous. “Bucky.”
You blinked at the name, then smiled despite yourself. “Bucky?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“No, I like it.” You slid your hand into his. “It just surprised me.”
His hand was warm and much larger than yours, his grip gentle in a way that made your pulse misbehave. He repeated your name quietly after you gave it to him, like he was testing the shape of it.
It should not have affected you as much as it did.
“So,” Bucky said, easing back half a step but not too far, “what are you escaping from?”
You should have lied.
You almost did. Almost said a loud table or too many margaritas or my friends are insane. Something light. Easy. The kind of answer that kept things shallow and safe.
Instead, maybe because he was a stranger and therefore safer than anyone else in the world for the span of a few minutes, you said, “This was supposed to be my bachelorette trip.”
His expression changed instantly.
Not dramatically. Not with that terrible exaggerated pity people wore when they thought they were being compassionate. It was subtler than that. A stilling. A sharpened attention.
“Supposed to be?” he asked carefully.
“I caught my fiancé cheating.” You looked out toward the dark line of the water. “The trip was non-refundable.”
For one beat, he said nothing.
Then: “He’s an idiot.”
The answer was so immediate, so certain, that your head turned back to him.
“You don’t even know him.”
“Don’t need to.”
That should not have made heat rise behind your ribs. It absolutely did.
You huffed a quiet laugh and looked down at the tile. “My friends agree with you.”
“Smart women.”
“They are.”
He tipped the beer bottle lightly toward the restaurant. “They the ones keeping an eye on you from inside?”
You glanced back through the open terrace and immediately spotted them. Four women pretending very badly not to watch from across the restaurant. The second Lena realized she’d been caught, she gave a tiny, unapologetic wave.
A smile tugged at your mouth. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Something about the way he said it made you look at him again. “Good?”
“Yeah.” His shoulders lifted in one small shrug. “You got your heart broken. Means anybody with sense oughta be cautious with you for a while.”
There was no flirtatious edge to it. No but I’m different tucked inside. Just simple, grounded truth.
That, more than anything, disarmed you.
“You always this honest?” you asked.
“Only when I’m trying to make a good impression.”
“That your plan?”
“Wasn’t, originally.”
“And now?”
His gaze met yours full on, and there was something devastatingly direct in it. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’d like to keep you talking.”
Your breath caught. Just a little. Enough to annoy you.
You folded your arms loosely. “That a line?”
“Not a very polished one.”
“No.”
“I can do worse, if it helps.”
You laughed again, and this time he smiled properly.
Lord. It changed him completely.
The seriousness in his face didn’t disappear, exactly, but it warmed, the corners of his eyes creasing, the whole effect unexpectedly boyish for someone built like he could carry furniture by himself. It made him look less like a man leaning in the shadows and more like someone you could picture grinning across a kitchen table at midnight.
Dangerous thought.
You cleared your throat. “So what are you doing out here, Bucky?”
He looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Friend’s birthday dinner. Too many people, not enough exits.”
“Ah. Fellow escape artist.”
“Seems that way.”
“Your friends keeping tabs on you too?”
He angled his head toward a table farther inside, and you followed the motion.
Three people were watching him with absolutely no shame.
The first was a broad-shouldered blond man who looked like he’d been carved out of old-fashioned decency and stubbornness, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, his expression calm except for the faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. Beside him sat a man with an easy grin and warm, assessing eyes, leaning back like he was enjoying a show he fully intended to heckle later. He caught your eye and lifted his glass in a quick, charming salute that made Bucky mutter something under his breath.
And next to them was a woman with red hair and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, watching the entire exchange with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had already figured out the ending and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.
“Yep,” Bucky said dryly. “Like a zoo exhibit.”
“You say that like you’re not talking to a woman currently being monitored by a four-person committee.”
“Fair point.”
The night wind lifted a strand of hair across your cheek. Without thinking, you tucked it back, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders, the dip of your dress, the fact that you’d come out here to have a small private breakdown and instead found yourself flirting with a stranger who looked like he’d stepped out of some absurdly specific fantasy.
You should probably go back inside.
That was the sensible thing. The smart thing. The emotionally mature thing, even.
Instead you heard yourself say, “So what happens now?”
Bucky’s brows drew together faintly. “Now?”
“You’ve made me laugh during my dramatic escape moment. That’s a high-risk move. What’s your follow-up strategy?”
His mouth twitched. “Well. Could offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve already got one.”
“Very observant.”
“Could ask you to dance.”
You blinked.
Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, the live music had shifted. Slower now. Not fully slow, but smoother. The kind of song people swayed to more than danced.
Bucky watched your face carefully, like he was making sure not to crowd you.
“Or,” he added, “I could just stand out here with you a while. Whichever you’d rather.”
There it was again. That carefulness. That unexpected, almost old-fashioned gentleness. Not pushy. Not performative. As though your comfort mattered to him on instinct.
It had been a long time since anyone’s instinct had felt like care.
You looked at him for a long second.
Then you said, “You know what? Ask me properly.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something warmer. He set the beer bottle down on the ledge beside him, took one step closer, and held out his hand.
“Would you let me have this dance?”
Oh.
That was unfair too.
You stared at his hand, then at his face, then at the hand again. Somewhere behind you, your friends were absolutely losing their minds in silent, collective suspicion. You could feel it from here.
And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was too soon and too strange and too much for a woman still nursing a cracked-open heart.
But maybe, too, life did not wait for perfect timing to offer you something tender.
You put your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours with quiet certainty.
He led you back toward the edge of the terrace where there was just enough room between tables for dancing if people were willing to be a little shameless about it. You were very aware, suddenly, of everything. The warmth of his palm, the nearness of his body as he turned to face you, the curious glances from strangers, the way your friends had all gone rigid at your table as though witnessing a wildlife event they didn’t dare interrupt.
Bucky’s hand settled at your waist with measured care, like he was asking permission even after you’d already given it. Your free hand came to rest against his shoulder, and the solid heat of him beneath the thin fabric of his shirt nearly short-circuited your brain.
“Still okay?” he asked quietly.
You looked up.
He was serious again, gaze fixed on yours, all the humor gentled into something steadier.
The question wasn’t about dancing. Or not only about dancing.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Still okay.”
He nodded once, satisfied, and drew you a fraction closer.
The music wrapped around you soft and low. Beyond him, lights blurred against the marina, gold melting into black water. A breeze moved through the terrace, carrying salt and jasmine and the faint clink of glasses. His hand at your waist was warm, anchoring without pressing. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his body was in space and was making damn sure it never overwhelmed yours.
You hadn’t expected that either.
“You’re good at this,” you murmured.
“Dancing?”
“Making a woman feel like she’s the only person in the room.”
Something in his expression shifted. Deepened.
“Maybe,” he said, “that’s because right now you are.”
Your pulse stumbled so hard it was almost embarrassing.
“Bucky.”
“Too much?”
You should’ve said yes.
Instead you smiled helplessly and shook your head.
His thumb moved once against your side. Barely there. Enough to send a tiny shiver through you anyway.
At your table, Lena looked one second away from marching over with a clipboard and a background check.
You caught sight of her over Bucky’s shoulder and snorted.
“What?”
“My friends are conducting a silent tribunal.”
He glanced discreetly, then huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I see that.”
“They mean well.”
“I know.”
“They’ll probably interrogate me later.”
“That so?”
“Oh, absolutely. They’ll want to know your full name, your social security number, whether you’ve ever hurt a woman’s feelings, your stance on emotional availability—”
“Got good answers for most of that.”
“Most?”
He looked down at you, mouth curving. “Might fail the social security one.”
You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.
The song shifted again, your bodies swaying almost lazily now, and there was suddenly very little space between your laughter and silence. Not awkward silence. The charged kind. The kind that gathers. That asks.
You became aware, with startling clarity, of the roughness of his hand at your waist. The clean smell of soap and cedar and maybe something darker underneath. The exact shade of blue in his eyes. The fact that if either of you leaned in even an inch, everything about this moment would change.
Your breath slowed.
His did too.
He looked at your mouth once. Quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice.
Instead, because apparently heartbreak had destroyed your self-preservation along with everything else, you said softly, “You’re very intense.”
Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t say I hated it.”
That landed.
He went very still, his eyes on yours.
From somewhere far away, you could hear your friends collectively combusting.
But Bucky didn’t move closer. Didn’t presume. He just watched you with that impossible, careful attention, as though he understood exactly how fragile first steps could be when somebody else had already broken the ground beneath you once.
It made your chest ache in a whole new way.
“You know,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, “I was gonna be a gentleman.”
“Were you?”
“Tryin’ to be.”
“And now?”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and back. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’m in trouble.”
For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the ache in your chest loosened around something other than grief.
Something bright. Warm. A little terrifying.
Hope, maybe.
Or at least the beginning of wanting something again.
You tilted your head. “That sounds like a you problem.”
His smile was slow and devastating. “Could be.”
The song ended. Neither of you stepped back right away.
Applause rose around the terrace. Glasses clinked. The spell should have broken.
It didn’t.
“You should probably get back to your friends,” Bucky said at last, though it sounded like the suggestion cost him something.
“I probably should.”
He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was for one beat longer, two, before he let go.
The loss of warmth was immediate and ridiculous.
You took half a step back, tucking hair behind your ear mostly so you had something to do with your hands. “This was…”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”
You searched his face. “Are you going to ask for my number?”
One dark brow lifted. “Would that be okay?”
The fact that he still asked nearly undid you.
You smiled. “Yes.”
By the time you made it back to your table, your friends looked like a panel of judges moments away from delivering a verdict.
Jess leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “Well?”
Mia shoved a glass of water into your hand. “Before anything else, hydrate.”
Tori was openly staring over your shoulder toward the bar. “He’s hot.”
“Thank you, Tori,” Lena said, not taking her eyes off you. “Can we focus?”
You sat down slowly, aware that your face felt warm. Warm enough that all four women immediately noticed.
Mia gasped. “Oh my God.”
“What?” you demanded, already defensive.
“You like him.”
“Shut up.”
“You do,” Jess said, sounding delighted and skeptical all at once.
“It was one dance.”
“One very charged dance,” Tori said.
Lena leaned forward, expression gentler than the others. “Are you okay?”
The question quieted everything.
You looked down at the condensation sliding down your water glass. At the tacky ring-shaped stirrer someone had stuck in your untouched second cocktail. At your own hand, where his warmth felt like it had somehow lingered.
And then you looked back up at your friends.
For the first time since the world had tilted sideways, the answer didn’t feel complicated.
“Actually,” you said softly, a little stunned by it yourself, “I think I am.”
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The first thing you became aware of was the light.
Not soft morning light. Not gentle, poetic, new day, new beginnings light.
Aggressive light.
Bright, merciless, tropical sunlight poured through the thin gap in the curtains like it had personally been sent to punish you for every tequila-based decision you’d made the night before. It sliced across the hotel room in one golden blade and landed directly over your closed eyelids, dragging you reluctantly back into consciousness one miserable degree at a time.
You made a sound that was not quite human and rolled onto your stomach.
Something crinkled beneath your cheek.
You opened one eye.
A silver sash lay half-under your face, the sequins catching the light in tiny, hateful flashes.
Not the BRIDE TO BE sash. Thank God. That one had been shoved into the back of Lena’s suitcase after the first night with a solemnity usually reserved for disposing of cursed objects.
This one said HOT GIRL DETOUR in glittery pink letters.
You stared at it for a long second, trying to piece together when exactly it had entered your life.
Then the memories began filtering in.
Dinner. The terrace. The music. The boy at the wall with the blue eyes and the unfair smile.
Bucky.
Your heart did a small, humiliating thing.
Then came the rest of it. The dance. His hand at your waist. Your friends staring like government officials observing an unidentified flying object. The way he’d asked for your number like he genuinely cared whether you wanted to give it. The brief, warm press of his fingers around yours before he’d let go.
Your hand moved before your brain fully caught up, patting blindly over the bedspread until you found your phone wedged dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.
You squinted at the screen.
9:47 a.m.
Three notifications from your group chat.
One missed photo drop from Mia.
One reminder from the airline app you had no emotional capacity to deal with.
No text from Bucky.
Your stomach sank in a way you immediately hated.
It was stupid. Completely, embarrassingly stupid. You had met the man less than twelve hours ago. He did not owe you a good morning text. He did not owe you anything. A dance, a conversation, a charming little moment on vacation… it could remain exactly that. A moment. Not every nice thing had to become something. Not every man who looked at you like he wanted to keep you talking was secretly the first chapter of a love story.
Still.
Your thumb unlocked the phone anyway, as if perhaps the text might be hiding somewhere beneath the wallpaper.
Nothing.
You dropped the phone onto the mattress and turned your face into the pillow with a groan.
From the other bed, Jess rasped, “If you’re dying, do it quietly.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at her.
Jess lay on her back in the exact position she must have fallen asleep in, one arm flung over her face, mascara faintly smudged beneath one eye, still wearing one earring and none of her dignity. Her hair had become something of a structural event overnight. Beside her on the nightstand sat three empty water bottles, a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses with one lens missing.
“You look incredible,” you croaked.
“Don’t flirt with me,” she muttered. “I’m vulnerable.”
Across the room, a mound of blankets shifted on the small pullout sofa. Tori emerged from it slowly, blinking like a newly unearthed creature seeing daylight for the first time.
“Why is the sun yelling?” she whispered.
“Because you ordered a round of shots called ‘The Bad Decision’ at midnight,” Jess said without moving.
Tori frowned, then seemed to consider this. “That does sound like me.”
The bathroom door opened, and Lena stepped out already wearing sunglasses indoors, an oversized T-shirt, and the expression of a woman held together by sheer moral superiority and electrolyte packets.
“Alive?” she asked.
“No,” Jess said.
“Emotionally?” Lena asked, looking specifically at you.
You groaned and flopped onto your back. “Why are you all like this?”
“Because last night you danced with six feet of emotionally available jawline,” Tori said, pointing weakly from the pullout. “And now we require updates.”
“There are no updates.”
That got Jess to remove her arm from her face.
Lena stopped halfway to the mini-fridge.
Tori sat upright too quickly, winced, and clutched her head. “Ow. Also—what?”
You held up your phone with a miserable little shake. “No text.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Jess said, “I knew it. Men are disappointing in every climate.”
Lena shot her a look. “Jess.”
“What? I’m not saying we send him hate mail yet. I’m just saying I had one eyebrow raised from the beginning and she knows it.”
You pulled a pillow over your face. “Can everyone please stop acting like he promised me a dowry and then disappeared at sea?”
“No,” Tori said immediately. “Because he had vibes.”
“He did have vibes,” Lena admitted, though reluctantly.
“Very intense, careful, ‘I chop firewood but also ask about your feelings’ vibes,” Tori continued.
“That’s a suspicious combination,” Jess said.
You peeked out from beneath the pillow. “How is that suspicious?”
“Because men should not be allowed to be both hot and emotionally attentive. It’s how they get past security.”
Lena pointed at Jess. “That is, unfortunately, not entirely wrong.”
You sat up slowly, wincing when your head objected to the movement. “He could just be busy. Or asleep. Or also hungover.”
“Or gathering references for the essay portion of his license to speak to women,” Tori said.
Despite yourself, you smiled.
Then your smile faded as your eyes drifted back to your phone.
You hated that you cared.
That was the worst part. Not the lack of text. Not the uncertainty. Not even the tiny, uninvited sting of disappointment.
It was caring at all.
After everything with your ex, you’d promised yourself that you were done handing pieces of yourself over too quickly. Done making excuses. Done mistaking sparks for safety. Done letting a man’s attention feel like proof of your worth.
And then Bucky had smiled at you once under terrace lights, and here you were the next morning, hungover and freshly pathetic, staring at your phone like a teenager.
Lena’s expression softened when she saw your face.
“Hey,” she said, quieter now.
You shook your head before she could continue. “I know. I know it’s dumb.”
“It’s not dumb.”
“It is,” you insisted, throat tightening with irritation at yourself more than sadness. “I met him last night. I had one dance with him. I’m not—” You stopped, pressing your lips together. “I’m not spiraling over some guy not texting me by breakfast.”
Jess was quiet for once.
Tori looked down at the blanket in her lap.
Lena crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you too much. “You’re not spiraling over him,” she said gently. “You’re bracing.”
That hit too close.
You looked away.
Lena lowered her voice. “There’s a difference.”
The room softened around that. The obnoxious sunlight, the scattered shoes, the sequins, the water bottles, the stale scent of perfume and salt air and last night’s cocktails… it all seemed to go still for a second.
“I just don’t want to feel stupid again,” you said.
It came out small enough that you wished you could grab the words and shove them back into your mouth.
Jess sat up slowly, suddenly much less sarcastic. “You were never stupid.”
You gave her a look.
“No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. He was a cheating little sewer rat who made choices behind your back. You trusting the person you were going to marry does not make you stupid.”
“I missed so much.”
“You didn’t miss anything,” Lena said. “He hid things.”
Tori nodded, eyes earnest despite the disaster of her hair. “And now your nervous system is doing that cute little thing where it thinks every silence means danger.”
“That is unfortunately very accurate,” you muttered.
“Which is why,” Jess said, reaching for a water bottle and pointing it at you like a gavel, “we are maintaining cautious optimism at best.”
“Supportively suspicious,” Tori added.
“Exactly.”
You laughed weakly. “Supportively suspicious.”
“That’s our official stance,” Lena said. “We liked him. We are willing to admit he seemed sweet. We are also prepared to ruin his life if necessary.”
“Balance,” Jess said.
“Healthy,” Tori agreed.
A knock sounded at the connecting door from the room Mia had taken with Tori originally, though clearly room assignments had become more of a suggestion than a rule after midnight.
“Is everyone decent?” Mia called.
“No,” Jess yelled.
The door opened anyway.
Mia entered wearing linen pants, a bikini top, and sunglasses pushed into her hair, looking far too fresh for someone who had absolutely been the reason the group had ended up singing along to early 2000s breakup songs in a bar called The Tipsy Pelican at one in the morning.
She carried an iced coffee tray like an offering from the gods.
“I come bearing caffeine and judgment,” she announced.
Tori made a reverent sound and crawled toward her.
Mia handed out drinks, then took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes. “He hasn’t texted.”
“How did you know?”
“Because you look like you’re trying to be chill about not being chill.”
Jess snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”
You accepted your iced coffee with a glare. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Mia said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed. “You hate uncertainty. Which is reasonable, because uncertainty recently kicked in your front door and stole your wedding registry.”
You took a long sip. “That metaphor got away from you.”
“It did, but I stand by the emotional truth.”
Lena reached over and squeezed your ankle through the blanket. “We’re doing brunch at eleven-thirty. You have time to shower, hydrate, and stop checking your phone every eighteen seconds.”
“I am not checking it every eighteen seconds.”
Your phone lit up.
All five heads turned toward it.
You froze.
The screen showed only a weather alert.
Jess inhaled through her nose. “The universe is tacky for that.”
You grabbed the phone and turned it face down. “Nobody is allowed to perceive me until brunch.”
Unfortunately, being perceived was the primary hobby of your friend group.
The next hour unfolded in a haze of showers, shared concealer, dry shampoo, and the particular kind of fragile laughter that came after a night out with people who knew exactly how much fun to push on you before it became too much. The suite slowly transformed from disaster zone to controlled chaos. Jess found her missing earring inside one of Tori’s shoes. Mia discovered a video of herself dramatically toasting “to women with standards and men who fear God,” which none of you remembered but all of you agreed was thematically strong. Lena made everyone drink water before she would allow a single person to leave.
You tried not to check your phone.
You failed six times.
No text.
By the time you reached the brunch place, some breezy little café with white umbrellas, blue tile, and a view of the beach, you had almost successfully convinced yourself that it was fine.
Almost.
The hostess led you to a corner table outside. The morning had softened into something kinder by then, the sun higher but less cruel, the sea flashing silver beyond the low dunes. Around you, other vacationers nursed bloody marys and iced coffees, sunglasses hiding the universal evidence of poor evening choices.
You slid into your chair, grateful for the shade.
Mia immediately opened the menu and said, “I need potatoes in a spiritual way.”
“I need eggs,” Tori said.
“I need silence,” Jess muttered.
“You need toast,” Lena told her.
“I need justice.”
You were smiling down at your menu when your phone buzzed against the table.
Once.
A real buzz this time.
Not a weather alert.
Not the group chat.
A single notification slid across the screen.
Unknown Number: Morning. This is Bucky. I was trying to wait until a respectable hour, but I’m starting to think I may have overcorrected.
Your entire body went still.
Unfortunately, your friends saw everything.
Mia gasped so loudly that the woman at the next table glanced over.
“Oh my God,” Tori whispered. “Is it him?”
You snatched the phone up, but it was too late.
Lena leaned in. “Read it.”
“No.”
Jess put her sunglasses down her nose. “Read it, or I will climb across this table and take your phone.”
“You are in no physical condition to climb anything.”
“Try me.”
You held the phone to your chest for one last second, cheeks already warm, then read the message aloud.
There was a collective pause.
Then Tori pressed both hands to her heart. “That’s cute.”
Mia looked deeply conflicted. “That is… unfortunately a good text.”
Jess narrowed her eyes. “Respectable hour, huh? Clever. Takes accountability without groveling.”
Lena pointed at Jess. “Do not sound impressed. It weakens our position.”
“I’m analyzing the enemy.”
You stared at the message, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the ridiculous smile fighting its way onto your face.
Bucky had texted.
Not at some lazy afternoon hour that said he’d remembered you as an afterthought. Not with a boring hey or a performative line. He’d apparently been overthinking the proper time to reach out, which was either wildly charming or dangerous to your fragile little heart.
Possibly both.
You typed, deleted, typed again.
You: Good morning, Bucky. Respectable hour is subjective, but I appreciate the restraint.
You stared at it.
“Too much?” you asked.
Mia leaned over. “Perfect.”
Jess nodded. “Dry, mildly flirty, not desperate.”
“Thank you for grading my trauma texts.”
“Anytime.”
You hit send before you could lose your nerve.
The reply came faster than expected.
Bucky: For the record, the restraint was difficult.
Tori made a sound like she’d been wounded.
You pressed your lips together, but your smile won.
You: That’s a bold confession before noon.
Bucky: I’ve been awake since seven trying not to make a bad impression.
You read that one silently first, and something warm unfurled in your chest before you could stop it.
Lena’s face softened when you showed them.
“Okay,” she said. “That’s… kind of sweet.”
“Kind of?” Tori demanded.
“Supportively suspicious,” Lena reminded her.
“Right. Sorry.” Tori straightened. “Suspiciously sweet.”
You huffed a laugh and typed back.
You: Seven? That’s either disciplined or alarming.
Bucky: Little of both, probably.
You: Honest answer. Dangerous strategy.
Bucky: Worked last night.
You stopped breathing for half a second.
Your friends, fully shameless now, leaned so close that the waiter arrived with water and visibly reconsidered whether he wanted to get involved in whatever ritual was occurring at your table.
“Can I start you ladies with drinks?” he asked.
“Five mimosas,” Mia said immediately.
Lena lifted one finger. “Four mimosas and one coffee.”
Jess pointed at herself. “Coffee is for me. I’m recovering from an incident.”
The waiter smiled politely and fled.
You looked back at your phone.
You: Did it?
A few seconds passed. Then:
Bucky: I got your number, didn’t I?
Your cheeks went warm.
Mia slapped the table softly. “Oh, he’s good.”
Jess grimaced. “Annoyingly.”
Lena took a deep breath. “I am trying so hard not to approve.”
“He’s making it difficult,” Tori whispered.
You typed under the table this time, not because they couldn’t still see you smiling, but because you needed at least the illusion of privacy.
You: You did. Though technically I may have prompted that.
Bucky: I was getting there.
You: Were you?
Bucky: Eventually.
You: Very smooth.
Bucky: Never claimed to be smooth. Just interested.
Oh. There went your pulse again.
You stared at the words for too long. Interested.
Not you’re hot. Not last night was fun in the kind of noncommittal way that could be said to anyone after anything. Just interested. Like he was naming a fact instead of tossing bait into the water.
Lena studied your face. “Good text?”
You handed her the phone without speaking.
She read it. Her expression betrayed her before she could stop it.
Mia snatched the phone next. “Oh, damn.”
Jess took it last, eyes moving across the screen with reluctant focus. “Hmm.”
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“Jess.”
She handed it back. “I hate that I don’t hate him.”
Tori beamed. “Progress!”
You were about to reply when another message came through.
Bucky: Also, I should probably say this before I accidentally imply otherwise: I know last night was a lot. I’m not trying to rush you into anything. I just liked talking to you.
The table went quiet.
For a moment, even Jess didn’t have anything sarcastic to say.
Your throat tightened, but not in the awful way it had the night before. This was different. Softer. More dangerous in its own right.
Because there was something excruciatingly disarming about being handled gently when you’d gotten used to flinching.
You swallowed and looked down at your lap.
Lena reached over beneath the table and squeezed your knee.
“You okay?” she murmured.
You nodded.
Then you typed carefully.
You: I liked talking to you too.
You hesitated, then added:
You: And dancing with you.
His reply came a moment later.
Bucky: Good. I was hoping you’d say that.
Then another:
Bucky: My friends are doing a beach bonfire tonight. Nothing fancy. Food, drinks, music, probably Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. You and your friends would be welcome, if you want to come.
You blinked and the words seemed to rearrange themselves twice.
Bonfire. Tonight. You and your friends.
Not come meet me alone. Not ditch your group. Not a late-night, half-vague invitation that carried all the wrong implications. He had invited all of you, directly and comfortably, as if he understood exactly who the gatekeepers were and had decided not to sneak around them.
You slowly lowered the phone.
Four faces stared back at you.
“What?” Mia asked.
“He invited us to a beach bonfire tonight.”
There was an immediate eruption.
“Us?” Tori squealed.
“All of us?” Lena asked.
Jess’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”
Mia grabbed your phone. “Let me see.”
You handed it over, half-laughing, half-terrified. They passed it around like a sacred document.
Tori looked delighted. “That’s so cute.”
Lena looked thoughtful. “Inviting the whole group is good.”
“Strategic,” Jess said.
“Respectful,” Lena countered.
“Could be both.”
Mia was already reading the message again. “Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. That’s funny.”
You took your phone back. “We don’t have to go.”
All four of them looked at you like you’d suggested spending the evening watching tax law seminars.
“Excuse me?” Tori said.
“I mean, we just met them.”
“Correct,” Jess said. “Which is why we go as a group, remain supportively suspicious, and gather data.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
Lena folded her arms, still considering. “Where is it?”
You typed.
You: That sounds fun. Where would it be?
Bucky: North end of the beach, past the public pier. There’s a permitted fire pit area. Starts around seven, but people drift in after.
You showed them.
Mia nodded slowly. “Public place. Group setting. Reasonable time.”
Jess pointed a finger. “We are not getting murdered at a permitted fire pit.”
“That’s reassuring,” Tori said.
“Statistically.”
“Less reassuring.”
You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, but you were smiling. “You guys, it’s okay to say no.”
Lena looked at you carefully. “Do you want to go?”
The question quieted the table again.
You looked down at the phone. At Bucky’s name, well not even his name yet, technically just an unknown number you hadn’t saved because saving it felt somehow too intimate and too hopeful at the same time.
Did you want to go?
Yes.
That was the terrifying part. You wanted to go. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to find out whether last night had been a trick of good lighting and grief and tequila, or whether that strange, warm tug in your chest meant something real enough to follow for one more evening.
You wanted to hear his laugh again.
You wanted to watch him try to be smooth and fail with charm.
You wanted to stand near him in the firelight and find out whether his hand would brush yours, whether he’d ask before touching you again, whether he’d look at you like he had on that terrace.
And because you wanted it, fear immediately rose up behind it.
“I don’t know,” you said softly.
Lena’s expression didn’t change. “That’s not what I asked.”
You exhaled, staring at the table.
Then, barely above a whisper, you admitted, “Yes.”
Tori’s whole face melted.
Jess sighed like the universe had personally inconvenienced her. “Then I guess we’re going to a bonfire.”
Mia lifted her mimosa as soon as the waiter set it down. “To questionable but potentially excellent vacation decisions.”
Lena clinked her glass against Mia’s. “To staying together as a group.”
Jess added, “To background checks conducted in real time.”
Tori raised hers last. “To hot men with manners.”
You laughed, cheeks aching with it, and lifted your water because you were still not confident your body would tolerate champagne yet.
“To supportively suspicious friends,” you said.
They all drank to that.
You typed back before you could overthink it.
You: We’re in. But fair warning, my friends are protective and nosy.
His reply came almost immediately.
Bucky: Good. Protective friends are usually right to be protective.
Your chest squeezed again.
A second message followed.
Bucky: And my friends are nosy too, so it’ll be fair.
You smiled down at your phone.
You: Should I be worried?
Bucky: About Steve? No. About Sam? Maybe.
You: That sounds like something someone says right before Sam becomes a problem.
Bucky: He’s already a problem. But he’s mostly harmless.
You: Mostly?
Bucky: Emotionally exhausting, occasionally loud, very committed to making me look stupid in front of pretty women.
You read the last two words three times.
Pretty women.
Mia saw your expression. “What did he say?”
“No.”
“Read it.”
“No.”
Jess leaned across the table. “Oh, it’s good.”
You held the phone away from them, laughing. “I’m allowed to have some private dignity.”
“Not on this trip,” Tori said.
You typed:
You: Pretty women plural? Should I warn them?
There was a longer pause this time.
Then:
Bucky: Woman. Singular.
Your stomach flipped clean over. You put the phone facedown on the table and covered your face.
The girls exploded.
“What?” Lena demanded.
“What did he say?”
“You can’t react like that and not tell us.”
“That’s illegal.”
You dragged your hands down your face, laughing helplessly as they snagged your phone to read what was said.
Tori actually squeaked.
Mia slapped Lena’s arm repeatedly. “I’m sorry, I know we’re suspicious, but that was hot.”
Jess stared at the ocean like she was wrestling with herself. “I hate men.”
“No, you don’t,” Tori said.
“I hate that one might be doing well.”
Brunch became, from that point forward, less of a meal and more of a strategic council.
There were pancakes and omelets and potatoes that Mia described as spiritually restorative. There were iced coffees and mimosas and a second round of water under Lena’s watchful eye. There was an extremely serious discussion about what one wore to a beach bonfire when one was trying to communicate effortless vacation goddess without looking like one had spent three hours spiraling in front of a mirror.
“You need something breezy,” Tori said, stabbing a piece of fruit with unnecessary intensity. “But not too sweet.”
“Why not too sweet?” Mia asked.
“Because she already has the wounded-heart thing going on. We need hot, not tragic.”
“I am sitting right here,” you said.
“And we love you,” Tori replied without missing a beat.
Jess took a sip of coffee. “No white.”
Everyone looked at her.
“What?”
“White reads bridal adjacent. We’re not doing that.”
You grimaced. “Agreed.”
“Black?” Mia suggested.
“For a beach bonfire?” Lena made a face. “She’ll look like she’s attending a seaside funeral.”
“I could be,” you said. “For my engagement.”
“Too soon?” Tori asked.
You considered it.
Then you shrugged. “No, actually. That one was funny.”
Your friends cheered with the kind of disproportionate enthusiasm only best friends could manage over one mildly dark joke.
It felt good.
That was the strange thing. The day began to unfold around you, and it felt good. Not untouched by pain. Not miraculously healed because a handsome stranger had texted you before brunch. But there were pockets of light again. Little ones. Enough to notice.
After brunch, the five of you wandered through the streets near the beach, drifting in and out of boutiques and tourist shops with woven bags, linen dresses, handmade jewelry, oversized hats no one needed, and candles that all claimed to smell like some variation of ocean, coconut, or emotional rebirth.
Bucky texted again while you were holding up two dresses in a shop mirror, one coral and one deep blue.
Bucky: Sam wants me to ask if your group has dietary restrictions. Steve wants me to clarify that Sam is asking because he’s in charge of food, not because this is a trap.
You laughed out loud in the dressing area.
Lena, who was sorting through a rack of cover-ups, looked over. “Bucky?”
You nodded, reading the text aloud.
Mia, from somewhere behind a display of straw hats, called, “Tell Sam we appreciate the trap transparency.”
You typed:
You: No restrictions. Mia says thank you for the trap transparency.
Bucky: Sam says Mia sounds like leadership material.
You: She is. Fear her.
Bucky: Noted.
Then, after a beat:
Bucky: What are you doing today? Besides letting your friends interrogate my text etiquette.
You snorted.
You: Shopping. Possibly being bullied into buying something for tonight.
Bucky: Bullied?
You: Affectionately.
Bucky: Good. I’d hate to have to defend you from a sundress.
Your smile went soft before you could stop it.
You: You think you could?
Bucky: Against the dress? Probably.
You: Against my friends?
Bucky: Absolutely not.
That one you showed the group.
Jess nodded once. “Self-aware. Good.”
“He knows his limits,” Lena said.
“Green flag?” Tori asked.
“Don’t get greedy,” Jess replied.
In the end, you did not buy the coral dress.
You tried it on and stared at yourself in the boutique mirror, trying to decide whether it was cute or whether you were simply drawn to anything bright because your life had been so gray lately. It fit well. It made your skin look warm. It would have been perfect in another mood.
But the deep blue one made you pause.
It was simple, soft, the kind of dress that moved with you instead of clinging too tightly. Thin straps. A low back. A skirt that floated around your thighs when you turned. It wasn’t trying too hard. It didn’t feel like armor or costume or some desperate attempt to prove you were fine.
It just felt like you.
When you stepped out of the dressing room, your friends went silent.
Your stomach dipped. “Bad?”
Lena’s expression softened. “No.”
Mia pressed a hand to her chest. “Absolutely not bad.”
Tori clasped her hands together. “Beach bonfire Bucky is going to walk into the ocean.”
Jess considered you with the seriousness of a museum curator. “That’s the one.”
You looked back at the mirror.
For a second, you tried to see yourself the way Bucky had seemed to see you the night before. Not discarded. Not humiliated. Not some tragic almost-bride carrying around the wreckage of a man who couldn’t love her correctly.
Just a woman in a blue dress on vacation.
Pretty.
Interested.
Maybe even beginning again.
You bought the dress.
The afternoon slipped by in that slow, sun-soaked way vacation days did, stretching and melting until time felt less like a schedule and more like a suggestion. You went back to the hotel with shopping bags swinging from your wrists, changed into swimsuits, and spent a few hours by the pool, where Jess fell asleep under a hat, Tori befriended a retired couple from Michigan, and Mia kept ordering things with pineapple in them while claiming the fruit made them medicinal.
You alternated between reading half a page of a book you were not absorbing and texting Bucky.
He did not overwhelm you. That was what you noticed. He didn’t send message after message demanding your attention. He let conversations breathe. He answered when you answered. He flirted, yes, but carefully, with enough sincerity beneath it that you never felt like he was performing for a reaction.
At 2:13 p.m.:
Bucky: Sam has now asked twice if matching shirts would make the bonfire more festive.
You: Please tell me you said no.
Bucky: I said hell no.
You: Strong leadership.
Bucky: Steve said I should compromise.
You: Did you?
Bucky: I compromised by leaving the room.
At 3:02 p.m.:
You: Important question: is this bonfire casual casual or “everyone says casual but somehow looks beautiful” casual?
Bucky: I’m wearing jeans. Sam will probably dress like he’s hosting a lifestyle show. Steve owns three shirts and somehow looks respectable in all of them.
You: That answered nothing and yet told me so much.
Bucky: Wear whatever makes you comfortable.
Then, a moment later:
Bucky: But for what it’s worth, you looked beautiful last night.
You stared at that one so long your screen dimmed.
You tapped it awake, read it again, then let the phone rest against your chest.
The pool noise moved around you. Laughter, splashing, the hum of conversation, Mia arguing with Jess about whether SPF 30 was enough, Lena reminding Tori to reapply said sunscreen. Everything ordinary. Everything sunlit.
You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses.
A compliment should not feel like this. It should not make your ribs ache. It should not make you feel both shy and seen, both happy and terrified. Your ex had called you beautiful plenty of times. Automatically, sometimes. Lazily. As punctuation. Like saying it meant he’d done the work of loving you.
But Bucky had said it like he remembered.
Like he had thought about you after you left.
You typed back slowly.
You: Thank you.
That felt too small, so you added:
You: You didn’t look so bad yourself.
His response took thirty seconds.
Bucky: That was smooth.
You: I’m capable of growth.
Bucky: Proud of you.
The laugh that left you was soft and stupid and impossible to hide.
Jess lifted her hat with two fingers. “You’re giggling.”
“I am not.”
“You are. It’s disgusting.”
“Let her giggle,” Tori said, floating nearby with her arms draped over the edge of the pool. “She deserves vacation giggles.”
Mia pointed at you with her pineapple drink. “Vacation giggles are legally protected.”
Lena watched you from beneath the brim of her hat, her smile small but tender. She didn’t tease. She didn’t need to. Her expression said enough.
Careful, but happy for you.
By late afternoon, the sky had started to soften around the edges.
Everyone returned to the suite with that pleasantly tired, sun-warmed heaviness that made the idea of getting ready feel both exciting and impossible. For a moment, you all stood in the middle of the room surrounded by bags and damp towels and half-finished coffees, silently assessing the amount of effort required to transform yourselves into bonfire-ready women.
Then Mia clapped her hands once. “Okay. We have two and a half hours. Nobody panic.”
Jess walked past her toward the bathroom. “I call first shower because I am emotionally the oldest.”
“You are emotionally a Victorian ghost,” Lena said.
“Exactly. Respect your elders.”
The room became chaos again.
Music went on, not too loud at first, then louder after Tori found a playlist called Post-Breakup Beach Goddess Energyand declared it fate. Dresses were pulled from bags. Makeup bags exploded across the counters.
Someone opened the champagne that had been glaring at everyone from the ice bucket since arrival, and though nobody drank more than a glass, it felt symbolic. Less like celebrating a wedding that wasn’t happening. More like reclaiming the trip from everything it had been meant to mourn.
You sat on the edge of the bed in a robe while Lena curled a piece of your hair, your phone resting facedown beside you.
“You’ve been calmer this afternoon,” she said.
You met her eyes in the mirror. “Have I?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t feel calm.”
“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But you feel less like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
You looked down at your hands.
That was true, maybe. Not fully. The fear was still there, tucked beneath your ribs like a blade you couldn’t quite put down. But it had dulled a little throughout the day. Bucky’s steady presence on the other end of your phone had not fixed you (God, you hated the idea of being fixed by anyone) but it had given your nervous system something new to consider.
Maybe interest didn’t always have to feel like a trap.
Maybe attention didn’t always come with a hook buried inside it.
Maybe a man could be eager without being careless.
Lena finished one curl and moved to the next. “You know we’re going to be annoying tonight.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Good. Because if he gives me even one weird vibe, I’m pulling you into the ocean as an emergency evacuation tactic.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“It’ll look spontaneous.”
You laughed, then your phone buzzed.
Lena’s eyebrows rose.
You picked it up.
Bucky: Do I get to tell you I’m looking forward to tonight or is that too much pressure?
Your smile came before you could stop it.
You: You can tell me.
Bucky: I’m looking forward to tonight.
A second message came right after.
Bucky: Maybe more than I should admit.
Your pulse warmed.
You: That was almost smooth again.
Bucky: Damn. I’m improving too fast.
You: Careful. Expectations are dangerous.
Bucky: I’ll try to disappoint you a little when you get here.
You laughed.
You: Please don’t.
Bucky: I won’t.
The simplicity of it landed harder than any clever line could have.
You stared at the screen until Lena gently tapped your shoulder with the curling iron, safely closed, but still enough to make you look up.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Breathe.”
You did.
In. Out.
The girl in the mirror looked different than she had that morning. Not because of the makeup, though Mia had done something glowy and unfairly effective with highlighter. Not because of the hair, though the loose waves softened around your face beautifully. Not even because of the blue dress waiting on the hanger behind you.
She looked different because she didn’t look quite so haunted.
Still bruised, yes. Still cautious. Still carrying the ache of betrayal in places no one else could see.
But not empty.
Not defeated.
By the time the sun began sinking toward the horizon, the suite was full of perfume, music, and the frantic final rituals of women getting ready together. Tori kept losing her lip gloss. Jess changed shoes three times before deciding comfort was sexier than blisters. Mia delivered a solemn speech about how everyone should eat something before drinking near open flames. Lena packed a small purse with the energy of someone preparing for both a party and a tactical extraction.
“Water bottle,” she said, dropping one in.
“Phone charger.”
“Mini sunscreen.”
“It’ll be dark,” Jess said.
“You can still burn if you’re spiritually vulnerable.”
“That is not science.”
“Band-Aids,” Lena continued.
Mia looked over. “Are you packing snacks?”
Lena paused.
Everyone stared at her.
She unzipped the purse again and added two granola bars.
“Leadership,” Tori whispered.
You stood near the mirror, smoothing your hands over the blue dress.
It really was the right one. The fabric skimmed over you lightly, catching movement every time you shifted. Your shoulders were bare, your skin still warm from the afternoon sun, your hair loose down your back. You had chosen simple earrings, a thin bracelet, sandals that wouldn’t sink too badly into the sand.
You looked like someone going to a beach bonfire because she wanted to.
Not because she was proving a point.
Not because she was running from pain.
Because she wanted to see a man with blue eyes and a careful smile again.
That was all.
That could be enough for tonight.
Mia came up behind you in the mirror and rested her chin on your shoulder, echoing Lena from that morning. “How are we feeling?”
“Nervous.”
“Good nervous or bad nervous?”
You thought about it.
“Both.”
“That’s allowed.”
Jess appeared on your other side, holding a tube of lip gloss. “For the record, if he turns out to be awful, we leave immediately and I personally throw sand at him.”
“Noted.”
Tori joined the cluster, already beaming. “But if he’s wonderful, we also support that.”
Lena stepped into view last, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “We support you. That’s the actual thing.”
Your throat tightened.
You looked at all of them reflected around you, your ridiculous, loyal, fiercely loving little army, and for a second the ache of the canceled trip shifted into something else. Because this was still not the bachelorette weekend you’d planned. It wasn’t the beginning of married life. It wasn’t the pretty, predictable future you had thought you were walking toward.
But it was yours.
The laughter. The grief. The hangovers. The group texts. The blue dress. The man waiting somewhere on the beach, probably pretending not to be nervous while his friends gave him hell.
All of it.
Yours.
Your phone buzzed one more time as you were slipping it into your purse.
Bucky: No pressure, but Sam just asked if I’m going to stare at the entrance all night until you arrive. I said no. I may have lied.
You bit your lip against a smile.
You: We’re leaving now.
His reply came almost instantly.
Bucky: Good.
Then, after a few seconds:
Bucky: I’ll be the one trying not to stare.
You looked up from your phone, cheeks warm.
“Well?” Jess asked.
You slipped the phone into your purse. “He says he’ll be the one trying not to stare.”
Tori made an ungodly noise.
Mia pointed toward the door. “Move. We are not wasting that line standing in a hotel suite.”
The five of you spilled into the hallway in a cloud of perfume and nervous laughter, the door clicking shut behind you. Downstairs, the lobby glowed gold with early evening light. Outside, the air had cooled just enough for the ocean breeze to raise goosebumps along your arms.
The walk toward the beach felt longer than it probably was.
The sky had turned peach and lavender at the edges, the last of the sun melting low behind rooftops and palms. Sandals slapped softly against pavement. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dunes, you could already hear faint music drifting on the wind. Laughter too. The distant crackle of something that might have been fire.
Your friends walked around you in loose formation, still joking, still teasing, still making it impossible for fear to swallow the whole moment.
But beneath their voices, beneath the rustle of your dress and the rush of waves beyond the dunes, your heart beat hard and bright.
You crested the wooden path toward the beach.
A warm orange glow flickered ahead, just out of full view.
And somewhere beyond it, waiting in the firelight, was Bucky.
